The Crippling Fear of Living.

Life can make some dick moves, man.  You know this.  I know this.  It’s out there in our general consciousness.  There are thousands of trite little sayings about lemons or other bull shit like that.  And sometimes it can sneak up on you.

Today I realized this: I’m kind of pissed off at life for making me so interested in the arts.  There is literally nothing else I want to do more than be creative.  What is THAT about?  Hmm?  Why couldn’t I be passionate about real estate or construction or something remotely practical?  Instead I pick the career where ‘starving’ is most apt to be attached.

Maybe it’s because I just turned 25 and everyone and their dog is having babies and living life and, you know, not skipping along that razor’s edge called poverty for the umpteenth year in a row, but I’ve been getting more and more panicky about life.  People should tell camp fire stories about slowly dwindling bank accounts and student loans that make you weep like a little bitch more often than not because that’s where it’s at.  We used to have this grand fable tradition where we’d teach our kids to not disobey their parents or go out at night else the man-wolf/witch-hag/Crumple-horned Snorkack would surely devour them whole.

We need a new tradition.

Little Red Riding Hood, or the Girl Who Should Have Known Better.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who had the audacity to believe all the drivel the media fed her.  She though she was smart and super special and maybe she was, but not any more than the average human being because, let’s be honest, there are a lot of people out there.

One day, while skipping through the forest of higher education and dreaming of her happy future life full of reading and writing and frolicking and a definite lack of constant bank account crunching, she though it would be a good idea to crawl into bed with strangers because, come on, everyone was doing it.

 “My Fanny Mae, what big teeth interest rates you have.”  

“All the better to completely fuck up your life forever, my dear.”

“Sounds good to me!”

And she never had money, ever again.

The End.


Yeah, That’s about right.

Ok, that was harsh.  But those few weeks before all the bills are due have become terrifying.  I’m waiting for the day when I really won’t make ends meet and the person who always filled in the non-meeting ends went a died on me (Thanks, life.), though obviously I miss him for more than his savior-like abilities.  So, I give in.  I lay on the couch and I shuffle through what I should have done with my life instead of this.  I ignore the fact most of the alternate careers I would be interested in would not help me fair much better (Theoretical Physics anyone?), but somehow, they’re raised up in my mind to mythic heights.  And I text one of my best Friends, Cleo, and we have conversations that go like this:

Me: I’m thinking very seriously about showering before Saturday.

Him: Yes!  Tell me why I’ve gone three days without one.  It’s the bane of my existence.  Too much work.

Me: It’s like a sickness.  I don’t know what my problem is.  It’s like each day rushes by, pointless and fruitless, all blending together, and if I shower it’s just one more way I’m measuring my wasted life.

Him: Oh fuck, we are on the same page.  It’s like you are preparing for something other than a mundane life.  Like today something will happen and I’ll be glad I showered.

Me: And when nothing happens it’s like I’ve wasted energy, time and money.

Him: Oh god.  Who are you?  We’re simpatico right now.

And then I start to feel a little better.  That I’m not the only one who got disillusioned on our path to artistry.    That I’m not alone.  That we’re all a little broken, but maybe if we hold on to each other and press close enough, we can smush everything back together.  So I decide to write a blog about it.  Because I love to write and because writing makes me feel good and because there is literally nothing I’d rather be doing.