  A little after nine oclock. Some football on the telly and a cold one opened and sitting on its safety pedestal on the coffee table. Blacktastic cat blowing his nose on the carpet on account of the smoke wafting in from the garage where Ive made my cigarette nest. Tummy stuffed with a crab enchilada from Fidels in Solana Beach where I shared a pitcher of margaritas with Amy and the gang.
Its a good night home alone. I wanted to invite KerriLou over, but I need my sleep and my downtime. However wonderful it is to share my bed with that sweet woman. Spent half the day with a hard on thinking about her, the two of us, how passionate her email was that she sent to me this afternoon.
I think I know just what to do with it too, but I want to take a bath first and do some reading before I tucker myself out completely. Thinking back to last night when I went out to dinner with the family. We had just finished our caesars, my dad and Chris were in an involved conversation, and my mom looked at me in a moment and smiled openly. Im happy! she declares. It was one of those altered moments when acknowledgement of the mood sets it aside from the rest.
I was happy for her. But then she asks me, Are you? And I balked. And I lied and said yes. Granted, Im doing damn better than I could be. But theres still so much trouble brewing. I have some aces in my pocket, yes. Got in to see a school therapist for Friday. I have my KerriLou keeping my bed warm and helping me to feel closer to my passionate places that I dont often find myself.
These are good things. I feel like I connected with my sweet professor Martha today too when I sent her an encouraging email today to follow up on a class meeting where folks were incredibly rude to her. It made me feel good to hear that she needed the pep talk. It feels good to care about people and have it received. Have it received as its intended, not as a manifestation of some interpersonal problem of mine. Maybe it was being with my parents.
The comfort level of being able to let down and actually admit to mom and myself that Im not fully able to experience the joy with her. It hurt my heart when she asked me. The moment separated me from her, underscored the division I feel with a lot of people these days. Im on drugs to facilitate overcoming it, but its there nonetheless. Im still struggling. And Im getting help with it, but what are you gonna do?
Axia sent me some information on translating jobs, but I dont feel nearly secure enough about my French these days than would inspire confidence in pursuing any of it. My lust for graduate school is dwindling; I dont have the grades, and I dont feel Im prepared emotionally to take on something that incredible. I could do it if I felt confident, but I dont. maybe its the courses Im enrolled in now; theyre not my specialty.
I dont feel like Im doing more than whats required, and thats the separating factor between an A undergraduate student and an A graduate student. I envy Heather Hayton. I envy her passion and her drive. She didnt have an easy go of things to get her to where she is now. She worked her ass off with no help from others, so I hear. I really respect her. And yet being in her presence makes me feel helplessly inadequate.
I wish she taught something Im good at like a filmed literature class so I could show her Im quality. Not this esoteric epic stuff. Not this reading Chaucer in Middle English. Why do I need her validation? She knows who I am, I realised today. She called me out to read that passage. Does she know me for getting a decent grade on my timed explication? Or is it this site that revealed my nuttiness? And further, do I need her to know that Im out of my tree to qualify my experience in her class? Do I need her to know how bad Im struggling to give context to my sub-perfect performance? Or is it a cop out? Or is it my overarching sense of self that I feel is a necessary component to give context to my presented persona?
Why do I feel the need to present my complete self to someone whos not my friend, only my professor? I know literature classes require more of a personal approach than do other disciplines. You bring your experiences to the table when you read a piece of literature, we all know that. But imagine that she doesnt care to know. Let go. Char let go. As Kerri calls me. I really wish she was here.
I still have my bath and my rabbit to look forward to, but neither sound compelling to me anymore. Guess individual pleasures only go so far. I love her boxers, this fabulous shirt she wears that Im trying desperately to steal. And her yummy white tanks stretched across her chest. Those pretty little feet with gracious curves and purple nails. Her skin and my hands get along famously. I wish I had an entire night of nothing but touching her.
Shes such a good girl. Seeing her wrapped in my sheets this morning made it so difficult to summon the resolve to get my butt to school. I wanted to crawl back in there with her. I kissed her thigh and felt the warmth I was missing out on. At least it would have been nice to leave the house knowing her sweet self was still sleeping in my bed.
I think its about time for that bath in the dark with a candle or two. Bring some sweet songs of Ray Charles in with me. And sleep long and sound. 
