Three years old

There's nothing like catching yourself mid-temper tantrum; it's a jolt of humility that I would have preferred to avoid on this gloomy Wednesday, as my mind immediately published an image of me as a three-year-old throwing herself on the floor.

This entry is my best effort to curb the pity party I was just hosting for myself on the back of the crosstown bus. I really hope it works. Lots of things are piling-up against me today, like my gross cold which seems to have stolen my voice. Or my current technique-ennui, which (exacerbated by the cold) has swallowed my confidence whole. Or my lunch 'hour' wasted at the worst bank in the world (I'm looking at you, HSBC) with nothing to show for it but anger.

But mostly I'm upset because that man- the sweet one who makes me coffee in the mornings and has the most wonderful laugh in all the world- left this morning for Virginia for a few days. I know I ought to be crazily happy for and proud of him, after all- he's performing with an orchestra and getting paid(!) Truth is, I'm insanely proud of him, and I hope he has an amazing time, and I'm sure all the little old ladies will throw him roses (he has a talent for attracting octogenarian fans), and i want him to have an amazing and inspiring time, and I wish he didn't have to go.

Or that I could go, too.

I miss him, and in what feels like a terribly selfish way. I don't want to keep drudger-ing on to school and work, seeing that bills are paid, taking out the trash, without the reward of time with him when day is done. I don't remember how life was possible before I joined this relationship, but I assure you there was less laughter.

I know this will pass, as all things do, but I wish it would pass a little more expediently.