Miscount.

Like a fool, I managed to miscount the days until my boyfriend arrives to see me. It's been 57 days since I last saw his eyes just above his scarf and below his cap as he mumbled his goodbyes to me on the cold stoop of my apartment. He nuzzled my neck, urging me to go inside, as I cried tears that frosted on my cheeks. He walked with reluctance, looking over his shoulder at me in the frame of the door, then, feeling the pressure of the cold and the time, briskly away.

All week long, I've greeted him with morning wakeup calls, a countdown until a kiss good morning. I've met him with phrases like "is it Saturday morning yet?" and "Friday will be the longest day ever" which he simply agreed with. It wasn't until this evening when I was looking over the copy of his ticket, in my safe keeping, that I choked on my own heart. Never once had he corrected my count, never did he question me. Sunday. Sunday morning he'd arrive. Forgive me, but I sobbed like a child. Had he been listening at all? Was he as confused as I? One more day of waiting, one less day together. One more day alone.

To say it was devastating isn't hyperbole. I've not been myself in such a long time, if I'm honest. I've had such great plans to write, but every time I've sat down to let the words out, it's been nothing but hate that flows from my fingers.

And here's some more.

I hate what I've done. I've made the worst mistake living here. I spend my mornings rushing about for work, putting on my makeup so I have some hope of making money and gobbling up a bowl full of plain oats and water as quickly as I can with a cup of black coffee or five. I put on a crusty, unisex t shirt and jeans I hate with clunky shoes, ripping apart at the soles, and trudge to work in the snow, hoping to god no one's caught onto my routine, to my commute. Hoping no one will be waiting for me behind the dumpster after my shift to collect my cash. Sometimes, my customers sometimes tell me I'm too thin and leave no tip for me to eat off of. Sometimes they do.

I come home, greasy, hungry, hurt, to an apartment that smells faintly of sewage and is full of tiny gnats. I clean the place, top to bottom. My roommates, sister and her husband, don't speak to me. I make something of a meal as quickly as I can and eat it on top of my pillow on my bed. My cat begs. I don't enjoy eating anymore. I do it, more or less to not feel ill or sluggish. I haven't weighed over 100lbs since September. I have to make my food last until next unknown grocery day when I'm permitted to grab the essentials at a miniKroger while they wait impatiently, propped up against a Redbox. I'm afraid to eat too much and run out of food. Currently, I have four eggs, celery, a jar of jalapenos, a jar of pickles, and a few condiments to my name.

Sometimes, for fun, I shop online. It's nice having little packages to look forward to. I never get to leave the house to shop otherwise. I buy dresses, heels, skirts, and blouses I never wear. I still have a dress from August with the tags on it. It's a simple, Navy dress. It's very Kate Middleton and maybe some day I'll wear it to Keenland. Maybe I can pretend I'm someone and drink a glass of cabernet with shoes on.

I usually drink in bed. Alone. I watch Netflix. I cry. I can't read. Reading doesn't have all of the wonderful distracting elements of movies and television. Reading makes me contemplate my own life whilst my eyes drift over unstimulating hieroglyphs until the sound of my upstairs neighbors having sex derails the entire process. There are times when I've pulled myself together, researching my way out. My escape from Cinderella to the life of Amelie. I calculate income and rent, I pour over maps, floor plans, and used car ads. It's somewhat satisfying.

And I count the days.

When I left work today, I said goodbye to everyone. So many oohs and ahhs, nudging me with their elbows at what my Spring Break would hold in my tiny apartment with the boy I haven't seen in two months. Sex, sex, and more sex. Days of laying in bed, eating dry cereal and drinking gatorade was the consensus.

Sex is good, but my god, I'm looking forward to feeling valuable again.

My heart feels every hour that my hope robbed from it. It's midnight. 57 hours to go.

Fridays, December 20th.

It's Friday. I have my bottle of Pepsi and I'm watching cheap garments swirl inside a drum with Walmart brand detergent. I never wear real clothes throughout the week so it's always baffling how full my basket will be at the end of the week. I wear the same two uniforms, five days. In between, I'm chipping off dried on ranch dressing and mashed potatoes off my tits with a fingernail before clocking in. At the end of the day, I throw on some mens sweatpants and an undershirt succumbing to the next phase in my day as my life as a shapeless blob.

Now, here I am, free from my duties of suggesting cocktails and prime cuts of meat, finally free to dress myself as a young woman. It's 60 degrees and tomorrow is the first day of Winter. I've just looked down at myself to see what I've chosen. A black tunic, leggings, wedged booties and my black raincoat. Save for the soft, pink rosette in my hair, an after thought to tuck a wisp of hair behind my ear, I look like the grim reaper's daughter. I forget what my body looks like at times. I'm waiting for January, I suppose.

