Lately I've fallen into the habit of just sitting around being awesome instead of like, going out and being awesome. I'm mastering the art of being awesome in the privacy of my own home, while hand-quilting, drinking various flavors of Crush (preferably grape, but there's been a lot of orange lately), watching things that star Bradley Cooper (or too many Italians), eating hazelnuts, and pretending I'm not a cat lady.
It's awesome. I promise.
You know what? Quilting is fucking hard. Really fucking hard. Maybe not hard hard, but there is a surprising amount of math and time and blood involved in this business (religion, math, and blood are necessary to give anything meaning - so I'm almost done. It takes time to make a religion anyway). I did not realize the intense situation I was throwing myself into. All willy-nilly.
I finished the top part. The quilt. By Christmas. I put in a box, gave it to my dad, and promised him I would finish the fucking thing.
I'm like a servant indentured to myself. I'm a slave driver with a human inventory of one. I'm like Cinderella and my own evil stepmother. I'm like a fucking Clydesdale, except how does one quilt with these massive hooves that are much better suited for hauling around beer?
The part where I actually sew the top and the bottom together, like a sandwich of scabs and tears...that part I just started, and I've got this giant fucking quilt and a wooden hoop and all of this bullshit thread, and THIS IS GOING TO TAKE ME UNTIL SPRING. I never want to sew again. But I'm going to finish it, I'm going to do this every day until it is done, because I said I would back in October when I started the damn thing. And it's beautiful, seriously, I'm incredibly proud of it, this fucking fabricated, desolate succubus, stitched together by determination and sentimental bullshit and love and self-loathing...I could sell this thing for five hundred bucks, easy. Probably more, if I sold it at Notre Dame. It's a domer quilt. Because the Dad is a domer. Everyone is a domer except for me.
I fucking hate Notre Dame.
So to keep me going, I'm drinking four cans of Crush a day because that shit is like crack cocaine, and watching Alias, because Will Tippin is like crack cocaine. And trying to avoid talking to MoLinder's cats, which is really fucking hard because they talk back. Verbally, not like psychically, and not with real words - they use total cat words. That would just be weird. Shut up.