Did I ever mention I hate dress codes? I recognize the need - obviously some of would show up in our pajamas or less if given half a chance - but really, now, does it matter if I wear jeans? They don't have holes, frays, or stains. I generally wear a blazer and a shirt or just a polo with them... but I'm fighting a losing battle. I can't wear the clothes I like, I don't like the way I look in the clothes that I have, and I'm having a hard time finding a middle ground. I'm ready to throw 90% of my closet out. But I'll work through it. In order to be paid like a professional, one must look like a professional. Bah.
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
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