I’m surprised I can sit comfortably at the moment. Yesterday’s sudden work out has left me completely sore. On the bright side, I’m back at working at the stadium, which means my “Confessions of a Parking Nazi” blog can come back to life. However, this year I’m not a parking lot Nazi, I’m a clubbie assistant – they hired another guy to teach me the ropes for a year (you know, how to wash their uniforms without damaging them).
June 1st, I am going to be in charge of the show – with the bar guy. It’s going to be a school district thing, so I’m guessing all the kids who did well on their tests or had perfect attendance all year round – something like that – will be there. But at least we’ll have our minions – I hope.
A few of the friends I made last year are coming back, but the rest were replaced by Workforce. That’s good, because I don’t know if I could handle survivor’s guilt.
Undesired, I feel that I am left free falling. Falling. Falling. Crashing. Tumbling. Thrashing against the rocks, tossed by the waves. Gnarled upon the stones. The salt washes away my sin.
I started thinking more like Donovan – the character, not the friend. Meanwhile, I write the skeletons for “Squares” even though I’m unsure where that project is going or whether JD is still up for it. I stopped texting him and he hasn’t been around much online. Apparently, he’s gone soul searching. I’d rather hear it from the horses mouth – I’ve been stung by the scorpion one too many times.
I’m on Kathryn’s storyline, still. I’m working my way around a wall about what drives her to her all-so-predictable suicide attempt to her letting Miguel go. I give myself some pats on the back with Hope’s storyline, being that I’ve managed to prove that even the most pious can be corrupted by one’s own need to be free.
Discoveries of late have left me a little crestfallen; though, I hate myself for letting something as infantile as that for bringing down my high spirits. I’m still a good friend; I know it. Even though I don’t think some people think that, I still see myself as a caring person – damn the events of the past.
It’s stupid. It’s silly. I’m twenty-seven-years-old – I shouldn’t be all butt-hurt over it. But I am human, aren’t I? Admitted, a rather over-emotional one.