I've never been good at actually accomplishing New Year's resolutions. Perhaps it's just the realization that I would have to come up with something new to conquer if I actually achieve the goals, or maybe it's just my fear of failure and easy to pass off as something I didn't fail if I never really tried.

In any case, I'm rolling over the usual fare of New Year's resolutions that I have now had for the last few years. They are all writing and education related, which should give anyone who doesn't know me a better idea of how much of a geek I am.

Currently, I'm working on material for two very different poetry chapbooks: one a bit more mainstream with an emphasis on feminism, the other seems to be materializing into darker eroticism. I consider them both in the highly experimental phase and both seem to be coming quite nicely into their own. The goal is to get them written by the first half of 2009 so I can hack everything I deem to be imperfect into a less imperfect embodiment of expression and try to shop them around.

The other big writing-related undertaking in my sights is actually revamping an idea I had back in college. I had this idea for a novel--something I find daunting as being predominantly a poet with little forays into the fiction world--but I think I'm ready to give it a try again and see what happens.

As a step toward the idea of commitment, I finally bought my first laptop. I'll have a better idea if discipline came installed with it by the end of January.

Last I left off we got the apartment. Thursday-Saturday morning we spent packing and cleaning, though we didn't get the apartment as clean as I had wanted, and apparently there was a leak in a corner where we kept a couple of totes. It wasn't there before the wedding, so we'll have to see if they take some out of the deposit for that. The only other down side was that we had to use a couple garbage bags because we ran out of boxes and--after going though most of the boxes in the unpacking process Saturday afternoon and Sunday--I have reason to believe that one of the bags was mistakenly thrown away. Once I rummage through the remaining boxes, I'll know if I'll have a minor vent.

Today Scott had his first day at the new job and in a couple hours I'll see how it went. That's all for now.

So I looked at one apartment today and things seems promising. I'm waiting to get the call from the landlord to see if we get the apartment. It's a 2-Bedroom, which is a huge step up from the studio we're currently living in--even if both bedrooms are on the small side. I'm keeping my fingers crossed because I really just want to be done with the search, so I can concentrate on getting settled and finding a job up here. With any luck, I should have the answer tonight and then can update this entry.



I just got the call. We have the apartment! Now I can concentrate on the packing and cleaning. :)

I'm computerless in Mo'town, which is why there's been months since the last update. And since the library here has time restrictions placed on internet usage, this will be extremely short--probably with typos and incorrect grammar--but it will be something.

As of now, I'm still working in retail hell. Cross the high school gossips with incompetent management who don't understand the value of communication and you get the hybrid that is where I am currently employed. Rest assured, I am on the job hunt for something that is not retail.

My writing production has the speed of Scott attempting a marathon. Okay, maybe not that slow, but it's been a struggle with the weird hours of retail to nail down a schedule, so I've been writing in spurts.

J if you still even check this, I have money saved for a special evening of alcohol intake and bullshitting about the inconsequential stuff that is life at the moment.

And I think I am done with this update since I'm nearing minute zero. 

The subject line states the obvious reason for the post, but I feel the need to be elaborate and redundant.

Providing that we don't get hit by some lake effect snowstorm or other weird wether scenario and that my parents don't get sick, I will be moving down to Morgantown this Saturday. So only two more days (I'm not counting today because it's halfway over) and I can leave the drama that is this house behind for good. (Holidays not included.)

I'm excited that everything is finally moving forward after a few delays, and despite not getting everything accomplished that I wanted to up here, 90% is done and I can do the rest down there. It just would have been easier to get it squared away up here, but you can't always get what you want.

Now for the bad news for devoted readers of The Kat Interlewds. Since I'm poor and hadn't purchased a computer, I will be on an internet hiatus until that gets rectified with a job and money. I will frequent libraries as much as possible to give an occasional update or interlewd, but I'm not going to be nearly as consistent as I have been over these last few months. (Read: even more sporadic than ever before.)

But once the computer and connection have been obtained, rest assured that I will be updating more often with better (and nonfamil-related unless you count Scott) stories and rants for those times when you've had enough of your own drama and feel like laughing at someone else's with the knowledge that one person's life sucks more than yours.

