Needles. I are insane...

I have a needle phobia. I think it stems from Novocaine at the doctor's office. Therefore, my shitty teeth are directly responsible for my needle phobia.

Okay. So I have one. What do I do about this phobia? Do I work hard to avoid needles as much as possible? Do I avoid giving blood and getting tests done? Do I fail at sewing?

No.

I learn how to sew. I sew through my fingers at age fifteen. I keep sewing anyway. I take up needle-felting (which often involves stabbing myself repeatedly in the hand when I slip). I embroider. I give blood whenever I can. I become a fucking tattoo artist. I'm soon going to get my ears re-pierced.

In other words, I do everything I can to put myself in close proximity to needles at every opportunity. Well, other than doing drugs or becoming diabetic. Or both. Though, at some point in the future, I will become dependant on a biweekly injection to remain sane and in the shape I want. But that's at least a year out...

Meanwhile, I'm needle-felting a set of dreadlocks for an event tomorrow.

Well, this is it. Am Adult.

I have just attended the last day of my final class of my baccalaureate. On Friday, I go to my last evaluation conference. Next Friday, at one in the afternoon, I Walk. Years and years of constant schooling, and it has culminated in this: A Bachelor's of Art with a focus in Ethnomusicology.

Yesterday, I went out and bought myself a pair of Adult Pants. Charcoal Gray khakis (yeah, I know that's a contradiction in colour theorem. That's what it said on the label.). I got a "reward shirt" that fits the size I want to be. That goal, also, is not an outrageous one.

I fixed my bicycle.

Right now, I am waiting for my phone to charge so I can go to the bank and settle my father's account without missing a possible call from a lady about a house I'm attempting to rent in Olympia. Tonight, after I get home, I'll be cleaning up and packing my stuff. I want to have it all packed up by monday.

Friday, I go to Seattle to take part in a photo-shoot. The next day I go to Renton to talk to a woman about a pair of baby rats.

I can cook a steak, and make carrot slaw, and have the recipe for brownies memorized. I can buy my own tequila, and enjoy it responsibly. I can write a fantastic essay within a month of my father's death. I can, in fact, if not rise out of grief, then work around it and get my research done and not let myself fall into a pity party.

Sitting next to me on the couch are the Washington State driver's manual, a list of trans-competent therapists in Olympia, and an offer for a credit card.

Am Adult.

Am responsible.

Am looking for a job, signing up for temp agencies, and going to be starting blues-dancing every week when I've settled into the hopefully new house. I'm thinking about placing a personal ad for a dance partner.

Am sitting on my crappy dorm couch, terrified and sobbing.

Is there a way to become an adult without losing Happy and Silly?

If there isn't, then goddamnit, I'm going to make there be. Or, you know, not become adult.