Jesus, it feels like years since we’ve been here.*
In true Newfoundland fashion, the sun did come out for a minute today. And I say, “it’s alright”.
I have a notebook full of chicken scratchy blog post ideas and a few posts. It’s my Newfie Notebook.
No, not like that. Although I did kinda show up with luggage, shrug my shoulders and hope for a happy ending. Who knows.
Onto bigger and better things. Well, not big…it is always the little things after all.
I managed to have coffee at my day job. Today. Last week not so much.
I had no customers and forgot my charger…
But
The Lord said, “Let there be coffee”
And there was,
And it was good
Amen
The little things remember.
I am constantly striving for balance, and consistently failing.
Love life is good = I am broke
Money is good = I have zero free time and I am scrambling to jerk off before work so I don’t accidentally eat anyone alive.
Night off = plans fall through or I sleep all day and or I forget what I was supposed to be doing or I can’t afford to do what I want.
My plate is full and something keeps falling off the edge.
I haven’t posted anything to my page in about a month. Haven’t written anything in about that long either.
I am always dealing with this or that, or dead dog tired.
Just the aforementioned chicken scratches in the aforementioned Newfie Notebook. Which I am transcribing here and now. Not gonna lie, I found an old fountain pen and there is something satisfying about the flow of ink to paper. But the keyboard is my one true, grownup love.
It contains a ledger of all of my earnings from the first two trips. Plus brief notes of comings or goings of this one or that one. Blackout nights and accidents in black and white, reminding me yes, I did live through all the things. Yay me and my tenacity. It now contains security codes and employee numbers too. Things have really changed. Everything diligently recorded for posterity. Except that one thing at the bottom of the page that I cannot read.
And the very first page…
My flight info from my first time here. As if I would ever have the luxury of forgetting. 365 days as I type this. Give an hour or two. I mean, IF we’re counting, I am always counting. 16/200. I count most things. An adorable yet horrible habit. This writing down of all the things.
I do it on purpose so I can see. Like now, I know I have come a really long way from that sad girl that got off the plane the first time. Maybe not the second time, but 3rd time seems to be charmed. Semi-charmed. Shit still happens.
My phone died today, because I seized the deadness of the day and did a bunch of paperwork, follow up messages and emails, started the schedule for next week for my other other job. The friendships and alliances I have made these last few months, along with my leadership skills will be tested this week on Sirens St. John’s Survivor (stripper edition). Zero girls in the house for a few days…no guaranteed girls working. Just gotta hope for the best and bring chocolate.
Lees girls = Mo money + No free time this week coming. Magic 8-ball sees doubles in my future. I might just pray for rain.
Too bad, just went back on Tinder.
Ya, you heard that right, on the island of misfit toys, ghosts and fuckbois. It’s pretty comical.
We’re just gonna go ahead and blame that on Vagina.
She just keeps moaning, “It’s been 84 years.”
Except I had a Tinder date last night and she actually yawned.
The food was really good.
But I coulda tagged along with Suzie Q and B to the Keg and been home in my comfy sweats by 9. Instead of nice supper, followed by a nice walk along the harbor and the Longest Drive Home Ever.
His ex that he is nowhere near over, is an addict and I know way more about her than I should.
It was nice he was honest, and like I said, supper was great. But he isn’t over her, and my free therapy is reserved for those I know and love.
To be fair, I am not over mine either. I have applied logic to it and there is no way I am scratching that scab and oozing all the grossness all over a stranger. Just gonna leave it and let it heal best I can.
Some days are easier than others. I suffer in silence mostly.
(they mostly come out at night; mostly.)**
I got drunk and cried about that last week. Day 56 of sobriety of anyone was counting, I was. I had to add 10 days to my 90 day goal. And people who never met “the Sarah that came before” got a crash course. There was some angry drunk texts that I didn’t regret surprisingly. I did regret breaking my 56 day streak.
But, as Mark so eloquently pointed out, he used to be proud if I got through one day without weeping.
5 days in 9 weeks.
I am doing fucking fabulous.
Mostly.
I miss parts of who I was. I miss writing and my page. They are still there, like neglected toys in the sandbox, I should go brush them off and start again.
I miss my stable full of boys back home.
No strings, just suppers and snugglefucks.
It was the best of times.
I’m a chef and a nympho. One would think it would be easier than this, but it hasn’t been.
I suppose I could use all the time spent not fucking to write and post. I have shit of my own that I ought to be doing. Carve out an hour or two every morning that is mine and mine alone. Start the coffee, let the dogs out, drink the coffee and write. Like the good old days.
Would help exponentially if my laptop was fixed. But we’ll get there. That is the way this island is, big voids of nothing punctuated by rushes of everything.
Wind is always changing and bringing changes galore.
Over the last week a few things that were lost to me have resurfaced, including a relic of my first time here, something I left behind came back***.
Good omens.
It was warm out today and I danced in the rain.
And I know next week, with it’s empty girl’s house, will work out. It always does.
I think life is just like that.
My job is to have a bit of blind faith.
Prepare for the worst and hope for the best.
*Beatles
**Aliens
***a pillowcase Stalker Sarah, just a nice soft pillowcase, jesus sis.
I was thinking just a few days ago that it had been a while since you wrote here. It’s good to see.