It’s Sunday and I’m feeling kind of truthsome.
I never thought Orlando, or more specifically Disney World
would feel like home so quickly. The rain is coming down in sheets as it does
in the afternoons, but soon it will be gone and it will be sunny again. I own a
home now, which scared me at first because it meant that I was doing adulty
things without you know a husband to take half the load and maybe do the finances.
But I’ve grown rather fond of being single, especially since I can grow in so
many ways that perhaps I wouldn’t be able to if it were otherwise. For instance
I have a pink room. I decided I might as well go for it as long as I can.
Father John says that the more you truly live the more you have to offer people
whether it’s friends, family or a potential spouse. I’m a project person, which
means I always have projects underway or on my mind. Presently, I’m trying to
keep an alkaline diet, interior decorate my home so I can play Bed &
Breakfast when visitors come, plan my next book project and decide what
classes to take so I can be a modern Warrior Princess. Which is my ultimate
goal in life. Okay even more specifically a Saint Warrior Princess. Or a Saint
Warrior Princess Artist with a cat.
Check on the cat. He is eating everything in sight.
Including my clothing. Holes everywhere.
And then there is Vanity. Although I’ve been told it isn’t
really Vanity if it doesn’t get in the way of your Charity. Being single means
you can take good care of yourself and develop good habits, ideally. Every
month since I was thirteen there is a three day span where I try to
decide whether to get a minor nose job or not. Mostly I’ve decided against it
because I don’t want my friends to think I’m selling out. But when you’re 27
you realize that that is a stupid reason not to do something, so I might just
do it because it would make me happy, not in the joyful sense but in the I just
bought I house I really like way.
My home is really nice. My Colombian neighbors are nice, and
they feed me sometimes. The neighbors to my right are well…
I am very blessed. My best friend is a 48? 49? Year old
priest who cannot for the life of me call by his first name, I feel it’s
like calling my mother “Cecilia.” He is the Yoda or St. Francis of my life,
which demands respect even though I sometimes roll my eyes at him. People often
forget that priests are just people. People with really hard jobs that involve
helping persons through suicides attempts, addictions, obsessions, death or
just teenagers with hormones and short attention spans. (He’s also been shot which is cool because he is still alive). I chat with him about my
latest venture and my obsession with BBC shows, and of course my life problems.
Sometimes I tell him about my crushes, but he tells me men are evil because he
wants me to become a sister and found my own order. I don’t really want to
found anything, unless I have a right hand partner that can do all the hard
stuff.
I’m now going to leave you because it stopped raining. And
I’m going to go drink a spinach smoothie. Just add lime. It’s much better that
way.
