Birthday Time

Every year I seem to have an awful time on my birthday. Going through numerous existential crises in the midst of coming a year closer to inevitable death has always been a normalcy on my day of birth, however, this year I'm hoping to shoo away all negative, pessimistic thoughts and focus on a more festive, carefree celebration. In high school I remember sitting my grandmother's house, in the den, in the dark, waiting for the traditional "surprise" to happen once I walked into the kitchen. All I could do was wonder why the celebrating was necessary. It was one year where all this attention was on me, but why? What had I accomplished in my meager 17 years to deserve all this crazy attention. Man, I was one angsty teenager, and now I've blossomed into a wonderful, cynical angsty adult.

Happy Birthday to ME.


Word.


I'm out.

"I don't know about my dreams. I don't know about my dreamin anymore."

It's been a while, but I finally have some down time to update this thing. A lot has happened in the last few months what with my lease ending, starting a new job and rearranging my dreams, future... hm, maybe that last part is a bit of a stretch. I have been mulling over different possibilities but a clear cut plan has yet to come into fruition. I have hope though! Hope. What a word. It's been a distant thought for a while. Doubt had such a stronghold on everything in my life and now, well Hope knocked down the door and kicked doubt's ass so everything's cool.

I've moved into a brand new place and it has opened up endless possibilities. Side note- MOVING SUCKS. Ok. Done.
I know you should never depend so much on your environment that you let it dictate what you want and/or who you are, but as I'm writing this it just sounds wrong... also impossible, so maybe my stagnant inclinations were inevitable. Well no more laziness, no more complaining, no more wishing. This summer is going to be an experience, I've already decided. All I have to do is write more. It's so simple yet so insanely hard to do. I was speaking with someone about having a "passion" in the city and how difficult it is to be successful or even work on your "passion" if you don't focus. This conversation is by no means new or surprising, but it is very, very applicable to so many twenty-somethings. Just yesterday I was perusing okcupid (don't judge me) and so many profiles had the phrase "existential crisis" tucked comfortably away in "About Me" or "What I'm Doing With My Life," and it's not hard to see why. Grappling with where you thought you'd be and where you are now is something that can be hard to come to terms with. It helps though, that there are so many people having the same depressing thoughts. Maybe I should join some kind sort of collective. Also probably find some will power somewhere. I could probably get that off e-bay, right?

Let's talk about friends. I've found that in this year and a half I've been here friendship has been one of not the most significant concepts I've had to reconfigure. When we were younger it was so easy to make them. Go up to someone and offer them a pog or a marble, hell a leaf and ask coyly, "Friends?" And the answer would always be yes. Now making friends is a lot like dating. You have to sift through a lot of trash to find that treasure haha oh okc... (don't judge me.) Finding the right friends has an impact and if you have a crazy one, well then lord help you. Having a circle of people around you who genuinely care about your well-being is something that can be really tough to find so if you have those people you should never take them for granted. The beauty of friendship truly rests in each individual you allow into a very private part of your life and yourself. Oh lawd, I'm starting to sound like a self help book again. All I wanted to say is that I am so grateful for everyone in my life and have learned so much through all my relationships and experiences with so many amazing people. This city can easily eat you alive, so it helps to have some people in your corner. A crew if you will. Ha.

It's time to be more consistent again. I wonder how many times I've said that in this thing. A LOT. I know that.


LOVE HIM.



I'm out.

Who Cares? Let's Buy That Thing We Don't Need.

I was talking with a coworker last night about Apathy. It's so weird to witness so many uprisings in the East about failing leadership and/or despotism. Our country has gone through many questionable changes in government and curious- downright outrageous events have surfaced with mild repercussions, facing a terrifying reality. NO ONE CARES. It seems like with the increased use of social media to convey news and entertain we are all losing a very valuable ability to acquire knowledge by reading more than 140 characters and feeling horrifyingly satisfied with that modicum of information. We also seem to be losing our sense of humanity and compassion. More than once I've seen something wildly inappropriate be tweeted about a celebrity, lacking an ounce of decency or tact, and all of this goes unnoticed save me (though I'm sure I can't be the only one). I always feel so self righteous (but also awesome) about responded to weird "twedlines" (I just made that up). For instance, a celebrity died and instead of writing something like "*Celeb name here* dies at *age here*" this fool wrote *Celeb name here* DEAD. With a little extra finesse that headline wouldn't have been so insanely devastating and careless, which is a perfect segue into my most controversial blog post that will ever grace the interwebs.

