The O.C. calls.

Oh the joys of pustules. [Please note the sarcasm.] I am so very run down at the moment that my body chooses to protest in the form of a nice little cold-sore on my upper lip. Is this a sign for me to slow down and spend some time at home? What if I can't? What if home is contributing to my emotional exhaustion?

I have three jobs, one class, a rapidly deteriorating relationship, two kittens, and many unpaid bills. This is getting absurd. I vowed that I would never live in California again, but the romantic notions of sun, sand, and tanned boys really begins to tempt me. Plus, the Getty has a couple of tasty positions and LACMA might also have something nice.

I've been through a divorce, so a break-up certainly won't kill me, but I had such high hopes for this one. I may be completely stunted when it comes to dealing with men, but I adamantly refuse to be treated in certain ways. Perhaps this is a knee-jerk, residual, reaction from the married days. I find it unfortunate that I begin to mistrust my feelings and instincts. Self-contemplation and reflection are good and important, but not self-doubt. Maybe the thing on my lip isn't a variant of herpes, but a physical manifestation of my unhappiness. Weirder things have happened. I saw a picture of an old woman with a crazy, curly horn growing out of her head. Or maybe, like the old woman, I am simply "cursed by the devil."

I got the "God" talk from my mom this weekend. If only I would let god into my heart, everything would be okay. I find this offensive, but I'm not sure why.

Blarg.

I haven't done any shooting for my portraits project, but I did find a couple of mysterious used rolls of black and white film that I will attempt to process tonight. The lab here has metal reels and I have no idea how to use them.

Tomorrow I am working the thursday market again, which is nice and short, but I could really use a real day off.