I'm on vacation, of sorts. Spending a lot of time reading, some time sleeping, and even less actually doing productive things in (my) Bruces apartment. I'm feeling guilty about it, even though I know that he would think it's a silly thing to feel guilty over.
I don't want to seem useless. I need to find a job, even if it's a few hours a week. I need to do something. I still feel like I'm on vacation, no matter how much I try to think of this as my home. It's not Bruce, it's me. I can't seem to shake the feeling that this is all a very elaborate dream. All of it, not just the so-good-it's-unholy bits.
So many people to meet, so much to do. I'm looking forward to it all, and yet it's scary. Weird to think that I'm meeting new, important people every single day when I'm still at this stage - the stage where nothing seems real.
The most real it feels is when he's here with me, or when I'm there with him. There are more efficient ways to say that, I know, but I've just woken up from a nap, and I couldn't care less. Well, maybe a little less. I suppose.
From Pops, I got a pretty hillarious link: fuckthesouth.com. Sorry for the dumpy post leading up to the hillarious climax. No, wait, I'm not sorry. I likes to keeps ya on your toes.