& you’ve still got the most beautiful face

The hardest thing about going back to a diary is explaining away absence and describing the chunks of life that your readers have missed.

The former I can’t explain. I could point to some things that could have influenced it. There was the random diarist who came upon my “open letter to the men of the world,” and who gave me the brilliant suggestion of wearing a fat suit so I could learn to appreciate misogyny.

The notes, unfortunately, are private, but if anyone wants to read them (as well as my responses), I can send them or post them in a favorites-only entry. I don’t feel the need to post his name publicly; I have him blocked from my diary and that is sufficient

(ETA: I was recently informed that this type of internet drama would be fun for others to read, so let me know if you’d be interested.)

Another thing that might account for not writing is the simple fact that I have not written. My (private) journal from May-August is filled with rants about my job (more on this later), complaints about how I have no creativity, and random scatterings of half-started stories. Events worthy of a diary have not happened. I can probably sum up all of the major things I’ve been feeling and experiencing in a few short paragraphs.

Which is what I will do now.

Remember how I used to complain about how dull my job is and how I never had any work to do? Would you believe me if I said this was still a problem?

The work load is cyclic, but there is never enough work for me to be able to perform as well as I could. I could work at my leisure, precisely 8 hours each day, and get something finished by the deadline, and indeed, this is what I do. But there is no stress, there is no need to put in extra hours or to try to be efficient. Last week, I decided to take a few days off- last minute- and so rushed around the day before to ensure that I wouldn’t be holding anything up. I worked like crazy, doing the things that needed to be done the next day.

I finished by 2pm, and sat around until 5pm because I literally had no other work to do.

The work is… okay. I’m good at it- it requires organization, and that I have in spades (though the state of my apartment may suggest otherwise). The only problem is that I have an engineering degree, worked my butt off for 4 years (okay, yes, drank my butt off), only to have a job where my technical knowledge, while helpful, is not requiblue. The fact that I even have an engineering degree shocks most people just because it’s not related to my job at all.

Sometimes I joke that my job is “girl engineering,” the kind of jobs that they give to girl engineers, who can’t possibly understand the intricacies of propulsion or structural mechanics despite having studied it for FOUR YEARS. The job itself is little more than a well-paid secretarial position.

I love my boss. I love my coworkers (there are 3 other girls; they are fabulous). If I could be happier with the type of work I was doing, I would probably stay here forever.

I’ve started looking at grad school, law school, other jobs. I find myself feeling simultaneously limited and overwhelmed by the choices available to me.

Of course, my response to that is to pretty much do nothing. I suspect that I will stay at this job until I retire, just out of motivational inertia.

My life is hanging in between its current state and something bigger.

I am at the same place as I was one year ago, albeit a different desk, a sleeker computer, a few more dollars in my pocket and a sprinkling of extra freckles, which is the only color I get.

Everything is in stasis, the world is waiting for me to do whatever it is that will launch me out of orbit and into something amazing.

I have a fortune cookie fortune strapped to my sun visor that tells me I will “make a name” for myself. And every time I can’t see because the sun is too bright, I pull down the visor and see my future. Every time, it is a surprise.

I always forget, you see.