10 Tips for Moving Back in With Your Parents

Living at home again is hard. You are not the same person you were before you left for college. Things have changed… For the worse.

1. Do things as a family! Be creative, try a new recipe or maybe go on a hike. Even if things sound lame remember that you are living at home and your life is inherently pathetic.

2. Remember: You can’t spell Parent without Rent. Just something to keep in mind. Under no circumstances should you pay for housing. That defeats the purpose.

3. Help out around the yard unless your parent pays someone to do so already. You don’t want to step on anybody’s toes.
4. Don’t neglect your physical health. Consider turning your old room into a fitness center so that your parents don’t have the satisfaction of doing so later on.
5. Don’t complain about your commute. Your parents have been doing it your whole life. Commuting can be an excellent time to brood about your current situation.
6. If you find your dad’s stash of weed, don’t smoke it! You don’t know what that stuff is laced with these days.
7. If your parents put a sock on the exterior doorknob of their room, it means they probably haven’t done their laundry in a while.
8. Don’t neglect your love life. Make sure to tell all potential mates about your living situation, but refer to your parents as “chill, older roommates” who “definitely did not birth you.”
9. Remember that in Europe, it is customary to live with your parents until the age of 25. Here it is not. It is important for you to move out as soon as you can.
10. If you stumble home drunk, do not crawl into bed with your Mom and start crying about how you’re an unemployed writer making top 10 lists for no money.

5 Things You Have To Do Before You Die

1. Play More Games: Learn to enjoy the little things in life. Do things that allow you to spend time with the people that are important to you. When you pass on, you will leave a rich legacy in the memories of your loved ones. When they pass on, their children will remember you from stories and pictures. This will continue until the last of your descendants die out.

2. Write a Novel: If you get published, you can extend your legacy. Your name will be preserved alongside the unique ideas put forth in your work. Consider the ancient Greek texts that we study to this day. And yet there were surely civilizations’ that preceded the introduction of the written word. What do we know of them?
3. Plant a Tree: We share our planet not only with one another but also with all living things. There are Redwoods that predate the existence of dinosaurs! When you die, your body will be recycled into the ecosystem of carbon-based life on earth. But how long will earth remain capable of supporting life?
4. Learn a new language: Being able to communicate with other cultures allows you to appreciate different lifestyles. If life exists elsewhere in the universe, we may be able to survive off their resources. How will you contribute to post apocalyptic life?
5. Wake Up Early: Time is running out. Every day you waste is another one closer to death. But linear time as we understand it may very well not exist. Maybe this is not the end. If that is the case, you can go back to sleep.

20 Uncomfortable Truths You Realize As You Grow To Be An Adult

1. Your parents will get more and more out of touch. They will still want you to do what they want you to do. It’s okay; you don’t have to do it. You are not beholden. You will eventually get to a point where you do, actually, know better than your parents – and there is nothing wrong with that. It happens.

2. Not only does the world not revolve around you, it never did.

3. There will be people who will see your discomfort or pain…
… and not care.
… and think you deserve it.
… and be amused or titillated by it.
4. People do not owe you their help.
5. You are under no obligation to remain in a relationship with someone who has harmed you, even if they are a parent or a partner, and even if they are dependent upon you. You have the right to your boundaries.
6. If you keep having disagreements with multiple people about the same things, there’s only one common factor: you. As a friend of mine said once a long time ago: If one person tells you that you are a jackass, you may safely ignore it. If six or eight people who are reasonably sound thinkers express the opinion that you are a jackass, go get fitted for a saddle.
7. Just because you are an adult with your own business and your own suffering does not mean you have a right to ignore the suffering of others. Adulthood does not come with the right to be self-centered. Leave that in adolescence, where it belongs.

8. How you treat those who cannot possibly benefit you demonstrates your character. The way you treat the homeless or the waitstaff is far more indicative of the person you really are than the way you treat your boss.

