Oh hai! You thought maybe NaBloPoMo wore the ol’ girl out, eh?

I took a nice little break there, but truth be told? I was thinking of you the whole time.

SO HERE’S WHAT’S HAPPENING:

We’re moving out of The Cockpit.

I know. Only a year in this hotbed of debauchery! We had fun, though, didn’t we? …We had fun.

The Short of It: My beautiful roommate is now unemployed and will either be a) moving back to Evansville at month’s end or b) scoring another job, not in Indianapolis. Before all of this went down, we had been talking about moving, packing up for greener pastures… Yes, “We,” as in, totally co-dependent. Or, “We,” as in, sisterly! Or, “We,” as in, not helping those lesbian rumors.

This just… sort of…expedited things.

If you’re playing The TYK Home Game, this is normally the part where my brain goes, “HOLY SHITBALLS &$%*#&@ ABORT ABORTTTTT.” Because, if we’re moving out? That means I’m temporarily moving into my dad’s apartment on the Northside, and while I ADORE my pops (read: Best Guy Ever — Setting an Impossible Standard for Dudes since 1983!), and he’s only there four days a week, and I’d get really, really good at Beatles Rock Band — it’s just not ideal. (WHAT’S UP, RUN-ON?! WHERE’S MY BOOK DEAL, AGAIN?)

I’m not set on signing another lease because, well, I think it’s time to say goodbye, Indy. I just don’t know exactly how or when yet. There might be an opportunity here to start from scratch in a new city.

A girl does a lot of soul-searching at a time like this. <– Gross.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: This is the Time for Thinking Big. See, ever since college graduation, I’ve ebbed and flowed between these pockets of intoxicating courage and crippling self-doubt. (Exhibit A: This Entire Blog.)  I guess I’m speaking specifically to my abilities as a writer/artist/creative-type/whatever whatever.

(POP QUIZ!! Q: How many months of therapy did it take before I could call myself a writer? A: Three.)

I’m not alone in this, right? This: Months of  “I-was-born-to-do-this!” bravado followed by months of, “Billy-Joel-wrote-Piano-Man-at-24-and-I-blog-about-Conversations-I-Have-in-Line-at-Taco-Bell.”

But I’ve bounced between the two so many times that I’ve arrived at this new place, a place where my inner monologue has turned into some twisted pep-talk, like,

“Jenny, if you don’t find a way to use your words, you’re going to die a slow, agonizing death. Is that what you want? No? Then figure it out already.

You have this voice, and it might not be the best voice,  but someone out there wants it. Surely there must be a use for material on getting shunned at the Indiana primaries or that kid that made you the flower pot.

And if you don’t figure it out, you’re an asshole.

Yours Truly (LITERALLY!),

You.

PS: Remember: Even if you fail miserably, you have a network of adoring friends and family. And a fantastic rack.”