Argh!

Sweet Christ, why do I still live with my parents? It's days like this-- I came in late last night and didn't sleep a whole lot-- that I just want to laze around and not feel guilty, not have someone come into my room to chide me for coming in late and being lazy. It makes me wish I worked 7 days a week so that at least I wouldn't have lazy days to be shat upon.

It's not that terrible. I love my parents, we've always had a good relationship, they're generally pretty cool. But come on, so I came home late for, like, the first time in a month. Can't they just let it slide instead of bonding together against me to reprimand me for not calling them? My mom wants me to call her at 2 AM if I'm not home yet, and that just seems completely counterintuitive to me. Call you and wake you up? So then you can lie awake worrying about me driving home at 3 in the morning, when you could have just been sleeping? I wish we'd been through all this in high school. I wish I'd been a huge pain in the ass so that they would appreciate how remarkably tame I am now. I know they vascillate between "Well, she's 23, it's okay if she stays out late, she can do what she wants" and "Well, she's under our roof and we can't sleep when she's out."

It makes sense. I get it. I respect it. Just stop drilling it into my head, for the love of God. It's drilled!

I really should find a real job and get my own goddamn apartment. If my parents move, which they might since Dad is looking for work elsewhere, I either have to go with them or get my ass in gear and get a frigging job. Or move to Boston and go into horrible debt for grad school in the frigid, frigid North. I don't make enough money at my embarassingly-close-to-minimum-wage jobs to live on my own in Lancaster. And really, if I stayed in Lancaster and actually paid rent to live here, I'd deserve to be taken out back and pistol-whipped.

I don't know. I want a cookie.

i don't wanna

All I want to do today is daydream. I suppose I have a lot I could be doing here at work, but instead all I can accomplish is spacing out. I've looked through a stack of headshots and resumes, which is rather like the voyeuristic pleasure of looking through someone else's yearbook. I only know one or two of the faces that cross my path in this stack of photos, but I know the plays, the roles, the heights and weights and hair colors and miscellaneous talents (prolonged headstands, cockney accent, guitar, manual driving).

Today one of my two brothers entered his mid-thirties. Ten years ago he turned 24 and I thought about turning 14 in the summer. Now I have an occasional brainfart and have to count back the years to remember how old I am. Five years ago I was in high school. Right? Wrong. Five years ago I was a freshman in college. Right? Right. I am twenty and three years. This is how we can stay twenty forever: just add on the next year. Twenty and four years. Twenty and sixteen years. I guess you have to stop once you hit 40, though, since twenty and twenty years is just confusing and pretentious.

I am wondering why I'm rolling around again in this feeling of antsy-ness, preoccupied by the desire to be doing something, anything, else. I'm not an administrator, though my job title will fool future employers who read my resume. Right now I just feel like a kid with too much clutter on her desk, which is probably closest to the truth.