Crossroads

I don't even know what I'm doing with my life. I don't know what I want to do. I'm afraid that I'm doing it all wrong. That everything I do is terrible and I'm going to wind up miserable and shitty and pissed off because I'm not good at anything. I got this internship to write for a food blog-paper thing, and I thought I was a good writer but apparently I'm bad at this or just don't know what to do with vague criticism and no direction (this is why I was not a journalism major).

And I hate being here & hate my job, but I have the potential to move to NY and do a higher level of my job and possibly either hate it more or hate it slightly less since I'd be living in a city that I love and making more money to dull the pain.

But I've also possibly got the opportunity to take a similar job for less then I make now (possibly a lot less) in Singapore. Which would be a great and fun experience and when would I ever get to do that again - provided I get this job and pull enough money out of my ass to move to and live in Singapore?

Singapore would be fun & I could travel and have all kinds of experiences and see the world and do things I never imagined and then maybe write about it - or at the very least start a blog about it. And it could open up the door to so many different opportunities & possibilities in the future.

While NY is my eventual "end game" plan, and it's sitting within reach now, do I want to subject myself to the same bullshit, different geography? Or do I take major risk and move halfway around the world with barely any money into something that I might even like or be able to afford to do?

At least the trying to live in Japan thing offered some sense of security, some sense of camaraderie with other people on similar positions; but I don't know anyone in Singapore.

I just don't want to sit around and look back on this whole scenario and wonder if I made a mistake like I already do when I think about moving to Philadelphia. And I don't want to think I missed a chance to do something amazing because I was held back by fear or money. I also don't want money & location to be my motivating factor behind my decision.

...so what do I do? What should I do?

Maybe I should just turn them both down and keep waiting for something better to come along. Maybe just because this is here doesn't mean it's right.

Passing thoughts

Staring at a blank screen, cursor flashing, and my mind is just as blank. I’m not where I want to be. Emotionally, physically, career-wise; I just feel lost and disappointed in myself. Like, you could be better than this, you know? You could be doing so much more than this, be more, write more, and feel more. Everything always just starts to feel forced: the smiles, the writing, the laughter.

I want to like him and then I second guess myself. Am I doing that thing that I do again? The over-analyzing the other person because I’m holding them up to that standard, comparing them to him up there on the pedestal? You can’t do that – I tell myself – they’re not the same; they’ll never be the same. So what if he doesn’t make you laugh? So what if you don’t have butterflies in your stomach when you’re kissing? So what? You’re still having a good time, so – what?

Everyone here makes me feel insecure. Everyone is a better writer than me, established better in their careers, has more connections, more notches on their resume, bylines to show for it. I’m a fucking great writer, aren’t I? Why can’t I do that shit? Why can’t anyone seem to see how great I am? Everyone here is more athletic than me, going to the gym every day, running marathons, being active. Why am I just so lazy about it all? Where is the fire I can light under my ass to get me to really want to get out there and bust my ass for it? I feel like everyone my age it doing more than I am and I can’t just seem to get it together.

I keep telling myself I’ll try more, harder, to be better. But then I just get to a screen and everything goes blank. I don’t want to do anything about it. I am stagnant.

I know I can, I know I can, I know I can. But I can’t.

I’m preoccupied at the thought of the future, of not wanting to be here, of him. 

Emmett. 

Of wanting to be with him; like he is the key to make the rest of these pieces fall into place. If he were with me, I would be happy. And then we could go somewhere and live together and be happy together. He would inspire me and motivate me and encourage me. Because he gets me – he gets what I’m about and what I do and what I want to do, where I want to be – because we’re so much the same.

I read through his blog the other day and cried. The way he writes makes me so envious, it’s so beautiful and poetic. His entries are sporadic just like mine. Sometimes they are epic novels and sometimes they are short stories. Sometimes they make a difference and sometimes they are just random thoughts. I want to write my story with him, write the story of our future together.

I hate everything else I have to say. It all seems so trivial. The world is so much bigger than we all are and why make a mountain out of our anthills of problems?

