Smackdown: The Bitch vs. The Bliss

I realize I do a lot of bitching on this blog.  A lot of kvetching. I'm okay with this, firstly, because it's my damn blog and if I want to bitch about something, this is my space for that. I created this blog to express myself first and foremost and sometimes a form of that expression is the art of The Bitch.

And I'm quite an artist in this capacity, let me tell you. Very practiced. Accomplished even. One day I hope to be a leader in the field.

But that's not all I am. I used to write a lot about the little joys, the sweet things in life which I sought out and brought my heart joy. When I quit my cushy yet stressful job in order to move to Portland, one of the goals I set for myself was to seek my bliss as much as possible. I succeeded, too, for quite some time. Sought joy in the little pleasures, in food, in creativity, in people, in sex.

The sex was my favorite part. No, the food was. Okay, they were both awesome.

But with financial woes, a cat with cancer, psycho stalkers, and a tinge of homesickness (for the record, I miss my friends, and fam, and even the food, but I don't really miss California itself), I seem to have forgotten my bliss. Where has it gone? I'm not sure. I spend most of my days lately with migraines and my nights with nightmares.

I'm cranky more often than not. And while I am loathe to behave contrary to my emotions, while I believe wholeheartedly in giving myself space to feel how I feel, it's getting old. It's getting tired. I'm sick of being a bitch all the time.

I want to find my bliss again.

Baby steps on the bus.

I don't make much money. But what money I do make, I make by doing part-time writing and web content editing. I get to do it at home if I want and, let's be completely honest, working in my pajamas is pretty fucking awesome. But it gets old. And is not very joyful. And I start to go stir crazy cooped up in my house all the time.

So I've started venturing to my favorite coffee shop again. I get a huge mug of tea, find a table near a plug, turn on Pandora, pop in my earbuds, and get my work done. It's lovely really. It doesn't feel like working anymore. It's delicious.

That's where I sit now, as I type this but probably not as you're reading it. Music soothing my ears, tea soothing my cold bones, letting my fingers tap away while the world is warm and cozy.

The little joys.

Baby steps.

This Thursday, I get to cash in an airline credit and fly to Las Vegas see one of my best friends on the plant and her family. I'll get to see my little nephew, who is growing like some kind of chernobyl weed, before he reaches 6'5". And he's not even 3 years old yet. I've got the books I bought him all wrapped and a little toy dinosaur that I hope he destroys in 5 minutes flat.

I can't wait to hug my lovely friend and gossip with her and share our frustrations and joys again like we used to do for hours and hours when we were younger. I don't even care if we never leave the house. Except to get In n Out. Which is imperative.

Finding my bliss.

Next step: find a new lover. Someone flesh and blood who can make me remember what unbridled and uninhibited pleasure feels like.

Maybe he's not entirely right for me. But he's right for me right now. In my fantasy, he's fit but not obsessed. He's 36 and a fire captain (okay, like my dad was, I know! Daddy issues. shut the fuck up) and has excellent arm musculature. He has curls I can get tangled up in. His name is something old fashioned and safe, like Henry.

Or maybe it's not even a he! Maybe it's a she. I meet her out and about and can't help but be captivated. She's got shaggy hair, is androgynous, not too masculine nor feminine. She's utterly intriguing and plays sports but also knits. She's small but unbelievably strong. She's sweet and shy but is forward just with me. Her name isn't important because she has a nickname anyway. Nobody calls her by her real name.

Finding my bliss. The Bitch can stay. She serves her purpose. But The Bliss, she lives here too.