Workity, work

I am so exhausted from working the past two weeks. I've been falling asleep at 9.

I definitely need to start working out more and eating better.

Resolutions:

As the new year comes upon us, I find myself becoming more and more creatively stuck. Well, no more. I recently picked up The Artists' Way, which gives me a series of exercises to do each morning and also one weekly duty. It's a 12 week course to help me break through my creative block. I know it's one small step, but I hope it gets me back on the right path to being positive about who I am as an artist (drawer, writer, photographer, whatever). I'm constantly surrounded by negativity and I'd like to start converting it into positive affirmations.

Here are some goals for the new year, in no particular order:

1. ) Work out more. Ideally I would like to weigh around 165-170. It would be about a 10 or 15 lb increase from where I'm at now. I'd like to do it for a variety of reasons. I definitely put running and weight lifting into this category.

2. ) Create the foundations or a series of pages for a graphic novel. The way graphic novels are taking off in this era is really inspiring. I'd love to try my hand at creating a unique base of characters and learning the techniques of drawing comic art. If applicable, I'd like to get the framework for a potential tattoo done as well.

3. ) Start a novel and write 100 pages or more by the end of the year. I have an idea floating around in my head that I want to flesh out.

4. ) Start a band for jam sessions. I've been pursuing all these different instruments, but I think I will thrive the most in an environment where I can learn from other artists. I'm hoping to set in stone a weekly practice session where I can sing, drum, or learn a little more on the guitar.

5. ) Take the three courses at MadCapz and audition for a potential spot in the improv group. I've been talking about this for a while but I really intend to fit it into my schedule next year.

6. ) Try out for musical theatre at the Arvada Center. With all my newfound singing knowledge, maybe I can couple it with acting and do something with it.

7. ) Record a voice demo. Voice acting, radio, or something along those lines (maybe even cartoon voice work) would be amazing to have as a career.

8. ) Stand up? There has to be somewhere I can go bomb as a standup comedian and see what it feels like to be in front of a crowd, all alone on stage, trying to make people laugh.

9. ) See my sister. Whether she comes out here or I go out there, I'd love to see her. It's been something like 9 years now. I still need to send her a birthday present, it's like three months over due. I'm terrible about mailing things.

Hmm. I think that's a decent list so far. Maybe I'll add more.

Chances, changes

I met a lady the other day named Susan Wolff. She was well-dressed and lonely. I only noticed that because she was sitting alone at my bar and seemed to ask me plenty of questions, even as I was attempting to walk away. We eventually started talking about things off the menu: a book she was writing, the fact she was 47 and the mother of twins, her constant travel (she recently moved to Colorado from Spain), and that her sister is married to Jeff Bridges (Big Lebowski; the bald, bad guy in Iron Man). She spoke very softly, elegantly even, but something about her was off. She would pause in the middle of a sentence, while elaborating on a family story, or one of her travels, taking a moment to reconnect her mind with the path her mouth started on. All the while her eyes seemed to be vacant, staring past me into something I could not see.

We briefly talked about how she was married to a billionaire who divorced her and left her barely anything. Apparently she wrote a book who she gave to Jeff Bridges to review. It is called "All I Wanted Was a Haircut." I don't know if any of this is true. I don't know who this woman is, other than what she told me on that brief encounter. I sort of chuckle at myself thinking back on how I felt knowing someone had a connection to a movie star. How could I verify the truth of her story? I had no reason not to believe her. She left me a $20 tip on $44, even after debating with herself on how much money she wanted to spend on dinner that night. I smirked when she complained that she had no man to buy her a meal.

For a moment, when this woman was telling me about her life, I felt like I had stepped into a new world of possibilities. I have been entering work lately feeling very confined behind the rails of my bar. Her stories of travel and of writing made me feel warm. It made me feel lost.

Jagerbomb

Getting into music this late in life is tricky. I'm meeting people who have been in band forever which means they are at least a decade ahead of me musically. It is a little discouraging, especially when you meet arrogant musicians. I'm pushing along though. I'd like to think I could be a lead singer someday with more practice, of course. The hard part is finding a good group of musicians to jam with but I might have found a few. I have a really close family friend who excels at guitar playing and I am sure with a little pressure he'd be down. I know a few drummers. I met a bassist the other day who is a friend of another guitar player. Also, if my roommate's boyfriend ever stops drinking long enough he could potentially play some guitar. If I had it my way, I'd be playing rhythm guitar or piano and singing. I have my work ahead of me that's for certain.

