i hope you aren't a sociopath

I constantly "write" in my thoughts throughout the day. Expounding on what I think are witty or meaningful observations until I almost miss my train stop, forget what I was actually trying to do, or offend someone. Offending someone happens pretty regularly. 

Even with all of that thought-writing I never quite know what I'm going to write when I sit down to eke my 500 words out. I know it isn't insurmountable, but I care about doing it the right way. I want to be entertaining, meaningful, and 65% light, 35% dark/"real". Reading everyone else's posts makes me think that I'm not alone in this. 

Unfortunately I'm an asshole a lot of the time, so the light/dark ratio tends to get flipped-turned upside down. One of my good friends is amazing at spinning negative stories into funny anecdotes, and I very much admire her for it. My stories start off with the hope for a funny-awkward ending, but they tend to just get sad-awkward. 

Speaking of sad-awkward, let's talking about my dating life! (See what I did there?) (Oh by the way, imagine an early 90s game show host is reading everything from "Speaking of..." on! Super fun right!)

Contestent number 1: Met this guy on OkCupid, working on his Ph.D. at Northwestern, lots of hope going into the gate. (He's Tall! ooOOOoo) It's a warm August night, I'm waiting outside of the brew pub where we're meeting for drinks when I notice a tall, pale chap wearing bubble gum pink from head to knee cap (shorts) carrying a purple tote bag. I think to myself "There's no way he's my date! My date said he's fashionable!" and am immediately proven wrong. On the plus side, I learned that night that just because the plan is to meet for drinks doesn't mean the other party won't order dinner, there are men in the world who think wearing all pink is fashionable, and that his baby momma is a bitch but they're working on co-parenting effectively. 

Contestant number 2: We met on Tinder before I officially moved to Chicago. Chatted for a week via text. And by "chatted for a week via text" I mean "he sent me some graphic but well-worded sexts and no dick pics." I came back to Chicago as soon as possible (hey, a girl's got needs...) and met him for lunch. He's a chef (truly) and apparently that means you get a discount everywhere. Industry people take care of each other. He tells me all about his half-Arabic upbringing in rural Kentucky. All about his mother and brothers. Where he's traveled and worked in the world. He's a talkative bugger. We go back to his place (please don't be a murderer, please don't be a murderer (if Law & Order SVU and the Ted Bundy's of the world have taught me anything it's that sometimes you just can't tell.)) He has clean sheets, we hook up, it's fine, I go home and then the near constant requests for booty calls begin. I wasn't surprised by the first few requests - that totally makes sense. I was surprised when he kept contacting me after I knew he had a girlfriend...to join both of them...or maybe just him. I'm not into that but he thought it'd be worthwhile to double-check. Nothing ventured nothing gained, I guess? 

Contestant number 3: He never showed. Saved me time and I was able to go straight back home and put PJs on. 

I could go on and on. I'm on both OkCupid and Tinder sporadically, and the stories are worth the odd evening or seven to keep it up. 

The text conversations are even more fascinating. There are some guys out there who clearly don't want to ever meet, just flirt a bit and it's usually fun and light. Occasionally these guys will surprise you by saying "hey I'm bi, wanna see a video of the giant cock I went down on last weekend?" and then send you a video of him giving another guy head (I thought he was lying...) Sometimes they'll just randomly send dick pics whether you're talking about such things or not. My favorite is when dick pics just pop up while I'm hanging out with my mother...or my grandmother...or at a baseball game with my sister and she's looking at my phone. At least the baseball game dick pic was interesting, he was wearing a tuxedo jacket and used a whole light kit. Gotta appreciate the dedication, right? ...right? 

a week to pray and drink

My work day started with a candlelit prayer service and ended with dick pics and "fuck" spitting out of actors' mouths like a machine gun. It's Institute Week, bitches!

As I've previously mentioned I work for a private Catholic school, if you aren't Catholic (I'm not) you might be surprised to know that they tend to pray then drink, then pray again. I'm the only one surprised? Ok. I'm going to backtrack a bit. 

**Star Wars warp speed thingy that looks like stars are zooming past in streaks**

I originally got my job through a temp agency for creative types, aka, where dreams go to die. I wanted to get a job in Chicago that'd pay (most) of my bills and get me closer to advertising. The agency called me with a job at a Catholic school. I wasn't in a position to let my low-grade fear of Catholicism interfere with getting the fuck out of Michigan, so I said yes to the interview. 

I was late that day, and ran up the school's giant front staircase in oxford heels and a suit only to find out my interview was in the "house" next door. The "house" is a mansion that was built in 1906, but you're not allowed to call it the mansion because that's off-putting and too pretentious for a $20,000 a year school. Number one rule of being around money: don't talk about the money (well, talk about money, but only about how the Anderson's went from being on the Gold donor list for the annual fund and are now only Silver, and apparently the business isn't going so well because they only participated in the silent auction at the gala this year. I mean Margie didn't even touch her paddle during the live auction, only sat there talking to the Goldmans and throwing back chardonnay like it's Tuesday night book club. Also, she hasn't been volunteering in Charles' classroom as much this year, I heard she's working part-time, do you think it's true?!) 