And now back to packing and subsequent silence.

With respect to the work schedule, today is the last day to clean and get everything out. And despite my attempts to relax, I'm thwarted by my mind which continues to wonder if everything is being done in a satisfactorily manner. And let me tell you, I have my doubts.

Because every time I needed something done out of my control, it was always postponed until the last possible minute where I encountered much griping and a half-assed job. This is why I've preferred individual tasks to group projects. If I procrastinate and then throw things together, then it's just me screwing myself. But it's entirely different when partners do it because all they want is mediocrity and I get screwed in the process. And with all the bitching about moving, working, and trying to balance a normal life, my gut is telling me that apartment cleanup may not get the attention it needs. Since I don't trust the landlord, I'm afraid that they'll look for anything to keep the deposit. Had I not been let down by other people for most of my life and certain individuals in particular, I may not have this scenario running through my mind.

And this seems like nothing more than paranoia until something I was told would take the bulk of the day is abandoned only two hours later. The phone being cut off is a nice touch as well. It makes me nervous because the scenario seems all the more realistic. So I worry and get pissed that I'm put into a situation that causes me to worry all because people don't listen to me and then try to lie about it. And I'd be more at ease if he didn't always let me down when it came to the important stuff.

I should be doing the last few things up here so I can move myself down there. But my mind is so focused on the potential of getting screwed by someone I trust that I can't concentrate on myself.

Here's hoping this is being read by that person and that I can manage to accomplish some small things today.

Okay. Deep breath.  

We managed to make two trips to Morgantown over the weekend and now have about 93.6% of the stuff out of Scott's old apartment and moved down to the studio. Of course, that means he has to do the rest since he only has two days left to use. I didn't get a chance to help with the cleaning because he's still having this problem of not listening and only skimming e-mails. I am used to this by now, but it would really be nice if it didn't apply to important things--especially when it lengthens the already long 8-hour round trip.

The good thing about all this is since everything dealing with the apartment is up to him, I can finally concentrate on myself and getting the last few things done so that I can finally move out of the house. Though I'm cringing at the task of unpacking and rearranging all our crap into one harmonious pad. After three years of planning, it's encouraging to know that I might be moving forward in the near future instead of remaining stagnant.

The move has caused a writing hiatus. I don't know when or if I'll go back to it. First I need to stop spending most of my time at the computer playing online games and lurking around message boards. Both end up boring me or pissing me off in the end anyway.

Today marks 53 months with Scott. Yes, we count in months because years really don't speak to the magnitude of moments--good, bad, and stupid in case anyone wanted classifications--that we've had to endure. And now it seems we may actually get somewhere.

This Friday I'm rolling my ass out of bed and leaving for Waynesburg at 7:00 am to help Scott move into our studio apartment in Morgantown. Then I'll be leaving probably the same day to come back to the house, so I can finish the last business I have up here. I have a few minor things to take care of before I can cut myself loose from Meadville, and if all goes as planned, I should be down there by the first of October.

And then we'll live happily ever after if I am to believe the fairy tales. 

Scott and I finally got everything cleared and will be moving to Morgantown. We got ourselves a little studio apartment, so the space constraints should get interesting.

A rejection came last night to tell me the editor is not a fan of short poetry or haikus. Nice to know after the fact when the guidelines stated no bias against length. Oh well, onto the next market with that one.

Other commentaries may be coming if I sit down here long enough to write them. Until then . . .

To clarify for anyone hoping to get a show, I'm talking about an actual paper journal.

I've had this journal going on four years now if not longer. It was a Christmas present from Scott's sister Kristen who happens to hate--or is just really grossed out by--anything sexual in nature. She knew I wrote poetry and thought this purple and black journal with metallic graphic would be a cool gift.

It's not the worst thing I've ever received as a present, and as far as journals go, it's the one closest to my style. But my lack of organization means that I use a couple pages then move on to another journal or notebook and never really fill anything up.