On the same note, I have been browsing iTunes again lately for single songs that interest me. I picked up a few, but the one I really enjoy right now is Willie Nelson's rendition of Unchained Melody. He has an amazing voice. I picture his voice working in the same fashion as a well-used, aged acoustic guitar; the way fresh strings belt out melodies against worn wood. If you get a chance, pick it up, or just preview it. My friend Nick gave me the new Kings of Leon CD and it's really great. In This Moment has been another favorite of mine lately. Otherwise, I've just been listening to bands I come across on Rock Band, oddly enough, which has been a great exposure for a variety of bands I'm sure. I was discussing this with another co-worker the other day, eventually bands will probably have to pay to reserve spots on these rock video games. It's great advertising.

It occurred to me last saturday around 2:15 p.m. that I am a dickhead sometimes. My roommate(s) and I pile trash bags on the porch for a day or two, sometimes longer if we are lazy, and a little squirrel comes to eat it. The last time he broke the bag open he ate some Old Chicago leftovers and the wind blew the box down my stairs. I literally stepped over it several times for a couple of days until my roommate picked it up. What the hell was that all about? I'm a big dick. I don't even know what happened there but something misfired in my brain.

On Wednesday both my ex's decided to drop in, at separate times, to the 'deaux. I got the night off otherwise I would've seen them both, but instead I came in later to meet Lisa on her last night in town. She headed off to return to teaching in Egypt and I headed to TimeOut to see my drunken 'deaux friends. I actually went because I really enjoy a particular girl was going but she is such a dirty girl. She confesses to me that she had twins when she was fifteen after the first time she had sex. She then gets married to her husband, pops out three more kids, and they live in (bliss?) for fourteen years until he cheats on her with her mother! That's one fucked up story I tell you. She also confesses that she has two sugar daddies who buy her everything. They come into the 'deaux and tip her hundreds of dollars and buy her whatever she wants, including a boob job for her upcoming birthday.

She is hilarious. She happens to be real close friends with another co-worker, April, who came over to my house once, with her husband, Mike, in a raging ball of Jagermeister fury. Apparently the night they dropped in they downed a decent sized bottle of Jager, hit the road, downed another at my place on top of various beers and glasses of wine. Long story short Mike pulls out his ass to moon his wife, we start talking about hairy asses, so she bends over and shows me hers, in front of her husband -- as you can imagine everything is out at this point. She then exposes her boobs nonchalantly while her husband tunes my guitar. They end up fighting with each other, breaking a chair, and then end up speeding off at like 3 in the morning. They have something like 3 or 4 kids as well. It has been revealed to me that the former girl (not April, who will remain nameless in this blog) was a stripper in Vegas briefly making thousands a night and used to have orgies with April who she met through the service industry. The non-April lady ended up leaving Vegas after scoring two DUI's in back-to-back nights.

She explained the second arrest to me. The cops pulled her over for obvious swerving. She stops the car, fails to put it in park, tosses a cigarette out the passenger window and begins to crawl out of the driver's seat to go get it for fear of a littering ticket. The car starts to move forward, rear ends one of the two cop cars present, and she stumbles out of the passenger side. "What the hell are you doing?!" the cops shout at her. She looks up at them and hurls everywhere. What a damn mess, no pun intended.

Clenched fist

Sometimes I wonder if I just walked away from everything if that would solve my creative hold up. Sometimes I wonder if I started smoking weed more if it would help me get out of my own way. I am my own worst critic. I never re-open any document I've ever written for fear that I will look back on it and think it's absolute trash. I passed along all my essays to other people to browse over when I was in school. It's like I am embarrassed at my own attempts to be creative. I feel like my writing is worthless. I knew my essays and research papers were because they were always thrown together last minute. My other interests are more rewarding when I reach a goal. If I draw something or someone, I will immediately know if it is going well. Even as I write all this, I know there is something deeper.

I have been stuck in this condo for about five years now. I met with a realtor today who is trying to help me stay updated on the market. Right now most of the condos in my area are foreclosing and going back on the market, bank-owned, for about $100,000. I owe $121,000. Needless to say there isn't anything I can do right now but be patient. My best option is to hire a property manager and move out. The problem there is, I can't quite rent this place out for my entire mortgage ($946/mo + $160/mo home owner's assurance fees). That's $1,100 I owe a month and chances are I won't be able to rent it for much more than $850. I'd still have to pay about $250 out of my own pocket, on top of whatever rent I will have. Sometimes I wonder if it's worth taking the 'leap of faith,' so to speak, of moving on a whim just to experience something else.

