gimme back my bullets

I know I've been a piss poor blogger, but I've been in a funk and not had much of interest to say. I've written a bunch of entries and then opted not to post any of them. Sort of the idea "if you can't say anything nice...."

I've been toying with the idea of putting my kids in the car and running away. All talk, of course, but seeing as I have family in CA, NM, and NJ anything is possible. I wish it were easier, taking off and heading for the hills, but all these little issues like money, insurance, and child care keep cropping up in the middle of my day dreams. I just feel like I have so many ideas that I don't act on because I let fear and responsibility and expectations stand in my way. Not that it's all bad to be a nice responsible girl and all, it just isn't all that exciting. So while showing up with a coupla bags a thousand bucks in my pocket on my brother's doorstep in San Diego sounds like a romantic idea, I just don't know that living in a trailer on the beach with my kids and peddling crocheted goods for a living is quite going to cut it. Not when creon alone is $2800 without insurance. um hmmm.

One week until Boston. I'm excited, nervous. There are are so many factors going into this one weekend that I find myself running a gamut of emotions. I'm looking forward to it all though.


Here is a snippet from the thesis that will never be because my faculty director never gets back to me:

They could never understand. I couldn't be that daughter, perfect. I was tainted: mucous instead of marvel, shit instead of shine. I had to defy the identities my family wanted me to have: warrior, defeator of prognosis, small but mighty, as well as the identity my disease gave me: sickly, weak, dying. I would be imperfect rebellious wild strong. I wanted to resist definition. Look what my body would do, what I could stand, how I could thrash against every expectation and thrive.