I hate my novel because I hate that it feels phony; I can’t convey all these thoughts of loss of a loved one since I’ve never really lost someone I loved. I based the idea on my loss of him but he never really went away, and he was never really mine to begin with. That’s why it’s so terrible. That’s why I have an ending that was just a cheater’s way out since I couldn’t figure out how to end it since things were never ended. It doesn’t even make any sense and it’s just cheap filler. It’s like when you eat something that makes you feel terrible and bloated right after but then you’re starving again a few hours later. Or if you ate something expensive or something that you hoped would taste great but was bland and flavorless, and you felt guilty about it, about how you were so excited for it and then hated it but you still had to pretend to like it anyway.

To be honest - I’m worried that’s how our relationship would be. Bland and flavorless, even though we hoped it would be mind-blowing.

The Afterglow

Have you ever known someone and then not talked to or seen them for a while and then, when you do see them again, they just seem... broken?  (I'm talking several months or years, not just days or weeks.) And it just seems like something has changed this person - a serious life event or maybe just the passing of time - to the point where they're just not the same as you remember once knowing them? You're hoping they're going to be the cheerful, hopeful, fun person that you remember and instead, there's just an awkward shell.

I went to Boston a few weeks ago and I saw Jon for the first time in at least 6 years. The last time we saw each other was about a year after we had broken up and we told each other how well the other looked, how great it was to see them and how they were doing. But then... everything changed.

He came inside Erin's apartment and could barely meet my gaze. When we got in the car and we were catching up he just seemed cold, pre-occupied, distant - not because of me, but something deeper. The conversation just didn't seem natural. Something just wasn't right, like a light had been turned off inside him; the flame of the young, bouncy, fun loving boy I knew when I was 19 years old had vanished. Sure people grow up and age and mature but that wasn't it. That wasn't how I knew him. He had never been awkward. He had always been outgoing and able to make friends in seconds and talk on an array of topics with passion and intensity. We had shared two years together filled with adventures and intelligent moments and philosophical pondering, intimacy, giggling, expanding our minds with drugs and research chemicals and loud electronic music. Maybe we weren't friends in the technical sense anymore but we still knew each other... didn't we?

Inside the club we got some drinks and caught up some more, saw old friends and bopped our heads to the music and he didn't dance. It was the first time I'd ever seen him just not immerse himself in the beats, feel the rhythm, see the way it let his body flow and ebb like a river. That had always been my favorite thing to do: watch him dance. He always looked so alive; each bass line controlling him like a marionette. At some point a girl had come up to him and talked to him and when she walked away he told me, "That was my ex.... She ruined my life." I laughed because I could relate.

He told me whenever I was ready to go, he was too, so I said I was ready and we left. We drove around in the late, dark night of Cambridge, looping through supermarket parking lots and idling at red lights. He asked me to come back to his place and cuddle and I obliged (even after he had told me earlier he was dating a really great girl - but they were in an open relationship which apparently he didn't abuse the privilege of). Once inside, he told me the story of his ex and I could see the pain, the emptiness so much clearer now. Could see how broken this girl had made him. He was always the nicest, most non-confrontational person. Everyone loved him and he loved all. He made friends with anyone and everyone. And yet, this girl turned his life upside down in such a malicious manner. I couldn't wrap my head around how anyone could ever do that to someone like him. We climbed up into his loft bed and he put on a wave light. I laid down 6 inches from him on his mattress and then, without warning, he pulled me close into him, sending me back in time.

It's so weird to think that someone who you used to kiss and hug and hold and love and make love with still exists when they're not in your life anymore. Even stranger still, when you reunite with this person and they touch you, it just feels like second nature. You can recall the way this person has stroked you in the past, the softness of their lips, every curve of their body, every scar and birthmark. And yet, he still allows you a bit of modesty to change your pants in his room while he waits outside even though he could probably close his eyes and still remember you naked. We laid in bed together, skin on skin, his arms around me spooning me from behind and suddenly, there it was - he was back. He slipped into this voice that I always remembered him using with me: soft, sweet, childlike. "I'm so glad you stayed", he whispered in my ear as he kissed my shoulders. I playfully bit him on the arm like I used to and he held me tighter, snuggling into my back. That bed became a time machine for the night.

