I wish I had a car that worked, so I could go driving through the desert tonight. Sure, I have to work tomorrow. I'm supposed to be here at 10 a.m. tomorrow. But what I really want to do is drive to Arizona. I want to drive to some sleepy, dusty town I've never seen before, and find a sleazy motel, and drink a fifth of Jack, and watch lizards.

On the other hand, I want to go to the beach. I want to buy a really excellent book-- like a vivid, cheesy, Ya Ya Sisterhood sort of book-- and lay in the warm sun on the hot sand, and eat grapes, and drink ice cold cans of Coke, and read my book. I want the beach to be deserted, too. No kids, no frisbees, no lifeguards. Peace, damn peace, and silence.

I want to spend a weekend at a retreat, with a truckload of art books and art supplies. I want to paint everything that's inside me, and I want to paint the frogs sitting on the surface of the lake. The sunsets. The stars. Nudes. Abstract shapes. I want to get out my sketchbook and pastels, and some fruit, and try to paint a really realistic peach. Then eat the peach, slowly. Then tack the picture on a blank, white wall.

I could go on. 

I'm sensing one common denominator here: escape. What excuse do I have for wanting to escape again? Joan said that it was understandable for me to be depressed when I'm undergoing a huge life change. Obvious, but it hadn't occurred to me consciously. I think it's the same circumstance that's causing me to long for escape. It's stress, but it doesn't feel like stress. It feels like restlessness and, at the same time, a desire for isolation. 

I just don't want to deal with the upcoming decisions and pressures. I'm staving it off as long as I can, I suppose. And I figured out why people are irritating me so much, too. I am tired of fielding questions... questions I wish I had answers to... questions I don't have answers to. Especially from the people who should know better. As soon as the subject comes up, I want to push it, and the person, away. Even if I say "I don't want to talk about it" (a sentence you frequently hear from me these days) and they drop it, I'm still irritable. It's not just that I don't want to TALK about it... I don't even want to THINK about it.  I don't want to be reminded of it at all.

Here's the worst question. "So... have you decided if you're moving yet?" That question drives me fucking out of my mind. I've given the same answer a million times: "It's not about "deciding" anything! If I find somewhere to live, I'm going. If not, I'm not."  And worst of all, it's Matt that always comes up with that question. "So... have you decided?" I think the last time I snapped at him, he learned to stop asking. I certainly hope so.

Maybe I'd feel more in control with a to do list or something. There's a couple of things I'm stuck on (e.g., September rental listings are still not showing up in the classifieds) but I bet there's something I could do towards getting myself set up and settled regardless. I should figure out what that "something" is. 

If I'm not too busy, that is, looking for lizards.

Speaking of Matt. 

Have you ever noticed that you end up disliking, to varying degrees, the significant others of some journalers? It's because people are more apt to unload the bad stuff than goosh about the good stuff. I am totally guilty of that. And so, to balance the slightly negative remark I made earlier, I present today's edition of Something Wonderful About My Boyfriend.

Last night, I was whiny and depressed, and certainly less than enthralling to be around. To compound my charm, I started whining. "I'm hungreeeeee." "Then have something to eat, baby." "There's nothing to eat." "Have a bowl of cereal." "I don't WANT a bowl of cereal." "Have a Pop Tart" "I don't WANT a Pop Tart." "Um... would you like some popcorn?"

Beat.

"Oooh! Popcorn."

And then, even though it is my job to do the dishes, and even though I was bitchy to him all night, Matt dug out the pan from the depths of dirty dishes in the sink, scrubbed out the pan, filled it with oil and kernels, babysat the pan, and presented me with a huge bowl of perfect, fluffy, white, popcorn. 

It was a great dinner.

I told Matt about the journal last night... he just wanted to know if I won any awards. Laugh. I told him it was pretty unlikely, but I was lobbying hard! (I'm kidding...)

From now until whenever, it's the Bookworm Burb Birthday Blowout! To celebrate (and to say "thanks" to the members) all journal quotes of the day will come from Bookworms.