Preoccupied

I usually check my work messages every morning, but I guess I haven't checked my cell messages in a while, which is probably why there were sixteen messages waiting for me to listen to. Sixteen. I hate voicemail, really. And I've not been wanting to take calls, but it's probably best that I learn to like it.

My mood has been pinched. I've been feeling bleh about things like karma, other people, and the future. I suppose everyone feels that way. I've got more important things to think about, like writing, keeping in contact with people, networking, or re-filling my birth control for the year. . . which I might want to do today, actually.

Summertime isn't a particularly pleasurable time for me, unless parts of it are spent by the shore. On the other hand, summertime means that autumn is approaching, autumn always being absolute heaven. Three months of splendor. I saw ads posted for the Halloween Fright Fair that my college has every year - hella expensive, but the pumpkin patch and corn field is nice to ride by on the bicycle. Being in New York last year for the Halloween parade was a scream, the air and the color, and innumerable jack o'lanterns on stoops and in windows was so damned nice. I feel alive when the prospect of dead things scampering around presents itself each year. That's the kind of childish fantasy I can contend with.

So looking forward to that makes things okay for now. It's still summertime, but I think we're all anticipating the autumn nights, a harvest moon; an 11:30pm viewing of The Nightmare Before Christmas on Hollywood Blvd. . . baking pumpkin pies all season. Orange candles, candy corn, and a flight to New York in November.

Summertime can totally take a flying leap off of my calendar.