I cannot tell you how many times I have heard the phrase “You should write a book!”
I just…I can’t just…you don’t under…*sigh.*
People who don’t write just don’t seem to understand how freaking difficult writing can be sometimes. You know, as much as I enjoy it, writing is not that easy. If anyone ever tells you it is, they are lying. Yes, some days the words flow easier, the stories swirling in your brain are a bit clearer, but this is the exception, not the rule.
Even now, I am struggling to find the words to explain how difficult and frustrating writing can be. Sometimes the words you want to say just refuse to come, and when they finally do, they are often far inferior to the words you need to express how you truly feel.
Plus, I just suck at the whole creative writing thing. I tried that whole scene in college, and it was a disaster. Some people are blessed with the creativity and imagination to pull new worlds and characters out of thin air. I am not one of those people. So, I think I can pretty much nix the idea of writing a book.
Despite this, I really do love writing. It actually wasn’t until recently that I discovered just how much I love it. It’s not just a desire. It’s a need.
Sometimes I feel like I’m going to burst, my fingers tingling and itching to get out the words stuck in my head and my soul. Sometimes I don’t even have anything to say, or what I do have to say is just complete nonsense. In those moments, I just know I need to write. Which is actually kind of how I feel right now, writing this. I was just sitting at my desk, trying to get through the last few hours of the day, and suddenly I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to write. So, here I am.
That’s honestly one of the main reasons I decided to create this blog. I didn’t have any specific plans, I wasn’t hoping to make a career out of it, and I certainly didn’t think that the world was in desperate need of my small-town, naive, uncalled-for bouts of wisdom. I was just in desperate need of an outlet. I needed a reason to write. And someone to write for. I can’t write for myself. I can be very critical.
The more I think about this, the more I write, the more sure I am that this is what I want to be doing. What I’m supposed to be doing. I’ve never been sure about what I wanted to do when I “grew up.” I’ve so many ideas of what I could be, just an endless stream of desires coming and going. Growing up, I thought I might become an archaeologist or a police officer. Maybe a fashion designer or a baker. Now that I’m here, though, I think I can pretty confidently say that I want to spend my life working with words. It may not always be easy, it may end up being an incredibly frustrating and unfruitful path, but I think I would regret not going for it.
So, wish me good luck. Cause there’s like a 70% chance that it’s not going to work out.
I’ve planned a lot of parties in my day. A lot. Okay, maybe not a lot, but I’ve planned a few. At least 5. And, for the most part, they turned out pretty well. So, when I started planning my friends surprise party I was like “I got this! No big deal!” Time and place? Check. Food and drink? Check. Decorations? Check. Then, I got to the entertainment portion of party planning. That’s when I started to panic.
What do normal people my age do for fun? I mean, besides drinking and going clubbing and all those sorts of shenanigans. Cause that kind of stuff was not in my list options. No thank you. Although, I do actually rather like red wine. Don’t tell my mom.
That’s also when I learned a few things about myself: 1) I actually quite like party planning. It’s fun, and it feeds the OCD gene in me. 2) I’m a simple soul. 3) I know nothing about my generation.
If someone were to plan a party for me, I would be cool with just having a movie or game night. All I need is some good food, some good friends, and some Just Dance or Apples to Apples. But, as my friend and party planning partner pointed out so kindly: I’m not normal, and normal people my age apparently don’t do that sort of stuff at parties. C’mon? What’s not to like?
So, as is probably clear now, I was completely out of my element when trying to think up how entertain the crowd of strangers that had been invited to the party. I tried. I really did. Let me just tell you this: the commercials lie. People apparently aren’t content to just hang out and talk and enjoy each other’s company, with food provided, of course. At least, people in my generation aren’t. Or, maybe it’s just people in this town. Maybe there weren’t enough people. Maybe I just suck at throwing parties. But, I doubt it.
Anyways, time went by, party plans were finalized, and the big night arrived.
Did I eventually find out the secret to throwing a good party for young adults?
No. No, I did not.
My social awkwardness strikes again. I’m not a very good young adult. Or, regular adult.
Nevertheless, the party actually turned okay in the end. I mean, the whole point was to celebrate a good friend, right? She enjoyed it, and that’s all that matters. But, I think it’s safe to say that I can definitely cross “Party Planner” off my list of possible career options.
