:D

Murphy, the patron saint of petulant pretty boys everywhere, the compulsive rubber of her face into soft kitten bellies, the debilitated drinker of spirits, one in heart and soul with chinese food, believes she writes predominantly about herself and that it really ought to stop.

My God, these folks don't know how to love — that's why they love so easily.
- The Letters of D. H. Lawrence

I never saw a wild thing
Sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.
- Self-Pity (1929)

Murphy of the clods of mud

Anais Nin, her of the floatiness of her femininity sums up the fastest half year that has ever gone by.

"I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing."

And what I find both disturbing and affirmatively reassuring - "Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terror, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them."

Here's to mental stability.

Murphy is ill and her mouth tastes of bile. Which tastes a bit like chocolate. And Murphy is going back to the only place she can be happy, irrespective of her stuffy, stick in the mud, fuddy duddy (?) ideas.
So, basically, besides the bile things are mother effing FINALLY looking up :)

As Nusrat so succinctly put it, mere baad kisko sataaonge?

The one where Murphy tries not to sound morose and is kind of happy in a singing George Michael songs kind of way

There are way too many things I have no control over. My work is a monster with a mind and life of its own. I have no idea which part of the country I'll be in for the next 5 months. The people in my life are all over the place, to the point where I think I'm unclear on how I feel about a lot of them. It's kind of exciting, to be on the cusp of something. What is exasperating is not knowing what you're on the cusp of.
Internet, there has to be a simpler way of laying your soul bare. I've moved on to a place where I think I need new people to find myself through what they perceive to be. The constant motion and the ambivalence has left me a blank slate. Which is the bit where this post starts sounding un-morose. I think this might be the most exciting thing to happen to me in a long time. I can be anybody.
Good job Murphy. You totally don't sound morose but you do sound kind of crazy. But that's partly my point. I can't feel morose anymore because I have nothing to be morose about. This has meant giving up on a lot of things, a lot of history, but dudes, I got tired of carrying that around. Some stories ought to end, right? Particularly ones which aren't giving the leading lady anything to think about late at night when she battles hotel induced insomnia. That is the problem. The Murphy's mind is fantastically vacant and being the large mind it is, the vacancy is rather overwhelming.
Therefore, in conclusion to this rambling hot mess of a post, I'm holding auditions for new people in my life. I'm looking for someone who will give me something to think of for hours after a single text message, people I can use to get to know the world and my spiffy new self a little better. Most importantly I'd like some people who're cool with being around for a while because the constant in and out traffic is kind of getting to me.
Also it would help if you knew the words to Father Figure. All auditions at spitleaf@gmail.com.
Love and tingly vibes.
xox
Murphy