OSAMA BIN LADEN DEAD. *Commence patriotic bs*

Twitter was blowing up on that fateful day the human embodiment of terrorism died. Fireworks exploded, people were dancing in the streets, it was like a good ol' fashioned New Orleans funeral except everyone was literally celebrating the death of someone. It wasn't one of those parties held in memory of the departed. It was a crazy dance party in celebration of the end of someone's life, wishing them to the deepest depths of hell. I am by no means condoning any of the inexcusable, unspeakably evil things he did, but I am questioning the reality of it all. Though he is dead this does not mean terrorism will cease. All this means was that a figurehead has been taken away from a diabolical group of fanatical maniacs, but they still exist and we probably just pissed them the f&@k off. The causalities of his ceaseless tirade against America will not be brought back to life, their families may feel some relief and find a bit of solace in revenge, but ultimately those people that were lost are still gone. And now Osama's gone and there will probably be some kind of ridiculous retaliation against the US. Death and more death. Killing and more killing. I will never understand how power can be gained by taking lives. I will never fathom war and its important roll in what is means to be patriotic in this country. I will never forget how much I cried when I saw that episode of Intervention about a soldier who returned home completely broken after seeing his superior die, subsequently killing himself and his family slowly with alcohol abuse and severe depression. I will never forgive this government for sending all these young people to face an atrocity unimaginable to privileged upper class America, yet vehemently defended by the same blubbering bigots.
And all Americans seem to be good for is consuming while all of this happens. Instead of getting angry about billions of tax dollars going to a war more than half of the country has no idea is still going on, apathy has settled so snugly into the masses. Blanketing us so gently with its warm, blissful ignorance Apathy squeezes us ever so gently so as to entice Lethargy. In turn, we become empty shells ready to be filled with whatever garbage is deemed necessary to fill us with so we don't see the "big picture." Recently, the death of Bin Laden has been keeping us from wondering why there are starving children on the streets, why food production is so unsanitary and dangerous, why not everyone has equal rights, why education is more of a privilege than a necessity, why rent is so damn high, why our lives are dependent on green paper a metallic round things, why the hell Donald Trump would ever utter a word about anything remotely topical and believe he sounds the least bit intelligent. All of these things we are forgetting in lieu of one person's death. There's still a war going on, there are still people dying in mass genocide, there's still human trafficking, there are still giant corporations exploiting helpless people, the AIDs epidemic is still an EPIDEMIC. Instead of relishing in the death of this guy, how about we start a revolution and change this world for the better. Humanity can't be completely lost. Can it? Where's the love?



I'm out.

Creatively Challenged

I have such talented friends. Painters, Sculptors, Photographers, Editors, Designers, Actors, Musicians, Drag Queens... the list goes on... into tiny micromanaged categories. However, when I think of me and what I do I hardly consider myself an artist or even creative. I've been beating myself up recently for being unable to find enjoyment in anything creative- save writing. This contradiction has not gone overlooked. Writing is creating, I suppose. I don't understand my ambivalent reality at all, and I don't like it and I'm always trying to refute its unstable implications. I rarely draw except when I doodle which I haven't done in months. I don't make things unless that counts putting together a sandwich. My hands are tools I stare at in dismay wondering where in my life they surrendered to a life of banality. I don't own a camera but use Instagram like it's no body's business, but I would hardly call myself a photographer. I've been feeling less enthused with the idea of being called a "writer," for the simple, narcissistic fact that it just doesn't seem cool anymore. When the age of the internet began so did the fall of the writer. Bloggers took over the internet and made actual writers redefine themselves and what it was to be a writer. They are now all unemployed... or working terrible retail jobs... Jk. I have no idea (but probably). Then again, what is a blogger? A writer. As defined in the dictionary a writer is: writ·er/ˈrītər/Noun
1. A person who has written a particular text. In that case there is no difference between a blogger and a writer. Oh, but there is... there has to be or my efforts have all been in vain. Is blogging going to be my life? Should I succumb to the inevitability that sharing my ridiculous thoughts on the internet will eventually be my career. I can't. Oh, but I can. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN? This whole argument is a plethora of insane discrepancies and unfair assumptions.

I used to relish in all types of peoples' indulgences in the internet. I used to take in all the wonderful excitement that buzzed heavily around twitter and facebook, and friendster (is that even real?), and the list goes on. Now, I feel like the internet took something away from me. A solid voice.
In this constantly changing environment with the amount of turn-over in trends and the decreasing attention span of the nation it's terrifying to think of where I'll fit in. If I'll fit in. How I'll fit in.

I'm rambling again. It's becoming a horrible habit.

Apologies.




I'm out.