But I've been in pain. The XX chromosome kind in case an inquisitive mind or two wanted to ask but was afraid of the answer. So I popped a couple Motrin and got really buzzed an hour later when they started working.

(FYI: I don't take pills unless the pain is horrible because the pediatric dosage of a lot of drugs knocks me out for extended periods of time. Perscription, nonprescription--it doesn't matter. My body doesn't like it and goes to sleep mode for the rest of the day.)

But as I'm buzzed and about to go to sleep, I pick up the journal and start looking at the cover as though I was high. It was then I relaized that the black wasn't just an accent color; it was used to imitate handwriting and other personal thoughts. The back had a light black outline of a face I hadn't noticed before and an embellished I. So I decided to check out the front and see what I'd missed. Lo and behold there's soem more writing, but instead of just a face, there's a black outline of a woman's body. A naked woman's body complete with nipples and from the shading a bit of bush.

I was too busy looking at the "Me, Myself and I" heading, the metallic diamond overlay featuring three faces in different poses, and the subtitle "An Introspective Collection of My Innermost Thoughts and Feelings" to notice the frontal nudity on the cover.

I wonder how many people were like Kristen and bought that journal thinking it was an innocuous gift without realizing the sketches. And it makes me laugh.

Warning: This rant may sound more like whining, but I'm currently too pissed to care about tone, wit, and humor.

I should be writing. Writing something other than this vent for the journal. But I'm too pissed to be creative because people aren't taking care of their shit. And they expect me to be okay with this. They expect me to be okay with this even when their fuck-ups affect my plans and my happiness.

Make no mistake, I am far less than okay.

And I don't know how people got to be so stupid. If there's a red button they press that I didn't know existed, if brain cells imploded upon hearing that they would not be receiving their monthly vacations, or if the Darwin Awards took an open call, resulting in everyone thinking going out for them would make them the next big reality tv star.

All I know is it's going to stop because I'm not having it.

When someone can't pay the bills on time but then whines about needing more material possessions and expresses disappointment about not taking friends out for dinner, I want to snap. When someone else bitches about the length of a project after backing down and giving in, I want to snap. When the other person involved wins the argument only to complain about an unforeseen snag in the operations, I want to snap.

I want to snap because instead of getting some much needed writing done after the latest rejection, I'm dealing with telling idiots how not paying the rent on time no matter what the verbal agreement can affect the credit report. I have to deal with breaking my neck near the stairs if I get up during the night to get a drink or take a piss because demo work is at a complete standstill. PennDOT workers go faster. It depresses me, it worries me, and it pisses me off to know that I allow myself to get upset, depressed, and worried about the shit that affects me when I can't control it. All of this wears on me until it affects my writing.

Then I snap.

Because while I may not have all my shit together, I am at least intelligent enough to not fuck up more than I already have. I don't have the money, so I say no to myself--a novelty to a fw others I'm sure. But I'm tired of saying no and cleaning up everyone's shit.

Fix it your-fucking-self. 

To be honest, I don't mind rejections. They're disappointing but not inherently evil. I received one from Wee Small Hours for my flash piece last night. Brief, but not a form letter so I know that the story stuck with the editors after the initial reading, which is always a welcomed plus. Besides, how bummed should I be with the rejection that includes an elongated "Eeeeeewwwww!" and tells me my story was gross?

It was meant to be gross, so I achieved my goal in that respect. Then I get the Hellnotes Newsletter and am left with questions. Hellnotes is sponsoring the Wee Small Hours market and in this issue they talk about the first month contest having 32 entries and how they whittled the 32 to 5. Then they go on to mention the winner and 2 honorable mentions (up from the 1 they has originally planned) and how difficult it was to choose the winners from the top five.

Honorable mention would have been cool. But with the way the rejection was written, I started to wonder if perhaps the flash made the final cut. Did it fill the Number 4 of 5 slot? Or was it more of an 11?

