Constant As A Northern Star

I have been boiling with impatience this week (the emotion, not the simple flowers that remind me of my mother). I am not tolerant of ignorance or defense mechanisms or joy.

I am this turbulent hurricane of emotion, and right now I'm standing in the eye of the storm. There is an eerie calmness about the silence of my kitchen at this time in the morning. Of course, at some point, my roommates will stumble in loudly and break another of my cheap possessions. Regardless, I feel like I can absorb all things from all directions (empathetic as follows: the way I imagine sea turtles to be [arms outstretched and such]).

I do this to myself every now and then (but mostly now). I, exhausted, have stretched myself thin into the night (with a strand of several long days behind me, and longer ones ahead) to accomplish nothing but almost-perfect peanut butter cookies from scratch and darker black circles under my eyes. Nights like this wax and wane introspection with a slight emphasis on my ego. It is Saturday night (or Sunday morning, for the nit-picky) and I have opted to ride my bike to Lund's (more details later) to bake. Why? I wanted to bake. I wanted to be Giada De Laurentiis whipping up some gelato for the surprise dinner party I happen to be throwing tomorrow night.

On my bike... (on the way to Lund's of course, because I feel glamorous there), a number of odd things happened in the fifty-block-total ride through one of the worst neighborhoods in Minneapolis. 1) I was called Lance Armstrong; 2) I was offered a blowjob (from three drunk girls, undeniably freshman looking for a ride); 3) I was almost hit by a car; 4) I was told by pedestrians to get off the sidewalks; 5) and by cars to get off the road; 6) I got two bad feelings (one each way in the same spot, in between 12th and 13th on University).

I hate fucking up. Probably more than anything, because I'm a real Virgo: critic, narcissist, perfectionist, constantly unhappy. I hate A minuses and cookies that are crunchy in an unpleasant way and dirty kitchens and fumbling over my words and shoes that don't match and not opening up credit cards. In review, if it isn't perfect, I'm not really a fan. At least I can acknowledge my flaws (though, if I fail to attempt to change, is it acknowledgment at all?) I confess. Virgo, Libra rising.

I believe that everything happens in threes.

I was asked on three dates today. None of them very conventional.
- To learn chopstick fluency at a sushi bar.
- To try on cowboy boots at some store on Lake Street (seriously.)
- To an opera (the only one I considered, before I realized the nature of the excursion).

Right now I only want three things:

I want to wear a scarf and not look stupid.
I want a four-point-oh.
I want to feel like I don't need caffeine to transfer oxygen to my bloodstream.

"I could drink a case of you, darling, and still be on my feet."