I'm afraid if I don't do it now, I never will. I get anxious whenever I think about my creative rut. I've had this problem all year. I used to write all the time in my teens. I used to draw all the time with ease. Now nothing. Everything is forced except when I am drawing to impress someone at work or writing to update my blog. I feel like I have to have an audience for everything; some immediate gratification for whatever creative work I put out. I'm not entirely sure I can fix that addiction.

My bi-weekly, sometimes monthly visits to my grandmother's makes me always feel more depressed about my rut. The moment I step onto her porch and ring her busted doorbell I feel it. She lets me in, as she always does, with a happy greeting and then it starts to creep in. My mind wraps itself around her barred windows. Security measures my grandfather took to protect themselves in their constantly changing neighborhood. Her rusted brown hair shows signs of aging, stray bangs float in the afternoon light like cobwebs, perhaps an external reflection of a fading memory and a tired spirit. The thought of my dead father and my dead grandfather still haunt me whenever she goes quiet. Is she thinking about them? As I sit in her kitchen, I can't help but wonder if this is where all Hildreth men go to die. The only one who didn't pass away in this place was my grandfather's father, but I found his obituary the other day. He died at 41. My grandfather passed at 64. My dad passed at 49. These things dwell on my mind passing through the sewers of depression in my brain. Fuck. I can't break it.

I stare with angst now at my grandmother. I grow irritated of her same old stories. The ones she told me the two weeks or a month prior. I want to yell at her to get the hell out of her asylum. "Come out to lunch with me grandmother," I've begged. Secretly I worry inside my heart that she isn't capable of being in public anymore. Maybe she'll have trouble using the restroom, or she will fall, or she might embarrass herself somehow. I can't get her to remove herself from her own quiet, depressing life locked away in her home of 40 years.

I can't get out of my head that I don't follow the same path. Everyone is different. I'm not like the men who passed before me. I can break their record of failed attempts at creative success. I just don't know if I can do this here, in Colorado. I don't know if I can do it in this damned condo. I know I certainly can't do it with the help of anyone else. I've learned that several times over in relationships. I have to do this on my own.

Eulogy

What do you say to a good friend who is drinking himself to death? I feel like I should write an eulogy and he isn't even close to dead. It is such a stubborn task to find a quest, a purpose, in the golden swill that is a 'High Energy 40' and a 750 ml bottle of Seagrams 7, especially at 10 in the morning. I know the feeling I get when I have a beer or a cocktail in the middle of the afternoon--maybe it's football Sunday, maybe I just graduated college--and I'm passed out by 5 p.m., ready to have at it again at 10 the same night. There are occasions, I'll admit, where drinking myself stupid is permissible, if not made enjoyable by my peers. I would never do this alone.

Somewhere in the abysmal pit that is my temporary roommate's darkness is a small glow of hope. Very small. So small, it might be lost in the piles of clothes and empty bottles that litter my former room's floor. The same place where I entered my own darkness, unrelated to alcohol, but connected through the same thread of anxiety that my friend harbors.

Let me catch you up.

Kit is my friend from the days of hanging out with Outback kids. Prior to that, I met him through his cousin, Sean, who is still one of my closest friends. As Sean entered married life shortly after I entered single freedom, I relied on Kit to keep me into the party scene where I could expand my acquaintances. It worked out for a few years. I met a few girls I eventually had one-night stands with, perhaps even a weekly fling or two. I met a handful of friends I still talk to even six years after, including my current roommate, Christine, who brought Kit with her when moving in.

I knew immediately accepting her bid to take over my second bedroom that I was trading a set of roommates with bad habits for another. The first week I thought nothing of how bad their drinking addiction had become. I ignored it, mostly. I shut myself up in my newly acquired master bedroom surrounded by plenty of fresh hobbies. Next door, though, a monster lingers - a monster I feel partly responsible for. You see, Christine has been providing money, alcohol, food and transportation for Kit--from what I can tell--for the last twelve months. She enables him. I provide a shelter for it. My responsibility for my own friend's demise is tied to this series of events.

