quitter

I am not usually proud to be a quitter. I am today. I never thought I’d start again after I stopped for so long. Once I get used to a part of myself, it becomes difficult to remember how I was before it existed. Other people have fine memories; mine has never been shoddy, but it works differently than most folks’. I understand this now. I quit smoking. Again. In January of 2000, right before Chad decided he had to go away and figure himself out for a little while, I quit smoking. I had smoked — been a smoker — for ten years. At my peak, I smoked a pack a day. When I quit, I was smoking about half of a pack of menthol longs. Disgusting things, those, and I was not sorry to make the decision to give them up. I gave them up to prove...

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the state of the quill address

quill is back up and running, with its archives password-protected. Access is restricted to people I know. If you would like access, email me.

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lockdown

I will be writing here again, but under lock and key. The archives are now password-protected. If you want to read them and future entries, you must email me. I reserve the right not to grant you access. Thanks.

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deadbeat club

Okay, I got my reception-dancing fix for a few months. I think I’m going to have to take belly-dancing classes. Every time I hear “Old Time Rock ‘n’ Roll” from now on, I will think about taking over the dance floor with the forbidden Chicken Dance. I will remember, from now on, that DJs listen when “FREEBIRD!” is shouted. I also learned that there is nothing cuter in the universe than a tiny, drugged-out puppy with bright yellow casts on her two front legs hiding out in someone’s big black bag during a wedding reception. O, and Codrus and Narina got married. I need a weekend for this weekend. cygnoir.net still exists and will continue to exist, for the foreseeable future. I endeavor to be a good and grateful...

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shhh

I am only completing tasks today that do not exacerbate my hangover. So far, I have opened a Microsoft Word document and hit the “print” button. The printer complied, albeit noisily, and I gave someone the two-page document they needed. Now I will rearrange some paper clips. After lunch, I might write something on a post-it note. Planning where to stick the post-it note will take forty-five minutes.

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clock tick

So it looks like I will be returning to Chicago in less than a week for electronic course reserves training. I wish my boss had thought to send me while I was in Chicago already visiting my mom, but hey, if I get reimbursed for the flight, it’s a free trip to see her again, which is always welcome. The downside is that I gave up my weekend with Scott, and I don’t know when I’ll see him again, which adds a bit of melancholy to my days. Pisica will be amused to know that I am having dinner with FunkyPlaid tonight. Small, small world. The clock is ticking on my decision to give up cygnoir.net or keep it. I am still undecided. It was a monumental effort to get all of my online journal-writing in one place on my own website, but the lack of...

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he left for home today

Sunlight across a made bed. Peppermint toothpaste scent alongside washed dishes. Folded towel, still damp, dark purple and perenially moulting. Network cable neatly curled and out of the way. Books he helped me choose underneath the sleepy cat. I laugh and kiss his neck, noticing tiny purple fuzz and bits of hair from his haircut. I miss him. This little room still resonates with his voice.

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Friday Fuck-All

I am remiss. Here’s your Friday Fuck-All, only on Saturday. Oops. This week’s theme: under the influence. Sing along with me now: “I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than have to have a _____________!” If you could invent a legal recreational drug, what would the buzz be like? What would its single negative side-effect be? What is the silliest thing you’ve ever said or done (and remembered) while under the influence? If you have never been under any influence, answer this question with a short speech about the evils of booze and drugs as if you are the Swedish Chef. Design a foofy drink — you know the kind, with the umbrella and the huge glass — and name it after someone in your LiveJournal friends...

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piece into place

I met a member of my karass today, but I have to go to bed before writing about him. For now, meet FunkyPlaid. More later.

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past life diagnosis

This is just too weird. Your past life diagnosis: I don’t know how you feel about it, but you were female in your last earthly incarnation. You were born somewhere in the territory of modern Siberia around the year 525. Your profession was that of a librarian, priest or keeper of tribal relics. Your brief psychological profile in your past life: You always liked to travel and to investigate. You could have been a detective or a spy. The lesson that your last past life brought to your present incarnation: You fulfill your lesson by helping old folks and children. You came to this life to learn to care about the weak and the helpless. Do you remember now? How could I forget?

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