In January I'll trek down to the bus station and meet my sweetheart in the cold. I'll dress like a Victoria's Secret model, lace, unnaturally hairless and soft, under my Eskimo suit. He'll crush me against his body in the wind and snow and I'll feel so precious.

I walk back to my little apartment and heave my hamper onto my bed. I assault the Keurig and coil up on the low, defeated looking segment of the couch, clutching my geisha mug. Knees to chest, I write my mental grocery list and sip away. It's earthy and smooth, no sweetness, no milk deluded comfort in my cup. I want another, but my stomach aches with hunger. 

Pushing filet mignon and smiling hasn't been so profitable as of late. Call it the economy, call it the season of giving. I dine on ugly, discarded rolls and salads from the salad line at work. At home, I make a little meatloaf and a bag of streamed vegetables for around $10 once a week. I still have Christmas presents to buy. Another coffee to fill the space.

I won't be home for Christmas.

I've not written since I've moved. I regret that so much.

I'm a server at family restaurant now. I'm a damn good one. Anything I've ever been, I've tried to be a damn good one. I've only been there a little over four months and they've let me train three other servers. I love training. It's awful that I do. The whole time I was in school I resisted the notion of ever teaching English or Art. Maybe it's the one on one aspect that I enjoy? Maybe I just wanted to read, write, and work in the service industry.

But that's enough bragging about my lame life choices.

Today, we servers had a potluck Christmas party. We huddled around a long table in a closed dining room covered in various Tupperware containers, a feast of pastas, casseroles, chips and dip, supplementing just a bit from the salad station. I made dessert, as always. It wasn't a company Christmas party, a sparkling cocktail dress and heels affair, it was a crusty apron and non-slip shoes hit-and-run. We stuffed our faces as in between serving tables, bitching and swapping recipes. It was wonderful. We thanked one another for our contributions and said "merry Christmas" again and again.

This is the strangest Christmas yet. I won't see my family this year. Of course I'll have my sister, but it'll only feel like I'm intruding on the first Christmas she'll have with her new husband. I'll sit back with Kitty trying to get her to rip the wrapping paper on the new toys and collar I bought her, giving them their privacy. I wish I could work. I could be at the restaurant with my odd little work family in our greasy little uniforms, stealing cups of dried cranberries from the prep station, harassing one another with terrible jukebox picks, and bribing the bartender for a paper kid's cup of cheer.

I came home and cried. I only have $36.28 to show for a 7 hour day of work. I know I need to find another job, but god, I don't want to. I adore my work family.

I did it.

I cut my hair.

I told her exactly what I wanted and I starred straight ahead into the mirror. I never fidgeted, I never shook, I never blushed, I never cried. I don't know what to say about the entire experience but that I'm exhausted now. I've developed a cold in the last couple days and oh, I'd love to just sleep, but I've got to preserve the day before it leaves my memory.

Without warning, she snipped through my pony tail and laid it on top of the counter in front of me. I starred at the bundle of hair and noted the tonality. The colors ranged from an ash brown, auburn to chocolate, with one single silver stand centered under the rubber band.

My back was peppered with short, dark hairs that had fallen into my cape and the stylist, who wore a comically voluminous platinum wedge, added so much product that I looked like one of those unfortunate looking twins from the original Parent Trap. The whole way home I mashed it down and combed with my fingers, pressing down on every angle.

I came home and went right to the shower. I washed and scrubbed my scalp until it tingled all over. I ran a big, fluffy towel all over my head, over and over, round and round and let it fall. My hair was jet black and spiky, dripping water all over my bare shoulders. I leaned my hips into the vanity and plucked little locks, rearranging them around my face. I smiled. The ends of my hair were like conical spears, pointing at my cheek bones as if to say "here they are!"

Barefaced and pink from the hot water, I felt lovely. Not pretty, not cute-- certainly never sexy-- just lovely. In the foggy mirror I admired my neck and shoulders, my cheekbones and my jaw line, running my finger from my ear to the tip of my chin. I saw the shape of my pink ears poking out from underneath and appreciated how delicate they felt between my fingers. I combed my hair forward, back and side to side. It looked lovely each way I styled it.

Since that day, I've been very sick.

My nose is rosy pink from blowing it constantly. All of my energy has been sapped. My voice is gruff and dry. I've spent today smiling weakly at people and combing my fingers along the back of my head. Two people told me I looked like an elf, another told me I was absolutely adorable from head to toe.

Well. Thanks.

Finally, finally, I have my place to write. I have my cup of lady grey tea with honey, and for the life of me, as much as I struggle to recall the sights and smells of the past few days, give a rich description of the world around me, I don't care. I can't seem to make myself care.

Maybe that's it. Maybe that's the transformation. I don't care. And not in a bad way. I'm in control of my life. It's going to be okay.

