gray space is so underrated omgg

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gray space is so underrated omgg
What do landlords and occupants do when they find themselves with out-of-use office space? Grey spaces have become...
Parts of life are like parking spots. Some are reallyyyy shitty and take ages to get to and from, and then there’s the other ones. Ones that are closer to your destination and are pretty sweet. Sometimes there’s also those middle spots where you wish you were closer but are glad that you aren’t farther than the others.
Parenting in the Gray Space
Check out my most recent blog post on https://www.trulyyoursjen.com - Parenting in the Gray Space. And while you are there, you may want to hit subscribe. I'm just saying.
Yesterday, I volunteered some of my time to organize items at the children’s Consignment Sale taking place where I work. The first order of business was to organize the table housing all of the games and puzzles.
As I stacked the games, I was struck by one in particular that I thought my kids would think was hilarious. The name of the game? Poopyhead. The tag line? The game where No 2 always…
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Message of The Lobster is how society isn't gratifying living in the binary system?
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there.
Jelaluddin Rumi
I Worked
November 18th, a FRIDAY.
If I worked now, curled limb and mind over the office computer, I could earn myself some significant hours tomorrow to work instead on personal stuff. Like looming application deadlines.
Left the house in bruised spirits. Dropped the yellow plastic bag bulging with rotted persimmon & ossified rice into the food bucket, dusted my hands to relieve them of imaginary rot particles, faced the street and discovered a small stall-on-wheels I'd never before sighted in my neighborhood.
It was a vendor with fresh fish-shaped pastries, of course. Why this should feel so dreamlike and ridiculous, I don't know. Out of place, clear of time. Felt like I was the only person in the world, wading through gray space. I neared it in my brisk late-to-work walk and thrust out a thousand-note. The ajumma offered to vary up my ensemble of three fish by swapping one red-bean filling for a custard one ("raw cream," so that I might examine the taste of "this & that").
And nothing. Narratives vaporize. What next? Something about crusty tails. Again I am here. Stupid lassitude. Parts of my timeline meld into virginal stupefaction. I am unable to find myself, to go deeper than shapes. Trying to write my personal statement is nauseating. I am so desensitized, I can't even mourn.