It May Be Years Until the Day

another dinner in the office. le sigh. my work is my boyfriend. my cat is my surly lover who complains when I come home late. streaming radio is my sanity and drug of choice. blogging is my dirty little secret. I know i'm not special. we all work hard, this much i know is true. you know what makes it all worth while? the segment that finally runs on cnbc or the feature story in businessweek (i'm projecting now, but you get it). I think that makes me dorky. I think i'm okay with that.

Feist says it best in her song Mushaboom:
But in the meantime I've got it hard
Second floor living without a yard
It may be years until the day
My dreams will match up with my pay

on the train, again.

I write from the train on a monday morning with the feeling of monotony sitting in my stomach, camped out right next to hunger. Is it age? Innate personality? Is it normal? Sometimes music breaks up the train ride monotony- today, specifically, tales from iron and wine, damien rice, nina simone and their friends ground me to a mentality of the 9-6 (7? 8?) workweek. Often, it is after work activities that add this needed color. Don't get me wrong- work itself is exciting- pleasantly pressure-filled and chock full of opportunity to learn about new things everyday. All of that said, though, it's just not enough. A trip to greece helped... And then skydiving helped...and now an impending trip to chicago (I've never been, please advise) is helping. I suppose I'm just built to wonder "what's next." Believe me, this has got dual implications. I just realized this post may seem like a whine, and I assure you, it's not. Simply an observation- one made every monday morning on the same train, to the same place.