I don’t have any sarcasm for this moment, no explanation, and certainly no sad poem or playlist for it. Not a recent playlist, anyway. Just the usual. I apparently don’t have the sense to not post my sorrow online. I guess some habits just never die.

I will not dwell, as I did drafting endless letters to explain myself. Closed every single one. Let frustration build. I guess that made me less of a woman, because I handled it poorly. It’s only been a few days, but so little has been said, and I think so much has been felt. I still don’t know what to say, aside from a tired “I’m sorry” that probably drowned in a sea of other emails. The courage to call faded quickly. Seems like my so-called strength only comes when somebody dies, or some textbook adversity shows up. Anyone could be strong for things like that.

Everything dealing with Charlottesville made me feel worse. Made me feel scared, made me wonder if TN is even right for me. Since I cancelled Chicago out, where else can I go? Especially with no money. The fact that people got so up in arms about…a statue and their feelings of threat and whatnot–kind of reminds me of some of the people here who can get just as crusty about heritage. Still, I want somebody to say “heritage not hate” after what I saw in the comments and on my TV. Three people died because of this.

I know this sounds stupid, but I looked up a very famous Internet personality from that same area. Yes, that person. She was at a convention or whatever, smiling and living life. I thought it was peculiar, but you can’t expect every citizen there to be glued to what’s happening. I excused myself from all of that to binge eat and mutter all night. A few chapters from Episode, and some in-between watches of Rocko and I Love Lucy, and I ate less n mellowed more.

This will be temporary.

Those of us who wear our hearts on our sleeves and feel deeply tend to go through spells of feels and no feels.

I will try to spare the world the various acts of my drama.

Why Do You Want That?

Writing is love, writing is life. Writing is the reason I’m still here, choosing life. I mean…sometimes it’s a real struggle, but writing (and Nichiren Buddhism) have kept me going. So, I can’t help it if I have a few dreams up my sleeves about it. It would be NICE to come up from it, but even if I don’t, I would never stop. So obviously between the dreams, the “projects”, and the questionable poems, I would imagine myself having a “space” or an office to live out my dreams. I also have several backup plans. Teacher, Social Worker, Grant Drafter, Admin. Hell, I’m looking at Chicago to take some coding classes while I visit.

I have about 40k of student debt, so it’s not like I’ve got the ability to be super flighty and ultra dreamy. I mean, I’ll always be somewhat like that. I’m my mother’s kid. But I’ve become realistic about some things. Not all persons who have the talent to write become great, established writers. It’s upsetting, but I’m okay with that.

I feel like my jovial nature gives people the idea that I’m in great denial or something. That the goal is to be a writer without a 9 to 5. That, you know, it’s straight to the finish line with no questions asked. I think about the fact that this writing thing may not work out all the time. Still, I want it. I want a part of it. I won’t turn my back to it. I’ll probably die at a computer of old age, trying to complete a novel I started at the age of sixteen. In any case, I would like for the people in my life to realize that I’m aware it might not work out. I’m aware that I need plans B-Z to survive this world.

I also need people to understand that my dreams might just be that. Dreams. Let me have that.

What I have always wanted is a “writing space”. Which technically could be anywhere I have my laptop or pen and paper, but I mean a space like Carrie had in her apartment in Sex and The City. A space like Claire had on The Cosby Show to enjoy herself. I have been dreaming of this space for the longest time. From job to job, poem to poem, and boyfriend to boyfriend. Writing is one of many loves in my life, and I’d like to have a place to set her free.

The idea was always going to be some small country thing. Doesn’t have to be a barn, for frack’s sake. Some tiny little ranch house that’s so small, it can only be an office. Some hole in the wall in the backyard, set up as I see fit, financed by me. I would never force anyone else in my life to finance desires that I’ve been building up. First of all, because I WANNA DO IT. Second of all, if it’s not agreed upon, I ain’t forcing anyone to pony up dime one.

That’s super defensive.

And I mean it to be.