9. If you’re put in a position to choose between a promotion and a friendship, choose the friendship.

10. If you want the world to be a better place, the work starts with you. You have to do it too.
11. Sometimes if you help someone, they will help you in return, but not always. Sometimes they’re not capable of it. Sometimes they won’t realize it. Sometimes they can’t accept that they needed help so they ignore it. Your help has to come with no strings attached, or it’s not help – it’s just blackmail.
12. People will disagree with you. People will dislike you. But people will also like you and agree with you. Be sure to have a lot of contact with the group that likes you, and a moderate amount with the group that doesn’t, to keep your perspective accurate.
13. Many people your age have not learned these life lessons yet. That doesn’t release you from your obligations to behave like an adult. They may never learn these lessons, but you have.
14. Sometimes you can help someone learn one or more of these lessons. Sometimes that may end the friendship. People don’t like these lessons. They involve the truth, and change, and pain. Don’t force it, but be aware – you may be the lever that moves their world someday, just by understanding these lessons and acting on them. Sometimes, it is your job to be the doctor, no matter what Alanis Morrisette said.

15. Do not attribute to malice what can adequately be explained by stupidity or ignorance.

16. Sometimes you will be someone’s teachable moment, whether you like it or not. Handle it as gracefully as you can.

You may be the first X someone has ever met (where X is “person of color,” “autistic,” “Jew,” “gay person,” “rock star,” etc.), and they will want answers to questions that may seem stupid, pointless or even offensive to you. However, at that moment, you are their teachable moment. You have the opportunity to make a difference by educating them about something where they lack knowledge that you already have.

17. Trust is a context-dependent thing, not an absolute.
I might trust you to hold my house keys for me while I go on vacation, but not trust you alone with my kids, because I know you get angry with kids and I don’t want my kids put in danger. I might trust you to show up on time for the party, but not to remember to bring what I asked you to bring, because I know you’re good at being on time but not good at remembering what you’re asked to do beyond that.
18. Try to remember to have compassion. It’s hard sometimes, but it helps, and too many people forget.
19. You cannot solve other people’s problems for them. The most you can do is to point them in the right direction, hand them tools to help, and hand them the medicine they need. You cannot, however, make them use those tools or take that medicine. Know the boundaries of your responsibility to others.
20. Unless another person’s values are actively, directly harming you, you have no business demanding that they give them up and substitute yours. Let it go and move on. Both of you will be better for it.
This means, essentially, “pick your battles.” Certainly, if a person’s beliefs are harming others, go to it. But if they’re not actually harming you (but only making you uncomfortable), and if nobody else is actually being harmed, then let it go.

Love Everyone Blindly

I used to think that life would make more sense when I “grew up.” (Here’s a secret – it doesn’t.)

Ten years ago, after an exceptionally cold and rainy track practice, the news reached me. Just another day turned into one that would rattle me, an entire youth group, a church, a school and a community. It wasn’t pretty. People were confused. Hurt. Angry. Sad. There were tears. There were blank stares from people who didn’t know what to do or say. There were people who tried to hide and people tried to help. And there was a question:

“WHY?”
Why didn’t we see it coming?
Why didn’t she tell anyone how much pain she was in?’
Why would God let this happen?
Why would she do it?
And the reality? We don’t really know those answers. And they haven’t come with time. I spent years speculating, thinking, “what if” and “what could I have done?” I knew her. We were friends. I didn’t think we had a deep connection – but we did. We were both outsiders in a world that thought we were happy. People loved us, but we didn’t fully love what others saw. We just wanted to be different from the person we were. We looked in the mirror, or looked inward at ourselves, and saw things we wished were different. There was this idea that we were flawed. That something was wrong with us.
She called me a few weeks before to ask me to prom. I was a freshman and she was a junior. I didn’t really know what say. Sure, I could go – I guess? But wouldn’t she have more fun with friends of her own age – I mean, I couldn’t even drive! Is a girl even allowed to ask a guy to prom? What should I say? Everything seemed backwards. And my secret knew I’d never want more than friendship.
In that moment I didn’t understand friendship comes in different forms I didn’t understand loving people could mean so many things. I had fixed ideas of how the world should work. I was just another young and confused freshman who was figuring things out about myself. We all were. And that’s okay. Because for the rest of your life, you’re going to be figuring things out. There will be twists. And turns. You’ll be hurt. You’ll be confused. And some days it’ll seem your world is crashing down. But you’ll make it through.
Eventually I would find out she was going to prom with a group of friends. She had even picked out a dress. There was hope for a brighter future; I wish she could have seen that. Everyone has secrets and thoughts they want to keep locked away. But if they’re hurting you, let them out. Tell someone. The ones who really love you won’t run away. You might feel ashamed or guilty, but love is blind to those feelings. Love sees you as the beautiful person you are – even when you can’t see it.