In the morning, we woke up and were back to square one. He let me change in peace and drove me back to Erin's place. We gave a quick hug and waved goodbye and said how nice a time we had had and how it had been so good to see each other once again. I wish I hadn't had to lie. I wish I hadn't had to see him that way - vacant eyes and lost inside. It really pained me to see him so different and broken. But at least for that one moment at night, we were able to relive the past and put our present aside.

When I Grow Up

When you're a kid and Adults ask you what you wanna be when you grow up, it's so easy to have a quick answer: Astronaut, Teacher, Model, Doctor, Lawyer, Basketball Player. But when you finally get to be an Adult, sometimes you find yourself struggling to find the answer to that same question. Now that you're finally "grown up", aren't you supposed to be something already? If you're lucky, you went to College and got a (potentially useful) Bachelor's degree. If you're even luckier, you got a Master's degree too. And if you're like me and you have both, you're trying to figure out what you do with them instead of mounting them on your wall to collect dust.

In Elementary school, I said I wanted to be Veterinarian.

In Middle School, Fashion Designer.

In High School, a Writer.

I always knew I liked to write. My dad encouraged me; He praised stories I showed him and told me I was going to be a great writer one day. (To my Dad, the sun shines out of my ass, so he's gonna love anything I show him.) My mom "encouraged" me by shoving Reader's Digest and other magazine essay contest clip outs at me and told me to submit my work. (Even though she could never pry herself away from the TV long enough to read anything I wrote and/or even give me half-way decent feed back on any of my writing.) I applied to English/Creative Writing programs at 3 schools in Boston. I wasn't interested in going anywhere else and do anything else: I started my senior year dead set on becoming a writer in Boston one day.

Half way through the school year, however, I was taking a Forensic Science course. (And no, I didn't jump on the CSI: bandwagon; CSI: actually just came out that year and my teacher was so excited to be able to incorporate episodes of the show into our lesson plans.) I became really fascinated by Forensics and thought maybe I would like to try and go to College to do all the crime scene investigation stuff too. There were very few colleges offering the program at the time though and my options were between Pace University and John Jay College of Criminal Justice. But since I'd already applied and been accepted to schools in Boston, I'd have to wait it out. I did eventually transfer after 2 years (to John Jay instead of Pace which I am still kind of mad at my parents over) and it turned out, there was just too much science and math involved for me to succeed in it as I had hoped. Science & Math had never been my strong suits. (They say those that are good at Writing and other Liberal Arts disciplines are usually weak in the other 2 areas, and vice versa.)

So it was back to English for me. I had too many credits to transfer to my new/third/final college's Creative Writing program (now even more pissed, Mom and Dad!) so I completed my studies as a Literature major. Great. A Bachelor of Arts in Literature. There's something thats sure to put a roof over my head one day! Well, that degree combined with the amazing internship at my first college's (which I chose because of their superb Co-op education program that was supposed to help people find internships in their fields) Registrar's Office, helped me land a job in..... another Registrar's Office! And that was useful enough to help me get my Masters degree for free. So now I had a Master of Science in... Communication Arts?... which consisted of some Communications, Marketing, PR and Advertising courses - but certainly not enough experience to go out and get a job in any of those fields. I suppose I could have just tried to fake it until I made it, but with the economy in the Shitter and the fact that most Marketing jobs either wanted 5+ years of experience or straight Interns, I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Which brings me to where I am now: Working in my third Registrar's Office, a safety net in an economy where jobs are harder to get than Crocodile Birkin bags, with absolutely no solid plans for my future. I had tossed out all kinds of potential possibilities for myself: Get some kind of marketing job that allows for great advancement and a six figure paycheck, become a Celebrity publicist (Lindsay Lohan, when you get out of jail, call me!), start a blog that's going to make me rich and famous (hint hint!), write a Great American Chick Lit Novel, earn an MA in TESOL and go teach English overseas, go back to school and get a PhD in Social Psychology where I research the behavioral patterns of Boys & Men and one day write a book to help Women figure out the male species once and for all and hence, make lots of money.

What I actually am doing: Sitting in my pajamas on a Monday night writing a blog post about how I don't know what I want to do, where I want to go, who I want to be, or what the fuck I'm doing with my life,.

..........

In the infamous words of Meredith Grey, "We're Adults - When did that happen? And how do we make it stop?"