My Next Job

Whatever that may be, will involve no phone calls nor voicemails. Well, consequently there would be no voicemails as there would be no phone calls. In my last job as part of the customer relations department and as a receptionist, I had to spend half of my day making 30 calls per hour and spend the rest of my day answering calls.

I hate phone calls.

I am going to change my voicemail greeting to instructions to hang up and text me. A: I’ll be more likely to respond; B: you won’t hear the irritation in my voice.

It’s awful, isn’t it? My attitude toward vocal communication.

Therefore, whatever I end up doing after what I’m currently doing, the only way to get ahold of me will be via text message or email. Everyone can keep a record of the conversation and things are literally spelled out. It’s the best.

Anyway, speaking of my next job, I discovered an author, thanks to the Omaha World Herald. His name is Henry Miller. According to Lawrence Shifreen: “He was known for breaking with existing literary forms and developing a new sort of ‘novel’ that is a mixture of novel, autobiography, social criticism, philosophical reflection, surrealist free association, and mysticism, one that is distinctly always about and expressive of the real-life Henry Miller and yet is also fictional” (1979). To me, that sounds exactly like what I do on purpose/what I do accidentally/what I aspire to do when I write.

I need to find a publisher. No, I need to find at least one person who would want to read my ramblings. Well, they’re worth at least a few followers here. Then, I need to find a publisher to read my ramblings. Is that how it works? I could be a paperback writer. No, I like hardback books. Look better on the bookshelf.

But yes, I want to write a book. I’m not saying it would be good or worthy of award, but I want to write one. I think I’ll do that while I’m in London on rainy days or lazy days; Lord knows I’ll have both.


Shifreen, Lawrence J. (1979). Henry Miller: a Bibliography of Secondary Sources. Rowman & Littlefield. pp. 75–77.

After dark

I’ve never been one to get to bed early. “Early,” for me, would be 1130pm or so. I don’t have one of those “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” mentalities, I can just always find something better to do. I can be absolutely exhausted all day at work, planning on going to sleep early, and I’ll end up dragging my ass to bed around 130am. There’s always a book to read, or a show/movie to watch.

It’s just a complete lack of regard for morning.

I think it’s my way of resisting against the whole “get up, go to work, come home, eat dinner, go to bed” cycle. I’d rather be tired after an evening of doing shit that makes me happy than be fully-rested at work the next day. All the good stuff happens after dark.

Come on, we’ve all had sick days – glued to the couch for an entire day of God-awful daytime television, at which point we’re almost thinking that sticking it out at work would have been a less-boring option. Thank God for Netflix.

The evening is my time. When I go home, I can do as little or as much as I want. This is coupled with my love for living alone, but pitted directly against my desire for a family.

Point? This post doesn’t really have one. I’ve had a bit of a headcold for a few days now – stuffy nose that won’t unstuff, not much of an appetite except for sleep, etc. Today, my eyes are dilated and taking in too much information, so it causes me them to water and me to blink. I could honestly sit and stare off into space all day today. Hence, this post. 


As the titles of this blog and post state – I am consumed. But that’s just poetic for obsessed.

“I awake consumed with thoughts of you¹” sounds much better than “I’m obsessed with you.”

Already off-track.

I’m consumed, or shall we say, passionate about, journaling. I’ve journaled in physical journals since 2001 when I got one for Christmas from a friend. She doesn’t even know what kind of a monster she created. Some day when I write my novel or become a famous blogger, I’ll make sure to send her a royalty check.

Since that first journal, I’ve filled up about 15 of them. I couldn’t have started at a better time, really. In 2001, I was in middle school. Need I say more? Not particularly. I went back and read through every single journal before I started the one on which I’m currently working. Let’s just say that most of the tears were of happiness, but most of the laughter was of embarassment.

What I want to say is that, I am a total rambler as well as procrastinator. Again, needless to say, as it is evident from this post. Does it have a real direction? It’s a bit of a mystery, isn’t it? It could be exciting for you then.

Again I attempt to make my point – but that’s the thing, sometimes I never arrive at one. That’s what’s so free about journaling/blogging: it’s a release of thought, a stream of consciousness that may be neverending. And yet, it’s healing.

I like to think of journaling as a form of talking to myself. I like even more to think of talking to myself as a form of client-centered therapy. I just keep writing, internally urging myself along with implied questions, until finally my hand writes the right thing. That’s what I’m feeling, that’s why I feel this way. It’s like a less dramatic, less exciting form of House’s epiphany or Sherlock’s deduction. Yet, still just as satisfying.

For example, last May, my boyfriend came to me to let me know he was not in love with me, nor did he think he ever wanted to get married or have children. I could see that he was being conscientious, he didn’t want to waste my time because he knew that I wanted to get married and have kids; however, that didn’t make it any less difficult to swallow: I probably would have married him.

A couple months later, I was thinking about it and decided to journal – I had far too many thoughts running through my mind and just needed to put them somewhere else. After writing for ten minutes or so about what I want from love, what I want in a man, what I’ve had, what would make me happy, a wash of intelligibility came over me. I want A, I had B – why am I sad about losing something that wasn’t exactly what I want, maybe even need? Close, but not close enough. In that moment, I went from distress to elation. The obviousness was astounding, but it was like I had never thought of it that way until just then. This is what I want, so I need to focus on getting it. Hello. and duh.

Those are the situations that keep me journaling. Those are the client-centered therapy sessions that I’ll fully endorse. It’s empowering to work through such a personal problem and come out in the sunshine on the other side.

Not everyone gets it, though.

Anyway, consumed. I’m consumed with writing, and I’m also consumed with London. Growing up, I was a fan of most things British/English. The music, the humor, the cars, the people. Finally, I had my chance to visit Mother England. It has been very difficult to describe to people how at-home I felt walking those streets. It was as though I belonged there. So much so, that when I returned home, I was London-sick for about two weeks. I felt out of place in my own apartment, my own hometown. I love Omaha, but London just felt so right.

So right, that I’m in the process of applying for a visitor’s visa to go back for six months (and hopefully longer, serendipity permitting).

Part of the purpose of this blog is to document my experiences with the process. Not so much instructional as reactionary, I think. I’ve filled out the app about 95%, I’m working on getting a letter from my university that states I will continue my education online (which is what I’m doing now), and my next step will be to get a letter from my employer stating my leave of absence (likely) without pay.

My goal is to jump the pond ‘fore the end of May, this year. It’s a bit daunting, but I’m so ready to be there. Every day since I’ve been back, I’ve awoken consumed with thoughts of London, of walking the streets, of exploring, of meeting people, and of embracing the culture. If I had a crush before, it’s a full-blown, soon-to-be-requited love affair now. I wasn’t born there, but I feel it’s where I belong.

This is one thing I will not procrastinate.

¹Napoléon, who wrote to his beloved Joséphine

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