Interspew

Interviews- N. One of the most devastating realities in our culture, where desperate job seekers are thrown into an incredibly awkward begging process incited by generic questions and assuming holders of their future. I'm not sure if there's anything I dislike more than having to sit in a group of others all outwardly hoping they give the most enticing answers and that you screw up. Group interviews are worse than one on one interviews for numerous reasons, but the one that gets me the most frustrated is the fact that in a setting like that people tend to be a little bit apprehensive to show themselves. It may be out of insecurity or from sheer, incapacitating shyness which I guess can be a result of insecurity. Anyway, that's not always the case for the "quiet interviewer" as I have now dubbed that person we've encountered at least once. The person sitting in the corner, staring around anxiously, praying the hour goes by faster. However, these "quiet interviewers" are not necessarily bad workers or innately timid people. In a group interview, though, it's hard to give them a chance if they don't speak. I know I know that's the whole point I suppose, to weed out the seemingly socially handicapped people in turn for boisterous, borderline obnoxious, enthusiastic applicants. Sigh. Something just seems wrong about that kind of logic. I bet there are hundreds of people being affected by this ridiculous group interview process and there's nothing we can do to stop it. All I can do is write about how unfair and inefficient it is and advise anyone who does happen to be thrown into that horrible situation to SPEAK OUT!
Oh and my internet is working again!
Woot!


Mumford & Sons are my new favorite!

I'm out.

Numb3r5

For most of my adult life I have been encountering alarmingly consistent experiences with numbers. For instance, almost every day since I was in college I have caught the numbers 4:20 on a clock. This has nothing to do however, with my serious marijuana addiction. I'm convinced the reason for seeing this number resides in some strange cosmic destiny that I must fulfill. What destiny? I have no idea! And no, I am not as avid a pot user as one might assume haha, that was a joke. A terrible one at that considering my age and location and the not so secret predeliction writers have for drugs. I'm not saying I'm a writer. Well, maybe a self-proclaimed one. I do enjoy it's visceral pleasantry that graces my being every so often. Sigh. Man, I am TIRED. I'm barely making sense... May as well keep going.

Another number I see often is 42, just on number off of 420. WHAT DOES IS IT ALL MEAN?! In an effort to allay my frustrations and acquire some knowledge I decide to look up the numbers in Wikipedia and see if anything significant popped out at me. NOTHING DID. Minus my surprise by the amount of mathematical jargon in both articles, however, upon further reading about 420 I learned about some interesting gatherings help every year on- you guessed it- April 20th. Apparently 420 is a BIG deal in Boulder, Colorado. I should ask my friend from there about her experiences on the date. Canada and New Zealand also tend to get a little wild for the green holiday and massive amounts of people come together in a haze of smoke and wonder to enjoy collective euphoric moments. It sounds like a blast.

So, in my research I have found absolutely nothing to quell my curiosity or conclude my confounding inquisition. Wonderful. SO with that I will retire to bed and continue to see these numbers without an iota of understanding.

HELP ME.


Ew. It's edited.

I'm out.

Just Do It

Battling for months with this ongoing uneasiness with life and where I want to be and who I want to be and all that existential garbage prone to a paranoid, absurdly self-aware, judgmental being, I have finally concluded that I need to "Just Do It."* Not only does this apply to my career, but to everything in life. For too long I've been scared to just leap into something without knowing exactly what the outcome will be and not fearing it wholeheartedly with the nerves of a tadpole. So in my continuous attempts to better my situation I shall try a different approach. No more excuses, no more talking, no more half-assed attempts, it's game time. I got my helmet on, and I look ridiculous but I don't care. Complaining about things is starting to wear on my nerves, and I'm sure my friends would not be completely opposed to never hearing me say, "I need to get outta there," ever again. Sorry guys. Also, I really need to focus time on creativity. I haven't written anything decent in months... Infuriating writer's block is to blame for this horrid dry spell. However, so is laziness and apathy, two emotions I've been all to found of for the last few weeks. It's so easy to just not care. It's so easy to just let things happen and not focus on goals. Goals. What a scary word. It has so many weird, complex connotations. It means so much, but can also be so fleeting. Anyway, I need to dedicate time to doing something I've grown to love beyond words haha get it... cuz it's writing. Sigh. Clinging to that ounce of passion I know is floating around in me somewhere I've got to get my drive back. I also think I need to get out of the city for a little bit to help me put things in perspective. I feel like with the constant motion of Brooklyn and Manhattan it's definitely easy to loose a little bit of yourself amongst all the flashing lights, all the moody people, all the sounds. I need to go somewhere not so... loud- all that racket- yes, I'm 85.
Well thanks for reading everyone, I really do appreciate you taking the time out to read my narcissistic indulgences.


Story of my life.

***Let it be known I denounce any affiliation with Nike, for obvious political/moral reasons. Damn them for creating such a relevant tag line.***

I'm out.