We don't talk about the money because we're here for all the little children. We talk about money because it's for the children.

Within a month of starting the gig I started calling myself "prep school paparazzo" because of the number of times each week I have to shove cameras in kids' faces. And not just any kids - it's my job to find the "diverse" kids, preferably the ones who are cute and obviously "diverse". But not too many because that'd piss off the loudest donors. They want to see their kids, too. Make it 30% obviously "diverse" and 70% not "diverse". 

It's pretty fucking gross. I'm told on a regular basis that I don't get enough photos showcasing "diversity" and I don't care. I'm sick of calling people of color "diverse" in this situation because it feels like exploiting children and the powers-that-be try to sugarcoat it by saying "diverse". Like these children are ponies in a 4H competition. 

The heart and mission of the place are good - being in communications makes me see it all from different angles. The reason behind wanting to have more photos with children of color is to make everyone feel like they can apply to the school and not be excluded. It's a decent thought that is poorly executed. Especially since less than 45% of applicants are accepted and between kindergarten and eighth grade the students of color continuously decreases. I wonder why.

the lions' den

I'm not entirely sure when weird became normal, but it has been for some time now. Maybe even forever. I hate writing about negative shit, that's all I can come up with for topics though. I don't want to be too heavy, too dark, too negative. I keep finding out (re-realizing?) that my definition of "light fodder" isn't most people's, and then I worry because I get frustrated with my mom for doing the same thing. I love her, she has some great traits, but I don't want to carry her social ineptitude. Maybe it's the curse of the burdened and melodramatic.

Meh, it's on my mind (probably because of Kirk's post) so here we go.

I started learning how to fight because I was scared. Some of it was to work out, and holy fuck is it a good work out, but mostly I was scared. My fear tends to manifest as anger, and the only way to get it out is to beat it. Either by running, or pulling on a line, or kicking a bag. If my muscles don't contract repeatedly in forceful succession it takes forever to calm down. Yelling works, too.

It's cathartic to be exhausted and spar. To throw out a roundhouse, and have it connect just to take an axe kick to the dome. And to just get pissed off again. Just keep going until it's all out of you, when there's barely enough energy to get into the car and drive home. It's calming to embrace one's emotions in such a primitive, animalistic manner.

Now that I'm older I find myself flexing different muscles, breathing in a borderline hyperventilating way, or literally biting my tongue to chill out in situations where it isn't socially acceptable to literally run from the room. Boss yells at you for forgetting something inconsequential? Don't run, bite your tongue!

I used to put myself in the lion's den when I was afraid of something. I love men, but I'm also afraid of them. Men tend to inhabit fighting spaces. I wanted to be tough like them, so I wouldn't be scared of them. Walking to your car alone? Don't worry, you've fought with dudes (pay zero attention to the fact that those dudes were going easy on you because you're a chick.) Guys are making really inappropriate comments to you? Stick it out and prove that you're the cool girl. It's like I believed that assimilating would protect me.

I don't go into the lions' den anymore. If my instincts say something is wrong, I get out as soon as possible. No ifs, ands or buts.

I'm not quite sure where I'm going with this thought, but I'm here anyway, biting my tongue.

Just so anyone who might be reading this knows, I have a seriously wonderful group of kind, real, goofy, and loving guys who I am lucky to call my dearest friends, some I round up to family (or actually are family).

Good night.

where we're going we don't need titles

I've spent most of my day alone in bed. If I felt more comfortable in my apartment or around my roommates I probably would have ventured out, but I don't so I didn't.

When I first came to check out this apartment it was one of 10 viewings and at least 50 emails in an attempt to find a place in Chicago. I was desperate. Like, didn't pay attention to the dirty dishes in the sink or ask any pertinent questions. I didn't even care that one of the roommates has three cats or that the room I'd be moving into is tiny and without a closet. I just needed out of my sister's place for the sake of our friendship. We're better off not living together.

When I'm home I spend most of my time sitting in bed. This is where I sleep, read, watch Hulu/Netflix, write, and eat. I don't eat at the dining room table because shortly after moving in I noticed the room reeked of cat pee, I then noticed the litter box in the corner. Definitely not going to eat there. I barely cook because the cats walk all over the counters and tabletops, and that kind of thing grosses me out. I found out 5 or 6 months after moving in that they were feral.

So I stay in my room, where I'm comfortable.

I haven't had an unscheduled day in what feels like months, and today felt simultaneously decadent and shameful. Putting on a bra to go sit on the porch was the most productive thing I did. At one point I napped just because my eyelids felt heavy. I watched two movies and three episodes of Pretty Little Liars on Netflix, and I'm boring myself writing this.