This Is What I Call Deep-Sea Dating

So she is gone. She is not coming back. And my heart is still resting fragilely in its chest cavity like a vase that’s been broken and carefully glued back together. A vase just waiting for someone to bump against the end table on which it has been placed, sending it tumbling to the floor where it will once again shatter into a million pieces.

With this in mind, I decide it is a good idea to give this whole Internet dating thing a go, yes, totally a good idea, what possibly could go wrong, because if at first you don’t succeed, pick yourself up and cry, cry again. Because the best way to get over somebody is to get under someone else, they say, and they say this much too often for it to be untrue. Right?

Right.
I make a profile on one of those dating websites.
The website asks me a series of questions about myself, which I half-heartedly answer as succinctly as possible. I’m the Hemingway of online dating.
Interests: films, books.
Six things you could never live without: never is a big word.
What I’m doing with my life: This one is tricky, because I’m not sure if the website is either A) getting a bit passive aggressive or B) run by my mother. I leave it blank.
Instead, I upload a couple of pictures, trolling the depths of my social media profiles, my hard drive, my camera for the photographs that highlight, in vivid color, the best parts of my physical appearance and wishing I had turned to the left just a little, or hadn’t spilled that ketchup on my shirt or had opened my eyes because that one would have been perfect.
Now, apparently, I will be “matched” with females based on the approximately 150 words I have typed into small white boxes. And let’s not forget, of course, the website’s top-secret compatibility formula. It is totally legitimate. Millions of happy couples, grins all around, butterflies in your stomach, that sort of thing.

I begin to send out messages – Hi, I’m Adam, hyuck, hyuck, hyuck, nice to meet you, you look friendly, do you like me, please, I beg you, you must like me, we both The Shawshank Redemption, what do you know — with the desperation of a sailor trapped in a crippled submarine. Messages like distress signals, pinging off into the depths, in desperate hopes that someone, please, for the love of God, anyone, will respond – a 37-year-old Malaysian, a 25-year-old Californian, a septuagenarian nun, a cocker spaniel.

I sit back and really think about the ramifications of digital love, about these people with whom I’m voluntarily communicating, about how my standards have fallen, immediately, upon the creation of an online dating profile. This is minor league stuff, for players who can’t handle the world of real-life, professional dating. This is pathetic. This is creepy. This is borderline predation. This is me. I am one of them. I have literally joined the club.
A few days later I hit a target, somehow, through something or other I said, and I meet Miss America, who, based on her pictures, is pretty enough, and doesn’t seem to be an axe murderer or a man in disguise. I hope. We meet. She looks like her pictures. She does not carry a butcher’s knife. She has dimples (wrinkles?) that form little parentheses around her mouth and mousy brown hair, and a slender, former cheerleader’s frame.
Now, here’s where this gets tricky.

Miss America is lovely, really, she is. But it’s about fourteen seconds into this date when I realize she’s not for me – that moment, I think, occurs when she starts lip-synching a popular Top 40 pop song while simultaneously maintaining eye contact in a Japanese restaurant. Not that there’s anything wrong with lip-synching, or singing, or music, or even Top 40 (though this is debatable), I find it genuinely unnerving, and my skin is crawling a bit, and what have I done, don’t you know, Adam, that you have so much more you could be doing right now, like watching a movie by yourself, or reading a book, or bonking yourself on the head with a ball-peen hammer.

