"and down in the texas of my heart driving a really big truck"

Light's supersekrit thing might have gone well. We won't be sure for a while.

It's an at-home weekend, with the exception of another round at the dentist. I'm pleased by the prospect of the athomeness and as per usual, near-panicky about the dentistness.

I turn thirty one in a couple weeks. So far, the first year of my thirties rocked pretty hard. I have yet to get a dog or curtains, but I'm married and I have a kitchenaid mixer.

Mech's ticket lands him in Australia on the 20th. I need to find someplace to get a passport picture. I'm trying not to freak out. He'll be fine.

I don't think I actually like/appreciate the poem that it is the last line of, but "Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear" sticks in my mind.

I can't write in here anymore. I'm not sure why, exactly. It might be the wellbutrin, it might be paranoia, it might be something else entirely. I imagine it'll pass, either some sort of crisis prompting me to break through selfimposed restrictions, or I get over myself, or yet another something else entirely.

I asked Light if he thought the meds were helping, or if we just weren't talking about moving much. He posited the way in which the meds are helping is that we're not talking about moving so much. It will happen, or not, and I will make it through, no matter what. Any more exposition than that and I start to go to bad places, but at the moment I have enough distance/control that I can table the issue until when it really happens. I've girded my loins as best they can be girded, anything else is just picking at scabs.

I'm doing some simple cross-stitch patterns and absolutely loving them. If anyone would like a wedding/baby/etc tacky cross-stitch, I'm your woman.

I've named my cook for the cure pink kitchenaid mixer Priscilla. I intend to inaugurate Priscilla this weekend, though I'm not entirely sure with what recipe.

I wish to improve my handwriting. I'm not yet certain how to begin this project.

"and down in the texas of my heart driving a really big truck"

Light's supersekrit thing might have gone well. We won't be sure for a while.

It's an at-home weekend, with the exception of another round at the dentist. I'm pleased by the prospect of the athomeness and as per usual, near-panicky about the dentistness.

I turn thirty one in a couple weeks. So far, the first year of my thirties rocked pretty hard. I have yet to get a dog or curtains, but I'm married and I have a kitchenaid mixer.

Mech's ticket lands him in Australia on the 20th. I need to find someplace to get a passport picture. I'm trying not to freak out. He'll be fine.

I don't think I actually like/appreciate the poem that it is the last line of, but "Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear" sticks in my mind.

I can't write in here anymore. I'm not sure why, exactly. It might be the wellbutrin, it might be paranoia, it might be something else entirely. I imagine it'll pass, either some sort of crisis prompting me to break through selfimposed restrictions, or I get over myself, or yet another something else entirely.

I asked Light if he thought the meds were helping, or if we just weren't talking about moving much. He posited the way in which the meds are helping is that we're not talking about moving so much. It will happen, or not, and I will make it through, no matter what. Any more exposition than that and I start to go to bad places, but at the moment I have enough distance/control that I can table the issue until when it really happens. I've girded my loins as best they can be girded, anything else is just picking at scabs.

I'm doing some simple cross-stitch patterns and absolutely loving them. If anyone would like a wedding/baby/etc tacky cross-stitch, I'm your woman.

I've named my cook for the cure pink kitchenaid mixer Priscilla. I intend to inaugurate Priscilla this weekend, though I'm not entirely sure with what recipe.

I wish to improve my handwriting. I'm not yet certain how to begin this project.