I just don't know, and that is what makes the rejection the hardest. When the rejections sounds like a college admission letter, the piece either wasn't even close to the guidelines--or what they wanted since guidelines can be deceiving--or the publication gets hundreds of submissions a week and there is just no time to be personal. For a more personal sounding and encouraging letter, it means the piece has promise and it just missed the cut for whatever reason. But how much promise or how close it was to being accepted is debateable.

And it's variables like those that make rejections suck.

I'm waiting to hear on the flash piece and two poems I sent out over a week ago. No 24-hour rejections this time around so things seem a bit more promising.

Seeing Brian and Steve again over the weekend was fun, despite Brian getting sick and having to leave early. Scott ended up buying two books. I personally think he needs to go to a book-aholics program to stop buying so much.

He had promised me that with the exception of the books he'd already pre-ordered and a couple others written by a friend that he wouldn't buy any more books until after the new year. Of course, if you're reading the paragraphs in sequential order you'll already know how that turned out--he lied.

But I had to give up arguably the biggest addiction for women. All in good shape but with a studio apartment being the reality of our budget for the move to Morgantown, I had to cut back. So I did the most emotionally draining chore of pairing down my shoes. 

Twenty-some pairs became six. Six pairs are barely a starter wardrobe: sandals for summer, sneakers for workout, heels and loafers for business. That's potentially over six right there assuming more than one pair for color variation. And I'm getting rid of three pairs of sandals at the end of summer, leaving me with my sneakers, my loafers, and a new pair heels I bought so I'd have something more suited to the business-casual world. This is analogous with having only two video games to play.

I wanted to buy more pairs since they were on sale and looked great on my feet, but I resisted remembering all the crap I parted with in the last month and how I'm better for it. But now I'm wondering if I'm really better for it since it seems my parting with stuff has caused Mr. Man to expand his collection. Why should I be the one telling myself no to things that I want because of limited space when he doesn't have to?

I have yet to find an answer to that.

Once yesterday afternoon came and the last scene not even started, I had my doubts about finishing the flash piece in time for the contest it was inspired by. But I started pounding away like Anjalyn with the chimney. She's doing demo to expose the brick. The people before us plastered and really just fucked up the house overall with their slipshot renovations. That's for a different rant though if I deem it's worth the time.

Back to pounding out the scene. In mid-freewrite the muse decides to show up and it seems smooth until the ending. Then I sent it to Scott for his opinion. I figured the ending had to go and probably some other things since I can't be "witty like him" and not be called on it. It's going on 11:00 before I get the e-mail.

"Your story was sick and wrong. Of course, I loved it. :)"

First time I have ever been relieved after a critique.

He picked out a few minor things, and I had already fixed some of my minor things. But he really liked the ending--my biggest worry--and the title, something I slapped on between the first and second time I sent it because I didn't know what else to call it.

But now it's sent--all 643 words, title not included. And now I wait to see if it gets published or if I need to find a Plan B.  

I decided to work on a flash piece. The goal: To have it done by the end of this month. Yes, in two days. Everything but the last scene is drafted--endings aren't one of my strengths. I have no idea if it will be finished by then, but making this an entertainingly twisted piece is the most important end result at this point.

And for now I'm quite enjoying wandering through my depraved mind to get there. Now back to work!

Over 15 years of paper clutter are gone, meaning my room no longer qualifies as a fire hazard. And while I was clearing the space to clear my mind I decided to try a new layout for the Interlewds. I might change the colors to something a bit more dramatic, but for now I'm content to have a happy palette.

"Unlit Wishes" is staying in the black box for a few weeks until I decide on an ending that fits the poem. And I'm content to let my mind go at its own pace since it never really listens to me anyways. Soon I think it'll be onto new projects instead of revising old ones.

And the next new (and lengthy) project might end up being grad school for a chemistry program. I even miss my dose of incomprehensible physical chemistry, which leads me to believe my destiny may very well be a professional student after all. Nothing arouses the mind like 8:00 chemistry classes and 2:00 am differential equations problem sessions . . .

I should be reading Fear of Gravity. I complained long enough to get the book away from Scott and I have yet to crack it open. I also have yet to read Terminal. The TBR pile keeps getting bigger despite me having more time.