I'm really good at living in small places. I find places for everything, and it makes me want to purge my belongings. I hate having things that are of no use to me, but I also hate throwing things away. I'd rather give them away. I bought new towels two months ago and haven't gotten rid of the old ones yet (no one person needs seven towels) because I wanted to find a decent animal shelter to give them to. There is a pile of old clothes and shoes under an end table waiting to be given away. I think I know where those will go but being lazy is beating out the precious floor space they're taking up.

I have a fair amount of artwork/chatchis that many people might find pointless or useless, but they amuse me and therefore have value. There's the print of Abe Lincoln riding a T-Rex; a faux scrimshaw with The Brunswick on one side and Admiral Howe on the other; a model of America, the ship that won the first America's Cup; a photograph of a baby monkey running. That's just what I decided to keep in my room, there's more in our storage area.

I'm really looking forward to moving out, but I hate moving and I know I won't be able to afford the area or place I'd like to live in. Getting to my friends takes forever now and I'll need to move farther north. I before I moved here I always joked about how ridiculous it is that people don't like to travel outside of their neighborhoods much especially since public transit is so easy. It is easy, but it takes forever. I'd rather use that time doing more important things, like sit on my bed for twelve hours watching Netflix and napping.

proper fucked by an asshole

I'm just going to start writing and see what happens.

I much prefer saying "y'all" instead of "you guys" or whatever else people might say. I also eschew "pop" in favor of a more palatable "soda". I have a tendency to dislike 75% of the things that identify me as "Someone Who Was Raised In Michigan," to the point where I intentionally and systematically altered my vernacular in college. Some of it goes beyond feeling superior to my old stomping grounds, I hate "pop" because who wants to drink an onomatopoeia? Not me.

I'm far too old to be pushing away my roots. Part of me accepts it, another part of me remembers how  uncomfortable I felt there. Like I was constantly in Ms. Trunchbull's nail-filled locker. Although that wasn't something I fully realized until the first time I went back - and I didn't move that far away! I was so excited to see friends, hang out before Thanksgiving, and almost everything felt off. People were behaving in really odd ways. It felt immature, short-sighted, and boring. And that gave me a sad. Pow! Right in the feels. I don't know why I wrote it like that, but I'm going to keep it.

I regularly talk shit about one of my coworkers because he tends to use flowery language unnecessarily, and while I love words, and learning more of this language, I like to keep things simple. I just read over what I've written so far and realized that I sound a bit like a pretentious asshole. I'm kind of a pretentious asshole though, or at least I come across like one more often than I'd like. The word "pretentious" bothers me because I'm not pretending to be something or someone I'm not. I'm fine with people thinking I'm an asshole from time to time, we all take our turns.

Speaking of assholes, two fucked me (and five other people) over today. For those of you not in the know (and if there are other sailors in this group, please raise your hand) when you fly a spinnaker (the really big colorful sail) it needs to be done just right. Most things on sailboats need to be done just right, thus "ship-shape" and also a major reason why I love it. Well, something happened when we were doing a maneuver with the spinnaker and it twisted on itself multiple times. This is politely known as an "hourglass" but I was taught that it's called an asshole. No one wants an asshole. Assholes slow you down, make you drop out of races, and in certain situations, cost a shit ton of money.

We had two races today and an asshole each time. We had to withdraw from one race because it was so bad (sail in the water, lost a lot of time) and we finished in last place because of the other. My friend was in another regatta, saw us from afar (it's easy to spot a giant, colorful sail in a knot) and commented to his crew about how we were proper fucked. We were beyond proper fucked, we were dead in the water.

My friends tell me that this kind of stuff happens, everyone has bad days, everyone has been proper fucked by an asshole, but I'm still kinda bitter about it.

la vie de jésus

One of my roommates is screaming into FaceTime right now. Not a pissed off scream, a "I'm so excited" scream, and while I appreciate her enthusiasm for this conversation I'm so close to asking her to pipe the fuck down. But I won't, because she has a tendency to be vindictive.

Today was the 8th grade graduation ceremony at the small Catholic school I work for. I didn't have an 8th grade graduation ceremony. I don't know if many people who grew up in the 'burbs and went to public school did. Everything was just a series of moving to the next building until you became an adult.

This school is pretty liberal considering the whole Catholic thing and it has a pretty unique culture.  (I won't say much more than that because this is tied to my name and it's really not that hard to find everything about someone.)  So everyone who works there has to go to graduation, and we all pre-game it. Not necessarily together, but we split off into our little packs to get just buzzed enough to sit through the whole thing.

I appreciate that this is a moment in these kids' lives, but I have a hard time celebrating something that is expected of you. It feels like getting paid to unload the dishwasher - you do it because it needs to be done, not for a pat on the back. If you don't finish middle school you've really fucked up. Your parents have fucked up. Hell, society fucked up.

There's a fair amount of pomp & circumstance and tradition wrapped into the ceremony. The girls wear all white. Somehow all 39 of them found different knee length dresses that are also age appropriate. I kept waiting for a repeat outfit but it never came. Most of them are pretty close and I have a feeling they coordinated appropriately.

