wind

I am moody. The secret of an artist trying to fawn her way about corporate America is that she cannot stay even. I need attention, acknowledgement and continual inspiration. I am needy. The drone of monotony makes me moody. Not the average, I have a case of the Mondays, or Wednesdays in this case, but bumpy and jostled moody. Like I want to stand on my desk, run through the hallways, toss stuff around. I want to have a conversation that doesn't revolve around how the coffee tastes or the potential rain outside. Does anyone read books that don't involve a purchase at the grocery store? Not that I am discounting my graduate and high school friends who have made it to the NY Times Best Sellers list and run the cash cow of retail, house-wife dram-rom-com paperbacks. More certainly, I envy you and am faking it right now by pretending I wouldn't want that fame. I am moody and frustrated by the current size of my jeans. By the laugh of that one lady three cubes outside my office. When I should be gloating. I should be ecstatic that I have an office. But, I am moody. I am picky and stingy and grumpy and persnickety and overall just not finding my creative voice in this arena. So, now the onus comes back on me. I have to make the change. I have to do something about this. And what exactly is that action? I have applied at other places. Job descriptions read like sentencing arraignments rather than careers. The notion of making it start all over sounds terrible. My sentiments toward people are waning -I hate them all. The gold medal for misanthrope of the year is dangling at my fingertips. I see it on the horizon and the scowl imprinted on my forehead just continues to grow. I am verging, edging closer and closer to the point of no return. This is not a good thing. This is not acceptable. I am to be sunshine and lollipops. A spring in my step. A beacon of light rays to make everyone's morning, afternoon and drive home better.  BUT I am moody. I am tired. I am thirsty.