Oh, 2017. I just can’t seem to make myself feel sad that you’re gone.
In general, 2017 was pretty crappy. It brought a lot of let downs and disappointments, some strained personal relationships, and a few nights crying alone in my room. I reached my peak of poor physical health, my iPod got stolen out of my car, and one of my sisters moved away.
However, I can’t say that last year was all bad. I now have a new adorably puffy-cheeked niece. I was able to afford a big, comfy bed, as well a shiny new used car named Charlie. I finally conquered my fears by driving long distance on the interstate (Yes, I’m a loser). I got my first tattoo. I took some good pictures. I found a new show, read some new books, and bought some new songs. I also received a sloth doll for Christmas. His name is Noel.
Plus, I can now say that I survived an entire year in the grown-up world.
Yep. It’s official. My first year as an out of college semi-official adult is over, and I don’t quite know how to feel about that.
It’s hard for me to believe that I’ve actually been out of college for a year. Just think about it. It’s been a entire year since I last had to write a paper or study for a test. A year since my last lecture and my last badly misguided all-nighter. All throughout high school, I couldn’t wait to just get the whole school thing done and over with. I thought I would never get out, but here I am. It’s weird. Yet, very freeing. And, also, slightly terrifying as I’m still a complete novice at this whole adult thing.
Those first few months of freedom were pretty great. No school. No waking up early. I could stay in pajamas all day if I wanted to. The downsides of being jobless, however, soon caught up with me. It kind of sucked not having any money. No money equals no fun. That was a hard lesson to learn. Adulthood seemed a lot cooler when I was a kid.
The constant nagging from my mother to get a job also helped to pretty thoroughly destroy any of that post-college, pre-real world giddiness.
My first job offer caused a lot of relief, terror, nervousness, hope, and sadness all at the same time. It kind of made me dizzy. On the upside: Yay! A job! On the downside: Mediocre pay and boring work. However, I accepted it, telling myself that this first job was just going to be temporary. It was a way to make some money while searching for a job that I might actually enjoy, and one that I could actually support myself on (Yes, I still live with my parents. Don’t judge.) But, here I still am. 8 months later.
It’s not for lack of trying. These last few months have been spent applying for job after job after job and receiving denial after denial after denial. I may finally know where I want to be, but I can’t seem to find the road to get there. It’s disheartening. Still, I hope. Hope is hard to kill, my friends. It’s a wonderful curse.
Anyways, I’m just glad that 2017 is over.
If pure force of will can affect how this new year goes, then I can go ahead and tell you right now that it’s going to be amazing.
You hear that strange rumbling noise? That’s the sound of my determination.
Bring it on, 2018.
The anniversary of my day of birth is almost upon us. That’s right. I’m going to be the not-actually-that-big 23. Prepare yourselves.
Normally, I’d be very excited. Most years, I start counting down the days from the moment my half-birthday ends. Not this year. I have no hurrah in me. Life is stressing me out too much for that. *cue John Mayer’s “Gravity”*
Anyways, for the past couple of weeks, ever since she realized it was my birthday month, my mother has been pestering me about what I want. The one time a year my parents are willing to shower me with presents, and I can think of nothing. When I was little, I would literally type out of full list of things I wanted, organized by level of desire.
It’s not that I don’t want anything. My Amazon wish lists would very much prove otherwise. However, the things that I really want aren’t exactly things you can find online (well, most of them anyways.) In comparison to them, the stack of books, movies, and various knick knacks I would usually ask for seem insignificant. I mean, I can hardly hand over a list that looks like this: financial stability; a new job; a nice apartment; a boyfriend; tickets to Greece for a two month vacation…
You see my problem?
Getting older is not as much fun as it used to be. At least there’ll be cheesecake.
P.S. I know that I am actually very fortunate. I’m not completely selfish. Most of the above is just for show. You know. For the Drama.
(Third week of May.)
I’m in a slump. A rut. The pause button of my life has been pressed.
Never before have I understood stood “living for the weekend” better than I do at this point in my life. I’ve been working at my new full-time job for three weeks now, and with every passing day I feel more like a ghost of myself. When work finally ends, and I’m allowed to go home, all I really have the energy and desire to do is to take a nice warm bath, eat a yummy dinner, and go to bed. It’s actually quite pathetic, and I am happy to admit it. Acceptance is the first step to recovery, after all. I miss the days when I could stay up till 2:00 in the morning, and wake up for my 8:00 class unfazed. Nowadays, I’m in bed by 10:30, and just waking up in the morning feels like a great accomplishment.