The boys on the other hand wear their school uniforms. Which is kinda bullshit. What if they want to dress up? Hell, some of those girls would have been much more comfortable in their school uniforms.  The gender differences were made very apparent (gender is actually a very big deal at this place) beyond just clothing. The girls all cried. The boys were carelessly stoic. All of the girls sang the class song at the end, holding hands, crying, and became this one amorphous humanoid blob. Most of the boys (glee club boys were expected to sing) sat and rolled their eyes.

I have a hard time believing that the guys didn't care as much as the girls, or that the girls cared as much as they acted. They've all been in school together since they were five. That's a long time, that's a lot of intimacy. I've witnessed it as an outsider for over a year, and it's my job to write about, photograph, and film their lives. They're super tight, and they're not as close. This place is a fascinating little sociological and psychological study. But the Board of Trustees would never allow that.

yesterday & today

I normally think about a lot more than I have the past few days, and while my work ethic has improved, I miss being all over the place. Kinda.

I don't know if ADD is something that needs to be "fixed". I like my weirdo connections, but not the inability to remember things or actually listen when people are talking. I just wish I could balance it all better. Getting yelled at all the time isn't much fun though.

The meds have kinda fucked with my sleep. I've been able to (thank god, I know some people who can't) but my dreams feel incredibly realistic and real. This morning I woke up and had to remind myself that I didn't yell at and hit a coworker for interrupting me repeatedly. He's a notorious interrupter/mansplainer so the thought process isn't that ridiculous, but my dreams aren't typically like that. I'm the type of person who always knows I'm dreaming. At least when I wake up, and this one took a chunk of the morning to work out of my brain.

I don't like how focused I've been on work. I'd rather focus on this group, sailing, working on my own stuff. But it's 9:51 pm and I need to write a quick paragraph about a teacher who is leaving the school. Hu-fucking-zah.

Now would be a good time to work on setting intentions. That's what it's called, right? Positive outlook creates what you want, self-fulfilling prophecies and all of that. So here's what I want in my life in no particular order:

My own place. I lived alone before moving to Chicago and really, really miss it. I thrive when I'm able to really get away from other people for a period of time. Actually, I thrive around people, too. I just really need a balance. You don't get that balance when you have roommates. I feel stuck in my room a lot. I would feel better if I lived alone.

A steady job that allows me to pay all of my bills and have a bit leftover for fun and savings. I think this is self-explanatory because most people want this. My job right now is steady, but the pay isn't great (it's across the organization). I get to be kind of creative so that makes up for it, but not being properly compensated is a bit of a kick to the lady bits. I'd also like more room to grow. I want to learn more, especially about the programs I use, because I feel like then I'll actually be able to create the things I see in my head. I'd really like to see them, but I'm not quite sure how to get there. I also believe that the more you know the more confident you are, I need this.

More physical strength. I'm not weak, but I'm not as strong as I'd like to be. Come to think of it, I'd like to work on mental strength as well. It'd help with the physical. I find myself getting caught in patterns where I really want something but it takes me forever to muster the gumption to actually do it. And then I roll around in self-hate for a bit when I opt to sit instead. 'Tis a cycle I'd like to break.

I'd like to be in a relationship. I first typed "I wouldn't mind being in a relationship" because it felt pathetic and needy to actually put what I want out into the ether, but what's the point in setting intentions if they aren't honest? Also, why is that pathetic? I don't need a relationship. I'd like one. The right one. I don't believe in soul mates, I think it sounds lovely on a very base level, but improbable both mathematically, emotionally, mentally, and for a lot of people, physically. I've been single for awhile and have enjoyed it. I've worked on myself a lot and think I'm in good working order. Or at least better than before. I'm not going to rush it, and in the meantime I'm stocking up plenty of terrible/funny/weird first date anecdotes.

I want to sail as a regular member of an experienced crew this summer. Last night I sailed with a group of people who have been sailing together for around 8 years. Some of them have been sailing together for twenty. They know each other, they know the boat, they know the lake. It was intimidating, awesome, and ego-destroying. It sucked (I sucked) but I needed that. Up until last night, most of the people I've been around have very little experience sailing and apparently I got cocky. Two of the women on the crew are older (like 60s) and fucking badasses. No excuses, tough sailors. The skip is a scientist and very pragmatic regarding expectations. Listen to the conversation, ask questions, but don't worry about it on the boat. At least when it comes to tactics talk. If it's on the boat listen, ask questions, and learn it. These people are a wealth of knowledge and I don't want to just use them for that, I want to contribute. I want to be a valued member of the crew.

I want to buy my own sailboat in the next 5-7 years. This one is contingent on the job situation as sailboats are not cheap. I feel at ease on boats, and seem to get happier the longer I'm on one. I want to live aboard and make a solid living working freelance so I can travel on aforementioned sailboat. This requires getting consistent clients and being a general badass content-wise. Which leads me to...

Making badass content. I want to find a way to balance focus and creativity. I want to be open to other people's ideas and contributions to my ideas without feeling like it makes me a failure or less-than in some way. I want to make an impact. And I can't keep waiting.

