Does valium really work? Really really? I mean seriously. I need to know.
I fly somewhat frequently and every time: panic attacks. I become a shell of nerves and jagged postures until the plane safely lands which it always does but still. It's irrational. I know it's irrational. I tell myself it's irrational. And yet? If you saw me on a flight I'd look like a rubber band stretched to its very limit, just awful and sickening. As for never trying out sedatives for flights, I don't know. I always thought I could think my way out of this phobia. Controlled breathing, reminding myself about air pockets and how airplanes don't just fall to the earth if engines fail, bringing books and magazines to divert my energy but still.
I guess valium it is, then.
The one positive thing about this phobia is that when I land safely and start walking on solid ground the world seems unbelievably sublime and everyone is this endlessly interesting creature that deserves so much happiness and it's like
double rainbow all the way but with every object and person I encounter. I become a walking Beatles record circa the release of Magical Mystery Tour but also circa Abbey Road because Here Comes the Sun is basically radiating off of my pores I could cry I'm so happy. It feels like how second chances feel like, so maybe that's why I don't take sedatives because it feels amazing to somehow get that rare, beautiful second chance feeling even when I don't deserve it. Hmm.
Anyway.
I flew back on the 4th of July which seems kinda nerve racking by itself without flying phobia added to the mix. The September 11th attacks were chosen on that day because of some historical date* so I figured July 4th might be sort of perfect for the t-word-ists to hijack a you know what and I can't even think about it too much even now because it worries me, thanks a lot media hyper-coverage of all things terrorist related :( Anyhow, when my mom was buying the ticket for me and I told her that I might be too superstitious to fly on the 4th of July she told me, "Look, terrorists have their own set of problems and they don't have time to bother you, ok? Do you want the early or late flight?" hahahahaha. Moms always say the exactly right thing to comfort you.
*I don't know if this is actually true and not willing to trudge through the wordy 9-11 wikipedia page to find out if it's true. ok? I heard it from someone who now works for the DOD and seemed somewhat reliable at the time (although as a side note even though he was reliable and responsible, fuck, he was also a jerk asshole but I gave him the benefit of the doubt and thought maybe he'd grow out of it. Turns out, jerk asshole in high school usually translates to jerk asshole in adulthood). READ ON, MAN!
Claire hosted game night in her parents' backyard which is now bananas insanely beautiful. A new deck and pots of pink bougainvillea and strings of sparkly lights. It's like sitting in the prom scenes from a high school movie except in place of implausibly mature dialogue for 30-something actors playing teens we have age-appropriate loud debates and mild insults, quickly whispered secrets and inside jokes that would take years to unravel.
The desert breeze in that neighborhood smells like juniper and hot asphalt and occasionally like that acrid tension of incoming thunderstorms, whatever that smells like, like anticipation of wet drops on dry sand and red dirt and sandstone? I guess it's more of a feeling. It is just a wonderful feeling that I've never felt anywhere else but New Mexico. It makes this atheist very, very happy.
I thought all boys knew this, but apparently not: boobs look way different from a girl's perspective than from a guy slash onlookers perspective. I kinda blew Marc's mind when I showed him that it looks way better from above your tits than from the front (that's not all I blew, omg gross sorry yikes). Although boobs just look good from any angle and I've never seen a rack that I didn't like and want to stare at. There, that's my love letter to boobs of all size and shape.
Too cute!
Sometimes I get blogger's block (like writer's block but without hope for a finished product) and didn't really know why it happened or how to fix it dot dot dot but I've sort of realized that it's because I'm pretty undirectional with this G la fille blog and there's no real M.O. or theme and sometimes it's a personal diary or documenting life like every movement and then sometimes it's talking directly to one person (Marc or a friend who reads it or Jay who never does) and sometimes it's a slobby mess of things that inspire me and I think blogs can't really exist without a theme. Anyway, bla bla bla right?
"Got accepted" and "community college" sound like a no duh uh doye but there was limited space and getting into the program was no guarantee especially since I applied after deadlines and went on vacation in the middle of orientation meetings and never sent them my transfer transcripts (school talk, how interesting. not.) So I am going to ignore the fact that I competed with a 14 year old middle school drop out to get into VT school and keep reading the Congratulations, You Got In! letter until I have to make the decision whether I will begin the program or not because that's the other thing dot dot dot um, Portland? I thought I was moving to Portland with Marc this September which means I would have to wait a whole 'nother year to start school at their VT program and somehow I feel like I need to use this ambition steam train I'm currently riding to get A+++'s and volunteer at shelters and homework bla bla before that energy runs out. What if I can't transfer credits between VT programs? What if I can't get into Portland's VT program? What if I have to stay in Albuquerque for another 5 semesters? What if I break up with Marc so he can move on to Portland and then he gets a girlfriend and I get a boyfriend but we ultimately hate the situation and still have to split custody of Chompers, 6 months here, 6 months there? I'm going to read the Congratulations letter again. The program directors are giving me 6 days to decide if I'm in.