We are now at my apartment. First it was more drinks, maybe one too many. Then it was a kiss in a crowded bar. Then it was the back of a taxi and now we are here.
So she turns to me, casually, like she’s known me for years, like we’re an old couple who knows how one another take their coffee, and says, “What’s on your mind, babe?”
You might not have meant anything by it, Miss America, surely you didn’t, but when you said this, the only thing on my mind was to make sure you were never in the position to call me “babe” again, because I am most definitely not your “babe” and did not intend to ever be your “babe”, much less anyone’s “babe,” and it was just an entirely inappropriate comment, which, much like your lip-synching, sent shivers down my spine and made me want to run, which I definitely could not have done, because we were in my apartment, and I did not know you very well, and, had you been left to your own devices might have stolen my television.
That was last time I saw Miss America.
About a week later, I meet Manchester.
Manchester (from England) is also a very nice girl. She is pretty, and she talks my ear off during dinner (which is not necessarily a good or a bad thing).
Now, before things get out of hand, I am a man of average A) height B) weight and C) looks. I am over-privileged and falsely entitled. I deserve much, much less than anything I have ever received. I believe women and men and races and sexualities are equal. I believe no one is better than another. I am not a misogynist nor self-loathing nor an overtly good or bad person. I think I confidently float in the purgatorial neutral zone of humanity.
I do, however, have the tendency to be overly judgmental, critical, and slightly mean-spirited (especially so if I am hungry.)
But this doesn’t stop me from noticing things. And once I’ve noticed something, even a small something, I am oftentimes able to process this small something into a much larger something, and sometimes that something is much too large to look past.
Additionally, I have never once denied the fact that I am a raving lunatic.
Anyway, Manchester and I watch a popular television comedy. During the course of the program’s twenty-odd minutes, she incessantly points out absurdities as though she’s catching typos in a newspaper.
“There’s no way a doctor would do that!” for example.
And of course there’s no way a doctor would do that (he’s, like, making crude comments or something, no bedside manner at all, that rascally doctor) but that’s the way comedy works, sweetheart, it’s about the absurd, the irrational, the illogic, and though I’m not trying to be condescending or supercilious or anything like that – and although I definitely am coming across as such – I just think it’s better if you head home now, because I’m feeling very tired.
So I’m back at the computer, awash in the screen’s blue glow, the lights out, alone, scrolling through faces, faces, endless faces, their pouted lips, smirks, and dentist-whitened smiles.
A message lights up my inbox. She is Dutch. I have never met a Dutch person. This is like interacting with an endangered species. The elusive Northern hairy-nosed wombat sends its greetings!
Dinner plans ensue.
Will she wear wooden shoes? Will she have braids? Will I have to kiss her on the cheek in strange European greeting? Please, Dutch Girl, don’t make me do that. I will just die if I have to do that. Will there be that in-and-out tango of do we hug or not?
Maybe I should just gently pat her on the head.
Or you know, now that I think about it, even better idea — I should just turn around. I could go home, get some dinner, forget all about the date that was, the date that would have, in all likelihood, ended in disaster – shame and rejection and sleep lost in labyrinthine mental scenarios of I-should-have-said-should-have-done.
But no, I keep going, and there is Dutch Girl, copper hair and a nice smile, and she sticks out her hand, which is of regular size, to shake, and I almost faint from the relief. She is not frightening, and she does not call me pet names, nor does she question the nature of fiction.
Dutch Girl smokes cigarettes and she curses, and is very, refreshingly human, as we sit on little plastic stools and drink bottles of beer.
She has crinkles around her eyes. Her shoes are not wooden.
I leave later that night, happy enough. Not in love. Not full of hope for the future. Not really thinking anything. This is no love story. That isn’t the point.
Because for now I go home. I go back to the computer, to the faceless faces of unknown women, to their self-portraits taken in bathroom mirrors; their exposed, flat stomachs; their long, tan legs; their contact lenses that turn brown eyes blue and seem to mimic the symptoms of Graves’ disease; their perfectly applied make-up. And I click through them, imagining potential futures – conversations and laughter and arguments and love.
I click and I click and I click.
I wade through the muck and the mire, without even really known what I’m searching for. It would be ridiculous to look for love. And marriage? There are easier ways (and different websites) on which to go wife shopping.
I suppose if I’m honest with myself I know what I seek. But these are strangers. And you know what comes out of sex with strangers. AIDS. Herpes. Long visits to doctor’s offices. Tearful conversations with therapists. Regrets. Pain. Unfulfillment.
But for now, it’s enough. And Ashley flits by, replaced by Naomi, replaced by Sarah, replaced by Aeoy (who inexplicably goes by Jessica).
Messages sent, cast into the abyss.
Nothing to do but sit back, put your feet up, relax, and wait for a bite.
Now isn’t this fun?