The dream of my writing space is sacred and special. Deeper than a man cave or a chick cave. Or whomever’s cave. It’s a space outside the world where I can sit, open up, get it out, and not be distracted. That’s the main part! Not to depart from the world forever and ever, but devote some time to the one thing that brings me joy. Now imagine if I gave side eye to someone I cared about, if they had a similar dream.

I would get chewed da funk out.

The writing space is an extension of me. I may never get my ranch house. I might have to settle for a corner of a room, or an office. That’s fine. Dreams change as my life has changed. But in my mind, it’s always been somewhere down South. Always either been a shed or a bigger space. Always been covered in cute stained glass windows, wind chimes all over, and crystal things.

I can always relocate. The South isn’t the only place with a countryside. And why should I silence my dreams, anyway? Because someone else thinks they’re too airy or too stupid? Or whatever, for that matter?

Smash your own dreams but don’t come for mine.

What else do I want?

Nothing that big.

A dog. A cat. Some kids, and a decent ass life. I don’t have to have a million damn bucks. Just the kind of comfort that gives me some kind of hope in this world. I would like to be happily married, you know? Just keeping it nice because I never needed a big production to be satisfied. Just let me have my writing. Let me dream of my office space. Doesn’t have to be forced. I’m not demanding it!

But alas.

It’s all a dream.

149

New Year, New Ideas

The new year is already seven days in, and I’ve decided to actually start using this blog for more than what last year was all about. You know…

the ex boyfriend posts.

Examining, understanding, griping, desiring. I cringe writing that, but cringe even more knowing that in their boredom, they could easily Google me and probably read a bunch of stuff that they might still think is true. That was 2015, I let my loneliness, anger, and sadness get the best of me. I realized a lot of things, but I took a look back at those posts. Embarrassing.

With every vow not to waste another second of typing on them, that’s exactly what I did. This is the crossover. If you stopped being in my life 1,2, 3+ years ago…stay there! You might be in my head from time to time, but that doesn’t mean you belong in my writing space. So that chapter is closed.

In other news, I am back to being jobless. Like, I guess my employer forgot about me. Or not. But you kinda get the hint when you’re not invited to the company Holiday party. You kinda get it when she says “let us get together for admin work” and nothing comes up afterward.

Now, yes, that kinda has me a touch pressed. But the tango of text and text and fall off is getting old. I did ask myself WHY I moved down here/agreed to it, but what’s done is done. I don’t….really like Paris that much, but I have a chance to finish school and work on my writing here. My religion is up in the air, and that’s probably creating bad blood, because I’ve been in contact with the Buddhists down here, but I can’t navigate some things I need to tell them. I could just…do it, but it puts me in a position where things get complicated. “Hey! I can’t put my altar up in this house! Out of respect for my uncle, a pastor!” and…”Hey! You kinda need to know I don’t have a car!”

Vital information.

I think it’s just kinda embarrassing to reveal so much to a new group of strangers, but it’s not like they’re going to be jerks about it. It’s more of me getting over myself, getting back into this Buddhism, and moving on to the next step in my life. A part of me is hoping that will be job/lovelife/money related, but when my cousin said “you don’t want anyone here….”, I was just sinking!

Do I…outsource? How does that work? I mean, assuming anyone would want me in this close-knit, everybody-knows-everyone wicked little town. That literally is Paris, TN. Everyone knows everybody else. So what’s this Non-Christian yankee with mile high natural hair gonna do to find love?

Or just a roll in the hay?

We won’t even talk about gay bars. NONE.

Not even a gay lemonade stand.

My Bisexuality is also on the hush, save for the HUGE rainbow ring my aunt gave me, and the pending pride jewelry I intend to add to my outing looks. Even then, are these people going to try and dunk me in the lake to save my broken soul?

I keep wondering if I’m even ready for love, but at this point–30–waiting around means missing out. So with all of that, I guess my year begins.

I also ate cold nacho cheese out of a cup as I wrote this.

My diet has died at least three times this week. I resolve to boil carrots and an egg tomorrow, and eat myself a heart ass healthy lunch.

That will somehow turn into the wing and fries special from Pizza Hut, with a cherry coke.