What does a good friend do? I've always respected Kit. He was always a man's man, but charming nonetheless in his own right. His quick wit, love for guitar, and video games gives us enough in common to hang out and converse or interact for hours. Besides that, he is just a good friend. Now I sit ten feet from his bloated liver sleeping in the next room; a piss-drunk boy crashing after one final sip of his forty only to rise and continue the quest, skipping a beat to drunkenly dream of anything else. One good friend--shit, is it me?--has to have the ability to wake him from his world of ruin. To blow on his dimming ember of hope to keep him alive. Fuck, his mother is as messed up as he is. His extended family wants to get involved, but where are his brothers? His father? Have they left their poor brother and son, their service industry and college dropout, to suffer this terrible fate of alcoholism? Maybe somewhere someone feels that he deserves this, but I bet it's painful to bear in their heart, and only half as hard on their liver.

East of Eden

Monday was fun. I've been becoming better friends with a girl at work and we hung out the entire day practically. It's nice to just make quality friends with women while being single, rather than assuming every interaction has to be a hook-up. I think that comes with just being more comfortable with my alone time.

We went down to have sushi in Boulder because I sold her on tempura ice cream. She has a sweet-tooth that is unrivaled by anyone, well, except for me, perhaps. I love Sushi Tora and that was the intended destination, but for some reason their sign says "Gone Fishing" on Mondays. So we had to scoot over to sushi Zanmai off Pearl. I typically like that place, but they were a little sloppy that night. All of the fish on the sashimi platter had lemons surrounding it and looked sort of dingy, except for the tuna which was delicious. The fish tasted fine but it was over-powered by the flavor of lemon. It was her first encounter with sashimi, so I was hoping it was less safe than it was. She told me her favorite was octopus, and well, that's alright in my book. I also didn't really care for avocado randomly appearing in two of our spicy tuna rolls. It's like they were half committed to the preparation of the roll. Desert was great though: cookie-dough ice cream, wrapped in pound cake, flash tempura fried, over fresh fruit. Mmm. I love sushi.

No stop in Boulder is complete, for me, unless I can hit up the Boulder Book Store and buy a book I'll never read. This time though, I'm going to stick through it. My friend and I made a pact to read fifty pages a week (depending on how much time we have) and discuss chapters on Sundays when we work together. If we can get through a book we might make an official book club. Haha. We are reading East of Eden by John Steinbeck. I remember you were reading this Staci, did you finish it? I have never read anything by Steinbeck so I am excited. I am dually excited to have someone to keep me motivated in reading it since my addiction to electronic simulations has devoured my attention span.

After we picked up our books we went to Amante for coffee, which closed at 7 due to new winter hours. It was well past eight at this point so we headed over to the Med for cappucinos and ANOTHER dessert. Oh man. I was fully-loaded on sugar by the time I got home.

I had a great time though. It's nice hanging out from 2:00 on. It allows me to have a little time to myself late at night.

yawwwn.

Ugh. I feel like a leper. My underarm is rotting off from some stupid rash related to dry skin and deodorant, and my leg has a huge swollen hump from a spider bite. There are also random bites around my stomach area as well. It's nice to know I'm a tasty treat, but it sucks to have all these gross spots around my body.

Anyway, I've had a lot on my plate lately. Ever since Rachel and I split in July I've been trying to relax my anxious tendencies with prozac and psychological help. My insurance ran out in August after I graduated, unfortunately. So I decided to use the natural form of stress relief by filling my life with things that I am passionate about. I've always been interested in writing and drawing, but those are only temporary releases I cannot put to much use right now. Instead I'm tapping into my once shelved music passions. I love karaoke so much that I've decided to start working with a vocal coach who I met at my bar. She is a former Westminster High choir teacher who is actually a really classy and beautiful lady with a great voice. I've been seeing her for a half hour, once a week, for about fifteen weeks. On top of that, I dusted off my old electric guitar to take lessons bi-weekly with another lady I met at 92nd. What's funny is all of these things have been trumped by my love for drumming (which I'm not entirely sure if this came first in my life as a kid, or if piano did). I bought a five piece floor-kit with a four-piece Zildjan cymbal set. Right now I'm taking lessons bi-weekly on these as well. I have the real Rock Band going on at my house, prompted by my love for the fake version on xbox. It's really keeping my brain active and my spirits up. My love for music has taken me all over iTunes in search of new bands and new styles of music. I'm really digging metalcore bands, including bands with strong female vocals.