How To Break Up When You’re Traveling Abroad

I leave her on a crowded train platform early on a Tuesday morning, tears brimming in her wide, blue eyes as she watches me go. The humidity of the day settles down like a wet blanket, oppressive, weighty. The weather a fetus inside the womb must experience every day for nine solid months.

Just five months, the relationship, beginning in China, ending in Thailand, with a ten-day visit from her to set me on my way and send her on hers. An ending and a beginning wrapped up tight in one little package.

I buy coffee and walk, my mind blank. I’m numb. I go to work. I drift through the day. I go home, go to the gym, go to sleep. It takes a few days for the shock to wear off and reality to set in. When it finally does, it is like a scalding hot frying pan to the face.

I wake up and colors are muted, like a television show in Technicolor. Drab and dull, an Instagram photo with the “misery” filter activated. I’m sad, yes, but I’m also angry. Angry with her for leaving. Angry with myself for letting her go. Most of all, I’m angry with others simply for being happy. I see couples holding hands, smiling. I hate them. I hate them so much. I hope they are run over by a train. Three times. And then maybe it could hit me, as well, if it’s feeling extra generous. There’s the feeling of coming home to an empty apartment, dark and silent, the curtains drawn. Lonely and desolate. There’s the realization that all those clichés about heartache are true. How your heart actually, physically hurts. This shouldn’t be surprising, but it is. It’s like watching a movie for the fiftieth time only to still be surprised by the ending, a different twist to the same plot with each viewing.

I should have seen it coming.

I knew our paths would diverge, of course I knew. It was a matter of timing, not of incompatibility, but timing is such an important factor — as much so as the balance of values and interests, or the ability to compromise, to fight and make up.

But for now, we need different things, and we go different ways.

We loved each other. We truly loved each other. I am sure of that. But there’s no solace in the past tense. There’s no solace anywhere at the moment. She is the only thing that can make it better, and she is gone. And I’m alone.
I meet my friend Claire for lunch. I’m not hungry, but I force the food down. It’s unappetizing. It’s just there, food sitting on a plate. I’d rather smash it into tiny bits with a hammer. But I take a forkful. I stuff it into my mouth. I chew. And I move on to the next bite.
On the restaurant’s sound system (and I swear I am not making this up), the following songs play:
Chris DeBurgh’s “Lady in Red.”
She had red hair.
It’s coincidence. Anyway, the song’s about her dress, not her hair. I think. But still, red, you know?
“My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion.
Christ Almighty.
“Right Here Waiting,” a ballad by Richard Marx.
Then Westlife’s “My Love,” a song about lost love.

It’s too much. Somehow, halfway through a bowl of carrot soup — which I didn’t even know existed until this moment, because who makes soup out of a carrot; it’s like making a chicken broth cake — I’ve become the subject of some sort of horrible cosmic practical joke.

I contemplate peeling off my face with a can opener.