Dragging feet.

Today was the first of the 50% off sale at work, which meant a excess of ladder climbing, lifting, bending and reaching of all kinds. Moving inventory from the stock room to long folding tables in the center of the floor.

The store was hot and humid, my cat eyeliner felt greasy and itchy around my eyes and I wanted so badly to wipe it away with the back of my hand. We threw a lot of the boxes to each other, at the tables. We kicked them. We swore like men in a garage basting themselves with grease and testosterone and laughed like maniacs when a customer caught us dropping a mother of pearl.

I slapped a few HALF OFF THE ORIGINAL PRICE signs up and we sat back with a hot pizza from the place next door.

Well, come and get em.

My boss and another salesperson had a home brewed beer inside of a water bottle. I laid on the floor with my book and a bowl of fresh sliced strawberries I'd brought from home, nibbling them slowly. Strawberries have always felt like a luxury to me. So cold and tender. I love the way the freckling of seeds concentrated on the tip of the berry feels on my tongue. I listened to Beyonce, Crazy In Love and wiggled my hips a bit against the carpet to the music, swinging my feet.

Truthfully, the work day consisted of few hours of actual work. The rest was lounging, waiting to drive home with the windows down, shouting along with the staticy radio to go home and take off my pants.

The sky darkened. I crawled into a chair, he took a nap on the floor. When he woke, we drew tiny dicks on boxes of Clarks. Some with wings. Some with capes. We giggled and talked about how we'd suffer at our next job with such a long, long time of basking in such freedom for so long.

Our lives are devoid of responsibility there. We open late. We close early. We try on shoes. We watch movies. We drink. We make sex jokes. It's enviable, from the outside looking in, but my god, I miss someone expecting something from me.

Sold out show.

There's a girl sitting next to me talking to her friend. She's so sweet and polite and happy... Really just cheerful. Possibly Canadian. I don't think I've ever had a friend that sounds like her. I'm a little depressed thinking about it.

A light post on something heavy.

A lot has happened in the last few days, but I don't know that I want to talk about it in much detail.

I visited my great grandmother again. I'm still a runt who will die alone, especially after I gave up my hair.

My sister and her husband came to visit.

I've worked nearly every day.

But let's keep this light.

Want to hear what's in my bag? Probably not. You can learn an awful lot about a person from what they carry with them. Of course, you can learn an awful lot about a person from their writing. But this my blog, so eat it.

In my purse, and mind you, it is rather large, I've got a great lot of practical things. I'd love to model it after Hermione's charmed handbag or Mary Poppin's satchel.

Keys. Work keys. House keys. Grandparent's house keys. Old house keys. Jeep key. A hand sanitizer. A metal tear drop shaped keychain with my name bought by boy in Frankenmuth during one of our many breakups.

Snow White Wallet. $90.04 in cash. A debit card. A worn college student ID where I'm at least 20lbs heavier. My sister's address. A few free Redbox codes. Kroger card. An awkward picture of boy from when he was 14.

A cork screw. Self explanatory.

A tea tin containing loose Lady Grey tea and a few fat little packages made up of a coffee filter and loose tea leaves. A tin tea ball. A tea cup with little geishas painted on it.

The Bell Jar. Pristine, but read four times. Inside there's a receipt from when I bought the book, but the text has worn off.

A small notebook. I doodled mermaids on the cover. There's lists of things to buy and things to do in there. I still rather I'd be the only one to read it, thanks.

Three ink pens. One I stole from work, one I stole from the bank and one given to me last week at work because I was kind to her. It's my favorite. It's a baby pink color with a rubber ball you click. The ink flows smoothly.

One pair of socks. I hate wet socks. They make me angry. It's a precaution. You're welcomed.

A keeper. If you don't know what that is, it's a small rubber cup you insert like a tampon that holds the fluid instead of sucking it up into a wad of bleached cotton. You wash and rewash it. I've used it long enough to save me $30. So... There's that.

My birth control. It's a pale yellow compact with the look of disapproval drawn on it with Sharpie. It used to make me violently ill, now it just let's me be free and live my life.

A condom. I remember kind of using the other two in the pack. For like five minutes. Then we remembered we hated them. It's the thought that... Coun... I'm an idiot.

A pocket knife. It's about four inches long and is covered in pink cupcake stickers, but oh, it's sharp. I usually use it for cutting little plastic tags off something I just night and can't wait to use.

Lipstick. I have about thirty lipsticks to my name. In my purse I keep a dark raisin color called Hera. I keep a deep purple called Black Cherry. A pretty peachy pink called Delight. Then my favorite, with the lamest name, Really Red. It's a matte, classy red that I wish to god I didn't feel like I was playing dress up in it whenever I wear it.

So that's it.
And everything is quite necessary.