I want to be better than ok, but by my definition. Maybe I'll expound on this one later, but it feels pretty huge right now.

Holy shit, this is over 900 words. Not too bad considering I felt like my thought process mojo lost the jo. Apparently it's still in there. I feel much calmer now and very thankful for this experiment.

time to invest in curtains

It's almost midnight in Chicago and I've decided to take the next 17 minutes to do Kirk's prompt. In part because I'm tired of trying to think of something interesting and in part because today was a little weird.

6:16 am - My fourth alarm goes off, and I actually hear it. My eyelids feel glued to my eyes, like they do every other morning, and I simply don't want to get up. I know I need to get up, but sleep-me has a case of glue-lids and sandpaper eyeballs, and it's inhumane to get up when you're afflicted in such a manner. Sleep-me decides (without really thinking) to go back to sleep.

6:38 am - I wake up the second time to the sun shining through my window. I'm finally able to open my eyes for longer than five seconds. I grab my cell thinking it was my usual 5-10 minute sleep in. But no.

Fuck you, sleep-me. Again.

I throw off the covers, shuffle skip the ten feet from my tiny bedroom to my tiny bathroom, and throw on the shower. Get undressed in one motion and brush my teeth naked while the water takes its normal 4-5 minutes to heat up (don't hate, it goes from freezing. freezing. freezing. to surface of the sun in less than a second but it takes some time to get there. come to think of it, my shower wakes up like me.) This is all in an effort to save time. On a normal day I'd go lay back down. Yes, I get the gluttony.

6:43 am - Get in shower. Think up all of solutions to the world's problems while also remembering every lyric N'Sync and the Backstreet Boys ever sang. It's highly productive.

6:57 am - Get out of shower. Immediately check phone to see the time, rejoice at the fact that I somehow finished my shower in less than 15 minutes. Start dancing around a little bit to celebrate.

7:02 am - Fuck! Danced longer than I should have. Remember to take new medicine to combat my chronic flightiness. Water, pill, swallow, and chug.

7:03 am - Make up time by picking out an outfit that only requires me to iron the shirt. Start coffee. Iron shirt. Put on pants and walking cast. Do make-up in pants, pearls, bra, and boot. Find this amusing, but there is no time for giggling.

7:20 am - Check time, doing better but know I can't slow down now. Hair, shirt, earrings, coffee.

7:43 am - How the fuck does it take me so long to do my hair?!? Shove everything I need for work in one bag and everything I need for sailing in another. Practically run out of the house (which is loud with a walking cast on) but not before I tie my door shut so my roommate's cats can't get in.

7:47 am - Get one block away from my L stop and see my train pull up. Nope, not gonna make it.

7:49 am - Make it to the platform just in time to feel my meds kick in. Coffee was a bad choice.

Ok, I'm going to stop there because it's officially 12:12 am and I somehow wrote over 500 words about the tiny span of time between waking and working.

I think I'd exhaust a peeping tom.

thirty seconds of silence

I wobble out of the backseat of the "cab" and turn to the driver.

"Hey, you wouldn't happen to know where I could buy some weed, do you?"

He smiles, "Yah, right here. How much do you want?"

"Awesome! Not much, just like twenty bucks worth."

"Alright, you want me to roll it for you?"

I smile and sway, "Yah, I'm a little white girl. I'm shit at rolling."

"Alright, alright," he and his friend laugh as he rips off a random piece of paper and lays a thick line of weed across the top. "Now you know this is Caribbean weed, right?"

"I hope so, we're in the Caribbean." I smile. I'm drunk and flirting. Or at least I feel like I'm flirting.

He laughs again, licks the paper and seals one of the biggest joints I've ever seen. I hand him the sweaty twenty in my palm, take the joint with a smile and thanks, and start skipping down the dock to our dinghy.

Everyone is patiently waiting for me, my friends are slightly aware of my breaking international law (albeit a casual one considering the whole island smells of weed), while the older couple on our boat are too drunk to really notice or care. I gather my skirt in one hand and carefully step into the tiny boat while trying to not drop my prize.

Leaning over the bow I pull the line from the dock, slide back in and yell out, "We're good to go, Captain!" He backs out from the dock and starts quickly making our way through the harbor. The moon shines down and I bump hard against the little ocean waves, smiling while we cut around other boats until we're back at Maria Carey (a close and humorous renaming of our home for the week).

"Hey Captain, can I take the dinghy out by myself?" I flash him the joint in my hand.

"No, but I will take you out for a bit."

"Cool, hey H, do you wanna come?" Another quick joint flash. She says no, and the captain and I zip off. We pull up to an old rusty fishing boat and tie off on its cleats. The air is warm and little waves get caught between the plastic dinghy and metal boat, slapping in an inconsistent rhythm.

"Do you have your lighter?"

He fishes it out from his shorts and passes it to me. "I don't think it's a good idea for me to smoke tonight."

