Epilogue: From U to Z (A to Z Blogging Challenge, Days 21-26)

This damn blogging challenge ended back in April and I failed to finish, but I'm finishing up now in a very much cheating/Stephen King ending kind of way because I want to finish. And because I anthropomorphize the shit out of everything and don't want to hurt the feelings of the last six letters of the alphabet. (Shut up.) These last letters are difficult anyway. I don't know that I wouldn't have gotten an entire post out of shit like X. C'mon. I'm not a wizard. Not since the dry cleaners lost my cape, anyway.

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Underemployed. It's been years. Tired of it. It's frustrating and it makes me feel stuck and I wonder when... I don't even know how to say it. When I find the thing that makes me feel a little more like where I'm supposed to be. I enjoy many things about the art center, but...

Very different: I have a new hairstyle in mind -- sort of something in the faux hawk family. The top two pictures are probably my favorite, even though I think the lady on the left has relaxed hair (chemically straightened) and the one on the right is just sporting an up-do. Still, you get the idea. Now I need to find someone who can help me transform my tresses. Not Great Clips. They'll smile and nod and then shear me like a lamb and leave a pile of hair the size of a small dog on the floor. Not that I've, uh, been in that situation before. Repeatedly. Because I don't learn, that's why.

Work has been rough lately. See previous paragraph about enjoying things but also being underemployed. Also, a small number of people are handling lots of jobs and stress is high. I hope things smooth out soon. I like the gig, even if I didn't get that marketing job I wanted. Polly Positive says it's because I'm destined for something else. Driving Me to Drink Daniel says, "Have fun trying to pay the rent in a couple weeks!"

X -- I recently learned the term Latinx. I deeply wish it wasn't because of the massacre at Pulse in Orlando over the weekend, but I'm glad for the chance to educate myself.

Yes -- I had an evening rather full of yes. I had a yummy sandwich when I got home from work. I didn't have to drive in the torrential downpour that knocked power out at work a couple times, and only had to negotiate one four-way stop that resulted from a jacked traffic light. (*I* know the rules. Other drivers... not so much.) Tomorrow is my day off, which means I'm still up at midnight and being very YOU'RE NOT MY REAL MOM! about refusing to go to bed. I get one damn day off, during which time it's difficult to sleep in, clean all the things, go to the grocery, relax, and enjoy some quiet alone time but also avoid isolating. I spent a chunk of the evening singing, having fun chatting with folks on Twitter, and tending my virtual farm on Facebook. I'm now getting unavoidably tired, but at least I feel like I logged some quality chill time before I slip into Fuck, My Day is Almost Over! mode.

Zoma -- Years ago -- probably up to 20 years ago at this point -- I wanted to own a bookstore. It was going to be small and independent, obviously. I had no particular idea about what I wanted to carry, but it was going to be one of those bookstores where people loved to shop. Like you could go there and browse on a Sunday after grabbing brunch with friends and hang out and read and maybe have some coffee or just chat with the *cough* über-friendly owner who had worked in retail for several years and had no intention of putting up with anyone's entitled, shitty attitudes. (The customer isn't always right. Suck it up, buttercup.) The name comes from the second half of my full name, which is Chizoma (chee-zoh-ma). I'll just have to use Zoma for something else now. I don't think I have the patience to make Zoma Books a reality. I also have no trust fund to support an independent bookstore under the pervasive presence of Amazon and other retailers who would crush my tiny business under their boot, much like the chain bookstore in You've Got Mail did to Meg Ryan's cute little store. I hate that movie for so many reasons, but chief among them is that I was working at a (corporate, soul-crushing conglomerate) bookstore at the time and angry that Meg Ryan was like, "You killed the awesome and quaint store that my mom owned for decades, the store that I know own and cherish in her memory, but you're Tom Hanks and this is a predictable rom com, so it's okay." Fuck that noise. And I say that as someone who normally eats up rom coms like a doe-eyed, one-shoe-wearing, wannabe princess waiting on another princess to pull up in a pumpkin wagon to whisk me away. So THERE.