It's a writing drought. The brain is busy working on transformation, making little time for journaling. I go through periods of life where i just stop writing. Sometimes that is good, sometimes not. When I was with the dick, I stopped writing. Four years of my life without a note to speak of. The other day in the shower I was trying to remember something from that period and I just thought to myself, "Oh, I'll just look that up in my journal...." but then had to slap my the hand of memory with the reminder that there are no words from that time. 1992 to 1996. nada. Actually, that's the longest I have ever gone without journaling.

Then, on Tuesday I was thinking more about my journal and had to actually seek it out. It wasn't laying next to my bed or nestled in my backpack. It was gathering dust on my dresser. The last entry was from the day I found out I was pregnant. Revealing, don't you think? I don't know if these times sans journal are times of absolute happiness or absolute confusion or absolute turmoil. Probably a combination of all three. Note to self: observe this pattern through life. draw conclusion in 50 years.

what do you call me?

lola: internet friends. friends from the AIDS ride. this is what I call myself.

emmalola: less intimate internet friends.

em-ly: my grandparents.

emily: my family and friends.

em: friends, usually people who just make the jump to calling me em without asking my permission first. And lara calls me this too, which I like.

ems: my stepmom and sisters.

E.L.S.: my super secret name for myself. i won't tell you what it stands for.

emoleee: anna calls me this.

time for dinner.

la!