"Ok." I light it and inhale deeply, coughing after I exhale. I'm almost immediately high, but take a few more hits anyway, jabbering the whole time about complete nonsense.

"E. I need you to be quiet for just 30 seconds. Please." His voice is stern like he's teaching a lesson, and I literally pinch my lips closed with my fingers as I count to thirty.

...27...28...29...30. I free my mouth. "Can I drive the dinghy?"

"Are you sure you can?"

"Fuck yes."

We switch around and I take the tiller in my right hand, pulling it to a start with my left. I slowly wind around the moored boats until we hit open-ish water and let it rip, arcing through the water at the mouth of the harbor. I go through starts and stops, occasionally stopping to look up at the moon, stars, and single light at the top of the highest island hill. As I drive I marvel at how black the water is, how close the other islands seem, the sweet yet salty air, and never want this moment to stop.

everything is spectacular, everything is normal.

I'm bored. I'm almost always bored. And if you're bored it means you're boring, right? That's what "they" say. I'm almost always bored and I'm not sure if it's because I expect something ridiculous from the world or if this is millennial ennui, or both. Maybe they're one and the same. Entertain me all the time and make it fucking amazing, otherwise, meh. Been there, done that, act like you've been here before.

When I'm out on a boat I get amused by the people taking endless photos of the skyline with their phones because I was that person, and 9/10 times it all looks the same. It's amazing, but even the amazing can become mundane. I stopped taking skyline shots awhile ago, unless there is some insane fog or storm or another wildcard that changes it up. During my trip to the British Virgin Islands I quickly became used to waking up in tropical coves, it just felt natural and normal to me, and I worried I lost my ability to find wonder and amazement in the world. Everything is spectacular, everything is normal.

I'm always afraid I'm boring, but I also really don't want to be over the top. It's a constant battle. Be interesting, but not crass. Make people remember you, but don't try to hard. Find perfection within your imperfections. God, what's the point?

I don't want to be jaded.

I like seeing and appreciating and keeping it all to myself. I know that the photo won't do it justice and most of the time just frustrates the show-er and the viewer. Which is ironic because I absolutely love film and photography.

I find myself watching hours upon hours of TV and videos online. Get home, take off pants, type in password, consume, consume, consume. Just constantly devouring other people's creations because the fear of not being interesting literally stymies me to a complete stop. And not the new age literally that really means figuratively, I actually stop and sit on my bed watching bullshit. I need to be better about doing, creating, being more. And doing this in an authentic way. There's no point in copying unless you do it better.

Earlier today I found myself trying to think of topics and ways to write that would get me the most likes, and I got really pissed off at myself. That's so reductive, and not at all what I want to accomplish with this, and frankly, shameful. I could blame Zuckerberg, but it's definitely not his fault.

I'm not entirely sure what I need to do to stop boring myself, but I do know I need to stop thinking "I'll start (learning French, practicing my ukulele, actually editing together clips to make videos) when I (make more money, find a new apartment)." because that isn't getting me anywhere but bored.

It's boring just to write this, but maybe that's just the ADHD talking. Oh well, guess it's time for me to get back to The Good Wife, I have three episodes banked.

xotap

Tomorrow is my best friend's 30th birthday. I have a tier of best friends, but he's been up there and very consistent for almost 12 years now, so he's extra super duper special. 

Until he moved to DC We were always there for each other's birthdays. But his then girlfriend, now fiancé, moved to DC and it made sense for him to follow, especially since he's a government kind of dude. Anyway, he's going to be 30 and I'm not going to be there. I feel simultaneously guilty and jealous. He would think that's silly, but that's the truth. 

We met freshman year at band camp, he was wearing an oversized tshirt with Seinfeld on it. He looks like Seinfeld so I thought he was the biggest dork ever. I was right, he was, but we became friends. And we are weird mother fuckers. 

Most people wouldn't ever understand our friendship, many people don't. We lost our virginity to each other. Every ex-boyfriend I've ever had hates this fact. One was convinced D was in love with me, and that's the only reason we were still friends. One guy convinced himself that D was gay (most definitely not) and would randomly sputter out bits about how he'd like to take away something D loved to get back at him (this boyfriend came into my life 8 years after the second time D and I ever had sex making his comments all the more ridiculous). Another guy practically ran from the table when he found out. 

D hasn't had any of these problems with his girlfriends. They all always knew, too. Everyone knows. My moms know. Sister. Probably even my brother. Everyone in our friend group, so whenever I date a guy, he has to eventually know. And they all hate it. At least so far. I have to marry the first guy who doesn't flip out over this. Either the fact that I lost my virginity to a guy who is still my platonic best friend, or the fact that I lost my virginity to someone without a romantic relationship. That really freaks guys out. Not women. Women are fine with it, men aren't. There's a feminist statement in there somewhere. 

I have a hard time describing our friendship in a way that doesn’t make me fear judgement. We’re both very into discussing sex and sexuality, and not just in some weird crass, juvenile way (although we’ve definitely done that too). We have the frankest discussions about sex that I’ve ever had, and the sociological impacts of sex and sexuality is by far my favorite conversation. Especially when it can be done in a non-creepy way. Unfortunately someone usually gets creeped out. D and I don’t have this problem. 

