Even though this week sucked major ass, I'm extremely grateful for aspects of my life that unexpectedly kept me more level-headed--sort of.

With my internship, it's a bittersweet appreciation because though I enjoy how the internship is set up and the people who work on it, I feel out of place. I'm quiet, I can't chime in as easily as I want to. Sometimes it sounds like they're speaking in a completely different language; it's disconcerting. However, after going to the second editor's meeting, I feel more at ease. Though, I'm still not as talkative, I feel that they understand that I don't have much to say, but that I'm there. That I exist. I'm thankful for my past TAs who work there with me because though I never made myself all that noticeable, I honestly relish being in their presence and interacting with them.

Additionally, even though they warn me about what's coming up in the future, they give me hope because they're still living it. If they can do it, if they can live such a difficult life, why can't I?

I went to a reading for Julia Glass on Tuesday and she said something about reading John Gardener's novel, about becoming a novelist. Gardener mentioned in his book that so many writers "fold up their wings" and quit. But even when she felt like giving up, that quote gave her reason to persevere.

I don't want to fold up my wings before I even tried because life is about great struggles and about great rewards.



I'd carry Urban Germany's babies if I weren't so damn infertile.

"Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed."
Jonathan Swift

Swift, you've never been as right as you are now.

My heart is uneasy.

"Prayer is not asking. It is the longing of the soul. It is daily admission of one's weakness. It is better in prayer to have a heart without words than words without a heart."
Mahatma Gandhi

I need to pray.

When I woke up in the middle of the night, I wanted to speak to you. I wanted to tell you good night, but I didn't because it's a bunch of foolishness.

"And I was even more appalled by her attempts to overcome it, because they so plainly, pathetically failed, and in failing opened up the view of a world I had only begun to suspect, where wounds did not heal, and things did not work out for the best."
Flyboys by Tobias Wolff

Not sure.

Here's my prayer to you

Two nights ago, I prayed for the first time in a long time. My friend was encouraging me to and for some reason it felt right to.

In the past, whenever I prayed, I never got that feeling I always thought I should get when I was talking to God. I was never moved. The only time that I ever was was when I had accepted Jesus, after seeing an reenactment of his crucifixion, but that was so long ago and I was young. After I stopped attending church, I stopped praying and I stopped thanking God before every meal. I stopped caring.

I've heard from other Christians that there have been times where they felt God's presence, but I've never felt anything. I always thought it was because my prayers weren't as sincere as I hoped it would be. But that night I prayed, though I still didn't feel anything, my words were honest. Maybe praying isn't talking to God after all, but an excuse to speak to yourself.

I don't know. All I know is there's just something special in praying after being in a prayer hiatus.



Classic

I'm five seconds away from pricking holes into the wall.

I'm surprised every time I discover a graduate student is married. I don't know why, maybe it's because I still think of them as peers even though they're older. I just can't seem to wrap my mind around the fact that my married friends' list is lengthening because it would mean that I'm getting to that age where I should marry. And I would never have thought of these folks as marriage material, but now after hearing that they're engaged or married, I find myself thinking, "Yeah. I could see myself living with them and being happy."

On a completely different note, it's a disgrace when a female is living completely on the whims of her significant other.

The finishing touch of my day.

When I read my new short story, I have the sudden urge to cry. Perhaps, it's because it's too sentimental. Perhaps, it's because it holds a lot of truth about me that no one will know.

How much of nonfiction is fiction? And how much of fiction is nonfiction? There are no boundaries anymore.