“What if this was it?” I ask Claire. “What if there’s no one else?”
“Then it will work out,” she says.
“I don’t believe in fate.”
“It’s not fate,” says Claire. “That’s just how love works.”
“What if it’s not? What if she finds someone better?”
“There is no ‘better,’” she says. “There’s different, but that doesn’t mean ‘better.’ It’s not a contest. She loves you for you. I know she does. I saw you two together. She’s never going to meet someone and say ‘Oh, he’s so much better than Adam.’ She might think someone else is better for her, but that’s not nearly the same thing. And if she does find someone, then you know it’s time to really, fully move on.”
I imagine a stranger pulling her in for a first kiss — and worse, her wanting it — and I feel like I might vomit. I picture myself murdering that man. Slowly. Methodically. The thought of myself meeting someone new is equally horrifying. Right now, it doesn’t even seem attractive. People look the same, like walking, disfigured blobs of molten clay: men, women, supermodels, limbless beggars. Everyone is equally revolting.
I eat another spoonful of this ridiculous carrot soup.
I walk home; I unlock the door, greetings empty apartment. I open the curtains, and the darkness fades and sunbeams drift across the floor and creep up the walls. They hurt my eyes. The sun causes sunburns and melanoma. The sun never did anybody any good. Who ever thought the sun was a good idea? I hate photosynthesis. I hate solar power. I pull the curtains closed.
A knock on the door.
It’s Holley. I met Holley three weeks ago, so it is a good idea to pour my heart out to her. Definitely a good idea. It’s the beginning of another relationship abroad – platonic or not – a magnesium flash, burning hot and bright, intense from the start, right up until the end when it suddenly, bitterly, immediately burns out. You’ve found each other floating in a strange ocean and you cling, desperately, to one another until you drift apart. The kind of relationship between foreigners that usually begins, in certain countries at least, with something like, “Hello, we’re best friends now because we’re foreigners.”
You get used to that intimacy, that closeness, seeing each other every day, becoming the center of someone’s universe as you orbit around them yourself. You begin to take it for granted. You’re in a cocoon. A bubble. Then you hatch. You pop. You go back home, and it’s gone for good.
“I just can’t think of anything else,” I tell Holley. “It’s horrible.” I swallow around the lump in my throat.
“But you’re lucky,” she says. “You’re so lucky. You had this great relationship and it ended on good terms and it could still work out in the future.”
Yes, lucky, I think. It’s like I won cancer.
I am thankful for her, because otherwise I would very likely be confronting other foreigners who happen to be wandering Bangkok’s streets. “Listen, I’m having a really hard time these past few days, can I talk to you?” Like a woebegone Jehovah’s Witness. “Excuse me sir, do you have a moment to talk about my broken heart?”
There is a 12-hour time difference between Bangkok and Texas. I call my mother at three in the morning, her time. And she picks up. Wonderful, blessed mothers. She listens. She commiserates. Then she tells me this:
“Honey, there are so many things you are good at. You are so talented. I was just at a Taylor Swift concert with your niece, and my God, she’s such a performer, but I hear those songs, Adam, and you could write those songs.”
So there’s that, I guess. A relationship ends, but I’m on my way to pop stardom. This will happen right after I submit my application to play power forward-cum-astronaut for the NBA’s international space squad.
She tells me almost the same thing that Claire said during lunch.
“If it’s meant to be, it will work itself out.”
If it’s meant to be.
The phrase implies some sort of a predetermined path, which runs completely against the grade of my life’s philosophy, which, admittedly, at age twenty-six, is frail and meager, because I don’t know anything about anything. Except how to play Playstation games. I can really play Playstation games.
There’s some truth to it, though, “meant to be.” Love isn’t something you trap and keep locked up. It’s not a dog on a leash or a bunch of plants in a greenhouse, or fireflies in a bottle. Love is something that travels time zones and oceans. It’s not panicky or afraid. You don’t hold on to love for dear life in a desperate attempt to keep it stationary. Love is calm and comfortable and peaceful. It waits when it needs to wait. And that’s important to remember. Fate might not be real, but I’m very convinced that love is real. I know it is, because I’ve felt it. And love — or at least the people behind that love — makes things happen. Not fate.
But sometimes love escapes.
Or you lose it.
Or you let it go.
You give it up, on purpose, because it’s the right thing to do at that moment in time. It’s the whole “if you love someone, set them free” college of thought. Another cliché, probably thought up by the same guy who coined “heartache” and “lovesick” and “meant to be.” Hitler, I think it was.
And then there’s the saying that goes, “love is a drug.” It is. Love is a high, and every time you get high, there’s the inevitable comedown that follows. For every action, an equal and opposite reaction. Newton’s Law of Emotion.
So I push myself through work and weekends, telling myself it was the right thing. Not the easy thing. The right thing. Maybe. I hope. You just keep going, immune to laughter and smiles and happiness, a big dose of Novocain on the part of the brain that allows anything but hopelessness and despair and grief. And nothing will fix it, not drugs, not sex, not food. Nothing, no matter how hard you try, except time. And time drags by with a weighted tread. But time does go on, and so does the world, and she is not dead, and neither am I, even though it sometimes feels like it would be easier if one of us were.
Memories of us, together – once fresh, stinging, and ripe — will slowly fade away until the gap between us is no longer purely physical, and is no longer a gap at all, for that matter, having become — suddenly, seemingly overnight — a chasm. She’ll have her life in New York. I’ll live mine in. We’ll sleep when the other is awake, eat different foods, and meet different people. We’ll grow apart. Our joined memories will become old and worn and fondly, if not a little sadly, remembered, like an old letterman’s jacket or a baseball mitt kept in a box, high in the attic above the real house where new memories are actively being manufactured.
The world, my life, will come back into focus; will become high definition, full color, resuming its original appearance. Things always do. They continue to roll forward until that one day, in the near future, when this won’t hurt anymore. And that might be the most tragic part of it all.
The wound will scab over and slowly heal — until a new one is ready to take its place and the big cosmic joke of it all starts all over again.