This is all a very long winded way to say that I miss my best friend and I wish I could be there to celebrate his 30th birthday. Maybe I’ll be able to make it out for his 31st. Who knows. 

Fuck, that was only 498 words. Now I’ve hit 500+. Phew.

a splotch of humanoid matter

I fucking hate slow walkers, and I'm sick of all of the asterisks that I normally have to put behind that. e.g. "Except for the elderly, because y'know, they can't walk as fast." My ego doesn't allow for excuses or reason.

I always walk quickly. Even when I'm not trying to get somewhere in a timely manner I walk quickly. If I'm not in the city and in an area with a slower life pace (like islands, island time is real y'all), I walk quickly. I'm currently in a walking cast and I walk faster than half the people I encounter. I just don't get why people can't get out of my way. Feel free to have your "journey," but don't fuck with mine.

I like the fact that I hate slow walkers. I realize that this is all so very far from zen, and it feels nice. It feels real. It feels like I'm not faking some weird bullshit movement, and yes, I think being zen all the time (or trying to be) is bullshit. I'm that person who speeds out of the parking lot blasting T. Swizzle after yoga class. Sweat flying. Get out of my way, your saunter isn't cute.

I work in a northern neighborhood in Chicago near a major university. I love the neighborhood. We're right on the lake, people are generally known (there are definitely some characters), and the sidewalks are skinny like you see in the burbs. This isn't a problem unless the college kids are around. Then they walk in packs. Four across and slow. I always want to yell at them that they're being rude by not allowing others to walk past them in either direction, but that'd be pointless and the opposite of poised. And despite my passion on the subject (and general whirling dirvishness) I like to at least strive for poise and grace.

I know I should calm down, not let it bug me, but I hold tight to my walk-rage. Unfortunately I can't let it out like I did with my road rage. I'll probably explode one of these days. Literally. Just a splotch of humanoid matter on the sidewalk.

I wonder how many times I wrote "I" in this post. Fucking self-centered, man. But then again I clearly think everyone should move and adjust their lives for me.

So now that the anger/frustration/"Fuck all of you" is out of my system I'm a little calmer, and a little ashamed. Logically I should chill out for me, but even just thinking about that makes anger bubble up through my esophagus. I should explore why I feel like this. Why is it that the idea of anyone controlling me immediately kicks in the fight/flight response? And why it's always fight? I rarely act on such things. Most people don't know how angry I can be, and it's terrible for me to be this angry. I should find a therapist in the city. Or should I just acknowledge that I'm a human, and humans have feelings and that anger is one of those feelings? I just don't know and also feel like I'm contradicting myself.

I, I, I.

strands of the universe

A quickly close but newish friend and I were hanging out the other night when he asked me if I'm Christian. And I had to answer that I don't know. Because I don't, but I wish I did. Although even when I did go to church every Sunday and was the good little do-be I never called myself Christian. I was Episcopalian. Calling oneself "Christian" tends to elicit thoughts of non-denominational churches: hundreds of people lifting their hands to the sky while swaying and yelling "Praise the Lord," and preaching to random strangers about being "saved." I hate that shit. I know I'm not that.

I don't know what I am because I have a hard time dealing with the fact that I'll never know if I naturally believe in God, or if I can't shake the feeling that God exists because I was raised with God. ("raised with God" sounds like we grew up together, like you'll find photos of the two of us, age 5, arms wrapped around each other's waists with chocolate ice cream smeared on our faces. Except one of us is corporeal and the other is just a short, wispy ghost-like person with a white beard and the sun glinting off of "His" young face.) Although other people who were raised in the church don't seem to have a problem with being agnostic or atheist. Part of me wonders if I'm still being the good kid by believing in God. Even if I were actually an atheist I couldn't tell my moms. My mom is in divinity school and very into it, while her wife is an actual working priest. I mentioned thinking about converting to Judaism once and my mom quickly dismissed it by saying, "Why would you move backwards?" Which is insulting on so many levels.

I didn't really think about church that much until I moved to Chicago a year ago. There's something nostalgic about working at a Catholic school. It smells like home to me. The words are the same, people are mostly similar. They sound like the adults I grew up around, except now I'm one of the adults. It's fucking weird to be one of the adults.

We're redesigning the schools' website right now and I'm in charge of writing the Faith section from scratch. For whatever reason there was very little about this on the site before, and I then learned that most schools don't put up a faith section. They're all very excited to call themselves Catholic, Christian, Jewish, (insert other major religions here that tend to have schools), but no one wants to specify what that means. When I first started I was a bit scared because I thought it'd be too conservative for me, when in reality it's moderate and erring on the liberal side. I think it's good that people know this.

I sat down with all of the religion teachers and talked for two hours to try and get an idea of what I need to write, how they describe it. I left feeling fulfilled and thoughtful, but also confused and frustrated. I don't know how I'm going to frame all of that (and we barely scratched the surface) in a way that outsiders will understand. I guess that's how faith/spirituality/religion work.

