and these mem'ries lose their meaning

I left work to-day and got in my car and listened quietly to music on the ride home. I didn't accelerate aggressively or get upset with other drivers on the road like I usually do. I didn't call anyone to chat or complain to about my day. When I got home, I walked slowly up the three flights of stairs to my apartment, unlocked the door, and dropped my stuff on the floor. Realized I had no full water bottles, refilled them, placed the Brita pitcher back in the fridge. I looked at the full sink of dishes, remembered I should wash them, and walked away. Changed into lounging clothes, dropped my uniform on the floor, and recalled I had planned on doing laundry this whole weekend and still had yet to do so. Walked away. Quietly. Oh so quietly.

Have you ever felt unsatisfied?

I don't mean displeased with the price of gas, frustrated over a lost piece of mail, or peeved by a minor spat with a roommate or friend.

I suppose I should ask, have you ever felt empty?

Don't misunderstand me. I am not depressed. I have a good life, with a loving family, a few close friends and people who care about me a great deal. I work hard at my job, I am recognized for it, and I am proud of that. I don't hate my crooked teeth or my small stature or how I'm forced to wear spectacles to see properly; on the contrary, I appreciate my physical quirks as reflections of my personality. I love my sense of humour and that I have those in my life that also enjoy it.

All that said, to-day I left work and realized how empty I felt. I barely made any money during a shift that usually makes me more than the rest of my week's shifts combined. People in general were impolite and stingy this afternoon. It's another absolutely gorgeous autumn day, unseasonally warm and sunny, and I had to spend the whole day inside, apologizing to tables because a fly landed on their glass and the steak wasn't cooked to their exact specifications and she needs more raspberry tea even though her glass is three-quarters full.

I just want more.

Not more money, although it would help to not have to worry about it obsessively. Not more friends, although I do appreciate that I have made a few new friends at work recently. Not more recognition or prestige or high-fives.

I want MORE. I KNOW I can do more with my life. I'm settling for living in the same town my family's lived in for thirteen years, working as a waitress for $2.13 an hour. I have a bachelor's degree in English, a deep passion for books and the written word, a burning desire to travel and see the world and indulge my gypsy spirit and I am doing NOTHING about it.

I spoke to an old college friend yesterday for the first time in quite awhile. She asked how I was doing, I updated her on my job situation - or lack thereof - and informed her that I had recently decided on my five-year plan. When I told her - in complete and utter seriousness, mind you - that I planned on moving abroad in five years or less, she laughed. I know it's not her fault to think I'm joking around, because I've been joking about moving to England for years, but still. I told my mum the other day that my goal is to move to England, and she just keeps talking about when I move to Chicago. I seriously want to do this, and no one is taking me seriously. The fact that people might honestly think I can't do it is one of the worst feelings in the world. This is my dream. If I had the money to move tomorrow I would pack my suitcase, buy a plane ticket, and leave. I would seriously miss my close friends, my wonderful guy, and my family. But I would go because I know I need to. I really, really don't want to sound proud or conceited or anything when I say this, but I'm meant for so much more than what I'm doing.

I should get started on the evening's tasks. Just so this post isn't quite so dark and somber, I conclude with a visual depiction of yesterday evening's activities:

Hot, essence-of-fall wassail and his dorky grin.


The main event: pumpkin carving! Note how focused I am on my art.


He's pleased because his pumpkin is PERFECT. [No really, it is.]
I'm peeved because mine is choppy and mangled. I'm such an amateur.


O the carnage!


His perfect punkin on the ground, next to the tiny punkin friend I got for 59 well-spent cents.
My YAR! pirate punkin is elevated to illustrate the awesomeness.

Splendid fall evening to you, friends.