PickledCherub

I am completely wiped out. I made more in tips tonight--probably--dishwashing than I did last night closing. I waited more tables tonight, though. It all comes out in the wash. I guess. I still enjoy washing dishes. It's surprising that I do. Yes, I'm physically exhausted. Yes, my hands are like sandpaper. Yes, I worked up a sweat. But . . . there's something about cleaning all of the glassware we have in half an hour that satisfies me. I think that one of our new regulars was going to ask me out tonight, but Jobie intervened. That's OK with me. He's a cute guy, though, and he lent me Mark Twain's uncensored writings. We'll see. I met a guy who's into electronic music and he may want to collaborate with me. I've been upstairs in my room working all alone, and though it's fun, I feel like I'm getting too into my own head.

I got an email from my old advisor today telling me about why I didn't get into grad school. Apparently the competition was extremely tough this year. I chalk it up to my super-focused personal statement. If I apply again, I'll know what not to do: sound malleable yet intelligent. I really don't think that I want to be a professor. The only problem with that is that I don't know what I want to do. Small business? That sounds good to me, but do I have the ability to do it? I'm considering starting a family instead. There's this strong urge to settle down. Could I really make it as a musician? The dream seems less and less achievable. And then there's the old adage: Do what you love, etc. What do I love? And why should I, of all people on this earth, be so blessed to do what I love? Shouldn't I be helping people? I was an excellent social worker. I enjoyed it despite the emotional toll it took on me. Is that what I should do?

It's raining, and it's beautiful.