Part of me, a very large part, is terrified that I’m going to let myself get stuck in this shadow of a life, and before I know it, I’ll be thirty, living alone, spending my days watching Matlock reruns on TV and eating microwave dinners before going to bed at 9:30 precisely. I spent my teenage years dreaming and yearning for the future days when I would be an independent adult with time and money to spare. I imagined myself going on adventure after adventure, having grand nights out with my friends, never having to sacrifice a social life for work. Now that I am an adult, I honestly don’t know how to handle myself. The child in me still wants all of those naïve daydreams, but reality is a cruel manager.
Until I can get a grip on this strange thing called adulthood, I’ll just have to follow the advice of my good pal Charlie Brown. I shall only dread one day at a time.
(Written sometime this spring.)
Interviews are the worst. Seriously. Questions like “Why do you want this job?” Ummm, last time I checked, money is pretty essential to survival these days. Unless, you know of a community garden filled with money trees, cause that would work too.
Wait. No. Something’s wrong. Let’s backtrack this.
Yes. Okay. Mmhmm. Yep.
Job hunting in general is the worst. Awful. Frustrating. Punch you in the throat horrible. If you have yet to experience this awfulness, let me just tell you now: it is coming for you, and it will murder all of your hopes and dreams. If you came here looking for some hope and encouragement during your own battle of joblessness and penny pinching misery, you came to the wrong place. There is no hope here. Save yourselves!
Job hunting is a cruel and vicious process, a lesson that reality has forced upon me over these last few months. It’s a roller coaster of emotions. You apply for a job. Hope awakens in that little space in your stomach where butterflies sometimes like to visit. Weeks go by. Tensions rise. That fateful phone call finally comes. You have an interview! Days of preparation. Nerves awakening from their slumber. Tensions and hope swirling, rising simultaneously, like a personal solar eclipse, causing your newly awakened nerves to fly about in confusion like drunk dragons. You nail the interview. (You hope.) Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. The fear and self-doubt begin to set in. Then, finally, another phone call. This is it! You got the job!
“Thank you for applying, but we’ve decided to hire someone else. Good luck with your life!”
Your hopes are crushed. All is doomed.
And then the process repeats for the ten other jobs you applied for.
Like I said: job hunting is the worst.
After a sudden and panic-prolonging change in schedule, I can finally say with relief that I made it through my interview. Or did I?
I have a really bad habit of losing my self-control when I’m in a nerve-wracking situation. I sort of go into robot mode. My words just seem to flow out without any forethought, and that can lead to some really awkward sentences with no endings. Ugh. Those are the moments that keep me up at night.
I’m trying really hard to have the “what’s done is done” attitude, but it’s not working out so great.
I can’t help but turn over every word that was spoken, wishing I could go back and change things. I wish I had prepared better in advance. I wish I hadn’t said “um” so many times. I wish I spoken slower. I wish I had chugged a huge glass of water before leaving the house. WHY DID I SAY THAT!?
Ah, well. There’s nothing to be done about it now.
This past week, my stomach has become a breeding ground for evil butterflies and my brain one for traitorous thoughts of self-doubt and insecurity.
The reason for this outbreak in horribleness comes from the interview that is looming in front of me. It’s my first interview for an official adult-type job. You could say I’m pretty terrified. I’ve always been horrible at interviews. Just the whole idea of being judged freaks me out. I’m also really bad at talking myself up. Also, first impressions. They do say that first impressions are very important, which just freaks me out even more.
Since I received the fateful phone call last Tuesday, I have spent my days meticulously planning the perfect interview outfit and Googling example interview questions online. My nights have been spent restlessly tossing and turning while alternately letting myself hope and telling myself to shut up. That little time between was spent painting my nails, very horribly unfortunately.
Now, here I am, sitting in my room binge watching The Office on Netflix because I’m too wired to fall asleep. I have my outfit picked out, a store of advice from my familial confidantes, and a very loud alarm set on my phone so I don’t accidentally sleep through my interview. Less than 10 hours to go.