That's just a little recap on the last month or two in my music world.

I'm really excited to be alone for once. I've been in three long-term relationships; one four year and two one-and-a-half years. I can't say exactly what I've learned from each one entirely, but I do know that I've gained confidence with women. After Rachel and I broke up I had a streak of women in my life, and nothing was really too far-fetched for me to pursue. I think it's because of my confidence coupled with my newfound happiness in music. I've always known that confidence and happiness are the keys. Lisa reminded me that if I embody what I want to find in someone else, that I will. It's good advice, since for the longest time I've surrounded myself with things that hold me back from who I am. It's great to just love all the things I am.

Tomorrow I'm going to flesh out some more stuff to catch this blog up. I just wanted to get something up before I went to bed tonight.

Some things I really like right now:

Pink Floyd
Maria Brink (lead singer of In This Moment)
Rock Band
Sober sex in the afternoon

Some things I'm not really a fan of lately:

People who text me "?" and nothing else. How can you ask a question without any words?
The effects of alcohol on most people.
The effect of Chad on new female servers.
People who make a plan and don't follow through.
Blood blisters from drumming.
The scariness of STDs.

Something silly:

A black girl that I work with was walking through the kitchen of Pappadeaux yesterday and exclaimed,
"Man, it would be weird to be allergic to paprika."

I couldn't help myself.
"I think it would be weird to be African-American," I said.

I don't really know how this begins, since the tale to this point is so incomplete.

I have checked myself in again for mental therapy. It has been three years since my last visit to a mental therapist, and when things seemed to really be getting somewhere, my sessions expired. I am allowed 16 sessions per school year and I used all of them up seeing a therapist who was actually an intern. I only touched on the surface of my mental problems during these visits. Now, even in the preliminary stages of my new visits I have come to some realizations about myself.

One realization is: I'm going to have to let go of my past, and in doing so, must let go of the past of others. I have to forgive the childhood provided to me by my parents, my grandparents, and others who influenced who I am. I need to accept that I am a smart person with misplaced motivation and ambition. I need to rein in these driving factors and figure my path out in this world--my contribution, if you will--before I lose my chance. To do this I must forgive my past and work on focusing on the present. I have to put one foot forward and learn how to walk again. I'm tired of being able to stand up and balance myself but unable to figure out how to walk from my starting point to my destination.

There was a point in my life where I had a semblance of who I was, at least who I wanted to be projected in this fantasy image of myself. I touched on this person earlier in my writings. His name is Draven. In a way, he was the projection of my grandfathers, the ideal form of my father, and more importantly, who I wanted to be. He was as close to a male role model in my life as any of the actual male's in reality were and then exceeded those expectations. I was able to encounter confrontation without worry, and conclude things about romantic interludes that I am unable to recreate outside of his realm. Draven was a gentleman; a chivalrous man with ambition and drive. He knew how to say all the right things to melt the hearts of women, and to inspire his own military force to draw steel and risk their lives. He was everything I wanted to be; he is everything I still want to be.

Outside of this fantasy realm I created for myself, I feel like I am unable to channel the person I was writing about. It's like I am hollow and there Draven sits, atop his throne in a fantasy world, an empty shell as I cast him aside in my mind and writing. The only thing I can do is give him life, and fail to know how to possess my own body to be active, engaging, and a part of the reality in front of me.

Who is this ideal man? I can barely picture him. His picture is blurry because I don't know the end of the story. I don't know his purpose, I can't determine his age. His image is a myriad of young and old, handsome and torn, driven and lost, and all of these visible identities twist in my head. I remember when I created Draven, I had a sense of purpose. I knew I needed a strong, young and able warrior to combat the evil of the realm. As he grew into his skin, he created his own organization, retook his throne, and found a new purpose. He was a leader, an inspiration, a husband, and a father adding to his already established titles based on the outcome of war. Then he lost his purpose. I sent Draven on a hiatus from his rule, he went incognito and travelled to the mountains in the eastern region of his realm. He sought a continuation of his own story, and offline, I was searching for a purpose of my own. I struggled through high school as a funny, at times annoying, boy who hardly had any idea of who he was. I could not relate any of this online world to the people in front of me because it made no sense to anyone living in normal social circumstances.

