Before I get started, I just have to get real.
It happened and I can’t hide it from you. Nor do I want to be congratulated or pitied. But don’t be surprised if you find me in your local Starbucks, listening to the Smiths and giving the air that I’m better than everyone else. Because you just might.
The plus side is that I can finally get around to commenting on all your blogs again. Truce?
Even though I have a new computer, the last thing I want to do lately is sit at a computer after I get home from sitting at a computer all day. As you can tell, my creative pursuits – and this blog (what blog?) have suffered. But, this morning was Saturday. And it was warm and stormy and that’s my golden hour for writing.
The other day I saw a guy driving on the highway with Washington plates and “NY or BUST” written in the dust of his side panel. When passing him, it was obvious he had crammed every material possession he owned in that vehicle and headed off on what I’m guessing to be the pursuit of some sort of artistic dream. I say artistic not to underestimate the rest of you, but because we’re the only ones stupid enough to pack all our shit in a Ford Fiesta and relocate to one of the most expensive cities in the world in order to share a 400 sq foot, barely livable space with some Goth-ish stranger from Craigslist, while surviving off the $1 menu and care packages from mom because we’re determined to “make it.”
Whatever “making it” means. Half the time, I don’t even think we know what it means and we’re the ones trying to do it. But when we do make it, we’re definitely paying mom back.
As I passed the guy and contemplated how he was going to find room for that giant yellow bouncy ball in that tiny apartment, especially since Goth guy is going to have a crapload of black jeans and chains and stuff, my first thought was, “What an idiot.” Followed by, “Yea, I’d totally do that too if my mom wouldn’t disown me.”
I was a bit jealous in that moment. I almost gave him a thumbs up. But then I realized we’re in America and we don’t acknowledge people we don’t know. I was jealous for a lot of reasons. Because he’s starting over and he has no clue what it’s going to look like. Because he’s got guts that I could only pretend to have. Because he’s got a giant yellow bouncy ball. Because despite everyone telling him he is an idiot, he’d rather live uncomfortably then live with the regret of knowing he never gave it a shot.
I guess this isn’t your usual St. Patrick’s Day post. What’s the template for that anyway? A post about bad decisions and how the green beer didn’t go over so well the next morning? Yea, I suppose. Well, six years ago on St. Patrick’s Day, I woke up to an unseasonably warm day in London and stumbled down the hallway to my friends’ dorm room. We decided that given the weather and the pressing matters of drinking and wearing ridiculous hats, we should probably skip school and head to O’Connors. We also came to a similar conclusion on a lot of days that weren’t unseasonably warm or St. Patrick’s Day. Meh.
Subsequent St. Patrick’s Days just haven’t quite lived up.
I would show you pictures of myself, but I regret that I was too busy being a complete idiot and the only pictures I have of my European excursions were accidental or in front of some sort of monument or landmark. Three words: lame sauce.
That being said, Happy St. Patrick’s Day.
Of course, I have no idea why the guy in the car was actually headed to New York.
But I hope it had something to do with being an idiot.
I have returned to blogging over at Celery and the City where I write about clean eating, healthy living and post allergy and gluten free recipes!
every email correspondence from the past 6 years… it was like discovering the Pompeii of my social life. There they were, all my shennanigans. Pefectly and horrifically preserved.]
Among the many positive benefits that heroin has to offer, my favorite is paranoia. It only took about two days on American soil for Slumdog to decide that our unexplainable chemistry meant that Kenny and I were having a secret, steamy love affair. I laid down the law that Kenny wasn’t going anywhere. Long ago, Kenny and I came to the conclusion that when we finally meet “the one” they will understand our relationship. It seems that since then we’ve both dated quite a few “not-the-ones.” During the three years of hell that followed, Kenny was the only person who knew. He helped me hang on to any small shred of sanity I had left, when he wasn’t pissing me off, of course. We crafted many a sneaky maneuver to carefully hide the addiction from everyone, including friends, neighbors, family, my employees… and the cops. As someone who hadn’t had any experience with drug addicts [so sue me], I didn’t want everyone to judge him on the off chance that he might someday overcome his addiction. Chalk that up to naivete and Nice Midwestern Girl Syndrome – both traits of which I’m glad to be free.