I'm not sure what to make of the universe, but I still like it. I think it'd all be much easier if everyone acknowledged that we're all interconnected. I think that's what God really is, these little gold strands of the universe that connect us to one other.

Oh, and I have no clue if my friend is Christian, but I suspect not.

chuck norris asked me to go sailing

Chuck Norris looked me in the eyes last night and requested I come back to race with him and his crew tonight. He came over to me later in the evening and asked what I'm doing on Saturday, and would I maybe like to come to crew practice?

Even though this was not an evening with martial arts maverick Chuck Norris (umm, hello, if it was this would be a post about puppies and rainbows. No one writes about CN without direct written permission lest they want a roundhouse kick to the face.) it was still a pretty badass moment.

Sailing class has been kind of a pain in the ass for a couple of reasons: 1) I miss sailing/racing with my friends and the guys who taught me. Mostly because they already know what I know and expect a certain level of performance from me. I find people telling me things I already know - whether or not they know I know - to be very condescending. It results in me telling my ego to shut it all the time and then I get distracted and miss important things. 2) I have a broken foot. Specifically, I have two stress fractures (4th metatarsal & cuneiform) and a chipped bone (lateral malleolus). I've been taping it up for sailing, but for better or worse people treat me with kid gloves when they realize I'm the girl with the broken foot.

Chuck Norris didn't treat me with kid gloves last night. He saw what I could do (with a jerry-rigged foot) and asked me to come back immediately. Broken bones and all. It felt very cool and I can't wait to get back out there tonight.

I sometimes feel bad for people who have famous names, but aren't the famous (or infamous) person. Like Chuck Norris. Or the boat captain I once sailed with named Kirk. My aunt is Martha Stewart. I feel for anyone with my name because I'm most definitely going to be famous! Just kidding. Maybe. I think it'd be interesting to see how I'd change if I became famous. Everyone who says they didn't change after fame is either lying, not into self-reflection, or a child actor.

While we were out on Lake Michigan last night it started pouring buckets and the breeze was blowing 40+ knots, and it was pure heaven. I love sailing in light storms like that. Ones that come and go, leaving chunks of rainbows over the lake and through the skyline. It makes me feel whole again.

Sometimes I worry I intimidate people with my intensity. I'm either on or off, there's really no in between. (I can be polite and kinda listen to someone if they're talking about something I'm not interested in, but it takes everything to try to pay attention and not walk away. I get really frustrated when people change the subject while I'm talking because I worked to listen to them, why can't they extend me the same favor?) I'm especially intense about sailing, some people get freaked out, others really love it. I like those people.

Day late & a dollar short

Everyone else is on their sixth day? Maybe seventh. I'm not certain.

I saw Kirk post about this experiment (500 words/day/30 days) about a week or two ago, thought it sounded awesome, but scary so I didn't start. Then I was drunk in the back of an uber and wanted to write a story about a box in the middle of the road. I posted on one of Kirk's posts, he said yes, and sober-me regretted my 2 am request six and a half hours later.

I think drunk-me was smart to ask, it's a great experiment and I need to do something scary.

I'm not quite sure what to write, but I shouldn't be writing this right now. I should be working. Or more specifically asking a 4th grade boy to describe his school year for the end of year video.

I've already gotten distracted from this distraction. First coworkers, then phone (a book on my phone though, that's better, right?) then gmail. I can't even focus on my distraction. I'm not sure how to get my brain to chill out. I go from scattered, to overwhelmed because of everything being so messy in my brain, to blank, to scattered and through the whole mess again until I have a headache.

Imagine a kindergartener got his grubby little hands (their hands are always grubby) on his older sibling's pristine Gak and took it to the playground, then hopped into the sandbox. Little pieces of slime trickled along his path and what's left of the original container is covered in sand, twigs and leaves. Oh, and he ate a bit. That Gak is my brain.

I wonder if they still make Gak.

It's a miracle I ever accomplish anything. Time for a dance break.

Jesus this is all over the place, and I guess that's staying on subject in a certain way.

Aren't all experiments a challenge in some way? Current experiment: How long can I go before getting another Dove caramel-filled chocolate from my coworker's desk? This is a two part challenge: 1) the battle of my own will. 2) the battle against social norms and how many chocolate bits are socially acceptable for me to eat. I've had two already today.

My diet is probably a big part of my mental problem. I drink coffee and eat candy like it's going out of style. And don't even get me started on my sailor imbibing. I go through waves of drinking a lot and not drinking at all, and the season is starting up (both wedding and Great Lakes sailing). I should probably keep an eye on it, but I'm really sick of needing to keep an eye on anything. I'm in the mood to just be, exist, not think of anything that I don't naturally think up. I want to eat chocolates, and take a nap, and go sailing, and not worry about whether or not what I say is kind or PC or anything. But I can't. And I know that's right, but I don't wanna.