Not willingly, anyway.

While at the local Shell station this afternoon, I realized I was wearing one of my favorites:




I love a good site gag.

Don't touch my stuff.

Our apartment was broken into only 10 days ago. A brick through a window, and both the glass and my small sense of home, however much I had, is shattered and gone, along with my laptop and a set of car keys (the latter, recovered in a bush, the former, sadly, has been most likely been sold for drugs.) Things, of course, can always be replaced, but it unfortunately coincided with the decision to leave one job in favor for another, which in turn, was delayed until September, forcing stress levels to max capacity. Taking a break seemed like the thing to do, so here I sit, footloose, fancifree, supposedly "on vacation" for the month. I spent a lovely week down the shore with my family and will spend the upcoming week in Baltimore with Peckle, but I feel loose and detached, like I shouldn't be here, shouldn't be anywhere but back in the 909, guarding my remaining stuff with a pea shooter.

The next few months will be spending bouncing back and forth between the coasts and maybe that's why. It pains me in a cliche, girly way to be so far from J for so long, and I wish it didn't have to be this way, but work is work, I guess. I can't tell if I feel so all over the place because of the upcoming months, or if this is some kind of Lifetime-y, victim-y, oh god why meeeee reaction to what happened. In all likelihood, it's probably a little from each side of the menu and would also explain why I've been carrying my purse everywhere with me, ala Sofia from The Golden Girls. Which in turn, could ALSO explain why I feel so weird about being away from my husband; perhaps I should keep him in my handbag as well.