It's only half past the point of no return

Even though I think Pink is fierce, sexy, amazing, and so wonderfully outspoken, I missed this performance when it originally aired on the Grammys because there are a lot of things I'd rather do than sit through awards shows, nekkid-lookin' awesome women aside. As you might guess, those activities generally involve scantily clad sapphites and whipped cream. Really, though, I can't think of many times when those two things WOULDN'T come in handy. It would certainly make work more interesting.

I've been enjoying the hell out of a 30-Day Song Challenge (post your favorite song, least favorite, etc.) that's making its way across Facebook and have thus been on YouTube a lot the past 10 or so days. I came across this performance and can't stop watching it. It's just so beautiful and I love how moved India Arie is at the end.

It's also a fun song to sing. I can only hope I sound as good as I feel when I sing that coffee/sugar line, which is just gorgeous.

Vox

Last week I offered to help write a news story about marijuana -- no lie -- and was turned down. I think I've been pigeonholed as an arts writer. I'd certainly rather write about the arts than most news stories, but considering Supervisor was asking for help with the story, I wasn't really expecting to be turned down. 

I should really stop trying to figure my job out. I've been blogging for them for about a year and will celebrate my one-year anniversary as their data entry whore calendar editor in June. I'm torn between thinking it's a pretty awesome place full of awesome people and feeling like my bosses are just telling me what I want to hear (We want to make you full-time! Someday! Honest!) just so I won't quit.

I'm reaching a fever pitch with my frustration. Too many things lately have gone not exactly as I'd planned -- no full-time, no grant, no real idea if I'm driving on the interstate that loopsloopsloops around the city or if I'm actually on a road that's going somewhere -- and I find myself locking up, retreating, silencing myself. Brooding, thinking, probably pouting. Not dealing. I need to deal but I'm exhausted. I'm sick of thinking about money, about how to get through this day, that week, whether this company will accept a payment arrangement, what might get cut off next. I know -- I. KNOW. -- that this is temporary, that all the stupid shit that's occupying my brain will pass and that some day in the future, probably when I'm dictating my memoirs while having my diamond shoes polished, I will look back on this time, chuckle with just a soupçon of mirth, and... I don't know. Fire the gardener just for fun.