In the end, you know, what do you say? Hey, Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole, but that doesn't mean I wasn't. But I'd rather think of myself as a jackass than an asshole--one implies a haphazard nature; the other a meanspiritedness. My problem has always been that what I want and what I need is always confused, and like my dimestore knowledge of Buddhism tells me, want--desire--is the cause of all pain.

I want just a boy to fool around with... but he's still in California. Damn it. Which means that I can't tell him my news, which I'm just bursting to tell him.

Namely, I've found an apartment. Not only have I found an apartment, but I've been approved. I've given them money. And on Friday, I'm signing the lease, and moving in on August 1. This puts a lot of grief to bed, but of course opens new wounds--namely, trying to pay rent, which'll be tough; not too sure what I'll do about that, actually. Maybe a second job, I don't know.

But I know this--I'm not depressed like I have been. My fury is burned out for now. I'm a bit more reasonable. I'm a bit more rational. But that desire, that longing, is still hanging around... but that'll be satisfied, more or less, come Thursday, when the boy comes home. And more, once, I've started to play house in my new apartment.

My hope, then is that this will put a lot of my bitchiness to rest, that I'll be in better spirits, that soon everything will be in its right place... Kinda.