Make me a child again...

Just for tonight?

I swear that my life is one big movie. Remember that one show, with Jim Carrey and that one guy? Where his life was like, a movie? Yea, I bet I'm the Indian version.

So, the fabulous post-graduation life has yet to begin. Once again, I await the recession of red-tape to begin working. How ironic would it be if I end up living on the streets of Spanish Harlem, while my perfectly good job on Wall Street waits in the wings for me? Sounds like the Pursuit of Happyness 2, waiting to happen. Officer Ron, of the USCIS/Dept. of Homeland Security, called this week to sympathise with my woes, and assure me that he will have my case expedited...once he locates my application. He also only has a first name, and no contact information, because apparently his email address and last name are top secret and a matter of national security. So he says not hearing back from him will be a good thing, and I haven't yet - so yay. All of my fingers and toes are crossed at this point.

Did I ever mention that I hate bathing after another person? Ick. I had to scour the bathroom of other-person-ness before I could take a shower. Thank you Scrubbing Bubbles. When I finished my hot-then-cold shower of love, I looked in the mirror, and saw my mother staring back at me. Keeps happening. Incidentally, she remarked on feeling the same way when I spoke to her today; that when she sees herself, she knows that her mother is a part of her. A better part of myself I could not ask for. My mother is an angel; at the same time she is a force to be reckoned with. I love that about her. Demure and feminine, with Bitch waiting to rear her beautiful head whenever necessary. I know that I got that from her. Like when the ignorant little cousin of Rasta's ex- made the mistake of calling me a Beti and then speculating why that offended me. Nothing like a little girl vs. girl drama to spice up an uneventful week of loneliness and worry. How dare you racially slur me and psychoanalyse me at the same time? My response to the ingnorant little hussy was polite, subtly insulting and laced with just the right amount of sting. Suffice it to say, at the end of it all, she apologized, and shut the hell up.I won't go into details, and I don't mean to toot my bitch-horn, but I am not a person you want to piss off.

As a result of my not-being-able-to-leave-the-country immigration status, Rasta has gone to Can-ay-da without me. Caribana. I'm not into Carnival, I'm more like into standing next to him while some Jezebel jiggles her ass in front of him. VZ's roaming charges are insane, so we only speak online and whenever he decides to call me. I miss my Rasta! After living with him for two months, I hate not having him around. No one to cuddle, or smell. He smells so lovely. I've taken up the idea of stealing one of his tees when he's not looking so I can have a smell every so often. I doubt he'll notice. Sleeping alone has to be the gayest thing ever. Pillows don't compare.

Period's here. That equates to me sleeping in the foetal position for most of today. No Rasta to talk to, so...I blog. I should finish Emma. It's going well, except I am beginning to criticize myself according to the taste of Jane Austen, and I'm not so sure that's a good thing. I think it might be...Night!