originally written February 3, 2010
Is it too early to start talking about how I miss my youth? I miss the days of thinking that anything was possible. Everyone talks about how advanced our society has become, and how technology is so great. I disagree. We’re all jaded. We’ve seen everything and are shocked by nothing.
Picasso is quoted as saying “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.” I couldn’t agree more. There was a point where I did what I wanted without ever thinking twice about what someone else might say about it, without ever hesitating. Somehow I’ve lost every bit of confidence and self-worth I had as a child. I’ve ceased to finish anything I start because I fail to see the point. Our world is so over-populated and competitive that one can’t help but think, “How is anything I do ever going to make an impact or difference.” It’s impossible to remove these preconceived notions that have been instilled in us by others. J.D. Salinger passed away last week, and I’ve been thinking a lot about him and I think he had the right idea. Notoriety destroys credibility. Well, I don’t think he would ever say that, but his reclusive ways are becoming more and more appealing to me everyday. But no one would know that about him, or care, if he hadn’t had his Warholian 15 minutes of fame.
I’ve done nothing noteworthy. I have no plan for my future and I’m beginning to think there is no reason to try to come up with one. All these lofty dreams I had even just 5 years ago all seem so unattainable now. I spend so much time trying to figure out where I went wrong, what made me transform from the outgoing, overachieving person I used to be to the reclusive, pessimistic, self-deprecating person I am now. Logically I know there is no reason that I can’t still turn things around, but there’s this illogical part of my brain that seems to think I’m so far gone that it would be impossible to catch back up.
I have so many interests in so many things but I always seem to feel like I’m not good enough at any of them. I guess the best way to word it, is to say that I constantly feel like everyone else knows something that I don’t. And this feeling has been mentally destroying me for years now. If you happen to know this secret to life, please enlighten me…
6-19-2011
Why do I feel proud of the fact that I enjoy going to movies alone? I just went and saw a generic romantic comedy that will remain nameless and when I walked out of the theater and watched guys wait for their girlfriends or whoever to come out of the bathroom, a small part of me wanted to pat myself on the back for being there alone. I was honestly proud of myself. Why??? Isn’t it these kind of movies that instill the need to ‘be with someone’ in our minds in the first place? We grow up watching Disney movies, not just watching… our parents and society actually encourage these kinds of things. It’s no wonder we grow up with unrealistic expectations and seem to think being alone is abnormal. It’s not! I’m fucking twenty-two years old. I don’t even know what I want out of life. I don’t know where I want to be living in 3 months. I don’t know what kind of job I want to look for. I can hardly commit to having a cat, because even that ties me down in a way that prevents me from driving across the country if I wake up and have such a whim. So why, pray tell, do I feel defective for not wanting a man in my life?
Sure, it is comforting to know that someone wants you. In some ways it validates you (I’m speaking personality-wise of course because that’s what matters, isn’t it? HA) But it still comes back to the fact that somewhere along the line we decided we needed someone else in our lives to share with and approve of our ideas and accomplishments. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not by any means saying that my ideas about any of this are healthy. For all I know, I only feel this way because I’ve never actually been in a healthy relationship or “in love” so I in no way understand what you people seem to find so beneficial in this concept. But seriously, we constantly watch 2-hour stories where people meet, fall in love and live happily ever after (in one-hundred and twenty fucking minutes!). And we’re comforted by it. We cry. We empathize. But they’re not real. I don’t think anyone ever intended to traumatize us by putting in a Disney VHS while they cooked dinner, but let’s face it, we’ve got unreal expectations. It’s almost like there are two kinds of people (how original of a thought, I know) the ones who ‘believe’ in love and the ones who denounce the concept altogether and fulfill their bodily needs in meaningless ways. I exist somewhere in between (OMG, there are shades of gray?!) I do not believe that at my age I am going to find someone that will be compatible with the person I will eventually become, but I do believe in nurturing friendships and relationships that display potential and I am no good at even pretending I can have a one night stand and not harbor feelings (call me old-fashioned, but sex means something… I just don’t happen to know what that something is).
I denounce movies as instilling unhealthy ideals, yet I will gladly waste away the day with a nineteenth century novel. There is no need to point out the hypocrisy of any part of my life to me, I am well aware of them (my favorite word happens to be ambiguous). I think I justify this avid novel-reading in two ways, one is that most of the ‘great love stories’ were written in ‘a different time’, and we can’t even begin to understand their morals and social protocols, so they exist in a world that is overtly fictional and therefore easy to escape into. Also, it takes a lot more time to read a novel than it does to watch a cheesy romantic comedy. Literature actually builds its characters, they begin to have lives of their own and you actually can empathize with them, unlike the celebrities who portray some fictional character that will only ever be known as a ‘role’ played by insert-name-here.
Where does this leave me? Living in a Jane Austen novel instead of waiting for my Prince Charming or real life insert-prolific-romantic-comedy-actor-here? I don’t know, and that is kind of the point. My mind is still very undeveloped and it deserves to develop independent from someone else’s ideas and tastes. Reading for hours in solitude might not exactly be healthy, but I think in the long run it is a much better alternative to becoming half of a whole when I am not even a whole half when standing alone. So pile on the Austen, the Bronte, the Shakespeare and the Tolstoy, at least I’ll be well-versed enough to know a good thing when it comes along, and until then I will consume the classics while cuddling my cat and slowly turning into the person I will one day become.
originally written December 31, 2010
Two bottles of $4 champagne and I tell myself that this new year will be different. In reality, it will probably be exactly the same but I can at least avoid the crappy tradition of ringing it in with a drunken crowd of idiots that I don’t really like, who will spend the night making out with the people I’ve heard them all say they can’t stand, because they’re afraid of what it might mean if they don’t. Afraid of what it means to be alone. I may be at home, drinking alone, but at least I’m not lying to myself or anyone else. I accept the fact that I’m alone, it beats the shit out of feigning smiles while I try to remember why I went through the effort of getting ready in the first place.
