Not a hell of a lot.
The job at the diner sucked big time (I know, piss-your-pants shocking, isn't it?). I quit after five or six weeks. Memo to old men: It's not 1954. Fifty cents is no longer an appropriate tip. And your jokes don't get any funnier when you tell them day after day.
I got a new job at a flower shop. It's okay. My expectations are not that high, so I think they might be met.
My doula training workshop was amazing. I'm so freaking excited about this. I'm talking to some other doulas in the area and will start taking clients as soon as I can, possibly even in the next couple of weeks.
My lovah is drawing a lot. He's talented. I'm hoping he'll eventually become the breadwinner and I can have the sugardaddy I've always dreamt of having.
Our neighbors continue to display their penchant for stomping, banging away on their piano (seriously, who thinks it's okay to move into a jury-rigged duplex with a goddamn piano? That they play every singleday?) and singing show tune duets and easy listening classics, and having what sounds to be extremely unsatisfying sex. We have six months left of this.
Oh, and I also made a pillow out of a huge souvenir scarf from Grenada. It's super-tacky.
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