so what

Settling into a new place takes forever.

I don't know what happened in the last few months - some kind of personal metamorphosis, again.  It's not as dramatic as past metamorphoses.  This feels more like...glazing, like in ceramics.  Or maybe firing, after the glazing.  2016 was the glazing.  2017 is the firing.  Like some kind of finish is happening, so that I can move forward to do what I've always wanted to do.

Carole told me once that after I left the house she shared with her mother and stepfather after an evening of fun and laughter and ranting with them, Mike looked at her and said of me, "She's going to be a terror when she realizes what she is."

I think I'm starting to realize what I am.

That's manifesting in all kinds of interesting ways at work (I am KILLING IT with my career, holy shit) and in my personal life (I am NOT INTERESTED in bullshit anymore--that latest round of bullshit with the last loser crystallized into a giant NOPE in my brain), which I'll get into at some point, maybe (I'm cagier with spilling all of my guts on the Internet than I used to be).  The salient application at the moment is how I'm approaching settling into the new apartment.

Even at the beginning of the summer, right after the move, I felt all freaked out and stressed with how much work there was to be done, and how meager the reserves I had to draw upon to do it.  But as I recovered from the latest relationship (notice I didn't say that I had to recover from the latest breakup) and started to tackle adjusting to the new position at work, and realized how critically important it is to rest and have some quality of life, I stopped giving a shit about how quickly I'm getting unpacked and organized.  The kitchen is totally organized, and the bathroom; my bedroom is just about there; the living room functions; and the rest is all boxes and piles of awesome junk, and I'm okay with that.  For the first time ever I'm happy, really, deeply, truly happy -- I fucking LOVE my job, I love my city, I love my apartment, I love my life: having more time because of a shorter commute, having evenings to spend at home, cooking on weekends, exercising early on weekday mornings, exploring new TV shows and new books, reveling in my lovely little Simon-eyes, buckling back down to a budget, beginning to write again, feeling like I'm finally starting to make a difference in the world around me -- so what does it matter if there are boxes everywhere?  There's no rush; I'll get there.  It'll all come together in time.

Also I think I'm beginning to worry less about other people liking me.  I'm cool with not coming across as friendly and warm.  I have shit to do.  People who are worth my friendliness and warmth will get it; people who aren't, won't.  I don't have time to play nice, so I'm training myself out of it.  It's taking the people who don't know me as well a little aback, I think; the people who know me better seem to be taking it in stride because this has been me all along.

I like not being pushed around as easily anymore.  And it's all because I stopped giving a shit.  Which is extending to every corner of my life.

And I love it.  I feel unleashed.