I was alone again. Draven was alone. He wandered the hills in search of identity when I needed it most in my own life. No more the romantic, chivalrous warrior-king, he was a lost soul, graying and dying slowly in search of his fleeting purpose. Is this the path of the story of my own life, or is this a projection of the goals I feel are so far away that I cannot reach them? Why can't I be the romantic "man" that I've written about a majority of my youth? I knew how to be that person. I can still remember the details of being this person in explicit detail.

Did this alternate reality perverse my ability to focus on the present? I've spent too much time trying to find out what makes me who I am rather than living the life right in front of me. I've been told several times that I am a "bystander" in my own life, watching things unfold around me and I feel completely out of control. Some days I am too nervous to take hold of the things I want to do, too afraid of confrontation and hurt feelings that I step aside of my true goal and appease the other person. When does that end? How can I take charge? I don't want to have to escape from my own life with fantasy visions.

Environmentalism.

In my Media/Culture/Environment class there is an interesting mix of kids. There are three groups: 1) Journalism majors, 2) Environmental Studies majors, and 3) other majors (i.e. creative writing, psychology). What I find entertaining about this class is its exploration of relevant environmental issues. What's funny about the mix of people is that the person who brings up the most relevant ideas and who is the most intelligent speaker is an eccentric creative writing student. He wears a mix of tight blue jeans and baggy sweatshirts that compliment his skinny frame the way the a sleeping bag complimented Alex's 80 lb. body in Into the Wild. Besides his awkward fashion, he sports traditional wide-brimmed glasses, sits with at least one foot on the edge of his desk chair, and is constantly messing with his thin, oily brown hair. The sun has never seen this kid, neither has facial soap. Yet, through this wild look is a boy who makes a lot of sense on global issues. This further illustrates the understanding I've come to this last week. I've been extremely hard on individuals at work, specific people who I formulate an impression on based on initial conversations and looks. Part of me feels that I need to lighten up, be nice to everyone, find their true value in the world and let it be. Then another side of me wants to pick on every flaw they expose - and nothing is safe, including ethnicity and gender.

Yes, about my class. My first impression of my class was that we'd have a ton of pot-smoking Boulderites literally coming out of the wood work to yell about legal marijuana and Global Warming. What I found instead was a class with a variety of opinions on the World, but like the rest of the world at this level, pretty powerless in the grand scheme of things. My particular observation on environmental issues and media coverage of them is fairly simple. There is a large problem for sure, because media giants do not find an outlet to profit from environmental coverage unless they can slap a big, pretty face on it. Therefore much of the media's coverage misses the general public while it attacks big companies or the larger issues like power plants, giant vehicles - but what does it cover about the pollution caused by war? Anyway, aside from all those obvious things, the media does not speak to the lower level of society in a manner that is engaging enough for them to be active about their daily habits, let alone their community. If the media would put less emphasis on the bigger picture maybe people would feel like they have the power to make a difference.

Perhaps if there wasn't an oligopoly controlling the major media networks across the world - people in a country where we have yet to make any global pact to conserve energy or resources. If at the very least our president doesn't care, why should the president of profitable media networks care enough to change their patterns? I hope we pick a better role model in these elections, someone who takes action against environmental issues and hopefully they learned a couple of lessons from Nixon's administration's efforts to take pride in nature, while it's still here.

So, to catch up. Rachel's birthday was on the 31st of December. For Christmas I got her a spa, manicure, massage package at a spa close to her home, where her mother also has a gift card. When she decides to use the package with her mother, I hope to be able to put my credit card at a local Italian restaurant so she can have a day of female bonding with one of the people she loves the most. For her birthday I got her some jewelry. She recently bought herself a couple of inexpensive rings, I made a mental note of the style and the stone, and then bought her a ring from Jared's to upgrade her purchase. She had no idea, which was fun, but I had one surprise left. Earlier in the week I made a reservation for 20 at Maggiano's downtown, but she was under the impression it was just a quiet date for the both of us. Needless to say she was surprised when we showed up and her family, including 12 more of her friends were present. It was a successful week of surprises and presents for her. She thanked me a ton, said she was too spoiled, and gave me lots of hugs and kisses.

Ever since we had a long talk, about four weeks ago or so, our relationship has felt entirely different. Even Rachel agrees. We both seem to be more conscious of the other and willing to work on what we need to make the relationship amazing. I'm very happy.