This Is How You Live

You could die in a hot-air balloon accident.

You could wake, one morning, to find your loved one cold and stiff in bed next to you, their lips thundercloud blue.

You might suffer a fatal infection from a rabid bat bite.

You might become locked in a battle — one you will eventually lose — against an invisible murderer, one who perches upon your shoulder, whispers in your ear, tells you to gobble the contents of that bottle of pills, to tie that rope around your own neck, to swan dive out that 19th-story window.
Your child, whom you will raise and breastfeed and teach to speak and walk and love, she could be ripped from this world in ways too myriad to list, almost as soon as your begin to cradle her frail, pink, soft, baby-scented body to your chest.

The cruel, gnarled roots of twisted fate that corkscrew and entangle and strangle and stifle, they’re more than enough to keep you awake at night, your eyes wide, rigor-mortised, plastered to the odd bumps and cracks and subtle shifts of your ceiling, which might have mold growing, seeping, brackish and vile, infecting its way down the yellowing plaster of the wall.
Your plane, while gliding along at a merry 3,000m, could be blown away by a not-so-rogue missile. Perhaps you were on page 217 of James Patterson’s latest novel, Alex Cross 44: In Space! Does it matter? Ha ha! Oh, you! You will not finish that book, never will — it was literally disintegrated in the resulting explosive shock wave that pulverized Rows 1-34, seats A-E, which, unfortunately, included yours, B19, a ticket you purchased on standby, and, in a stroke of uncharacteristic good fortune, were allowed to use after a woman, a would-be passenger, came down with a nasty case of strep throat. Or maybe that person, the one who bought the ticket and who didn’t finish that book; could’ve been, it was your wife, with that little faded scar on her upper lip and that slightly crooked nose you found so endearing, rendered to a fine bloody mist. Better her than anyone.

Pretty horrifying.

If you think, really think, toss aside religion and afterlives, peer through the lens of realism and pragmatism and through the filmy rheum of soft-boiled nihilism, well, there doesn’t seem to be much to live for.

But you do; you live. You do not spend the day coiled in cold-sweated bed sheets, clutching your precious sons and daughters, fiancées and fiancés, boyfriends and girlfriends and husbands and wives, brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers and aunts and grandparents and uncles — clutching yourself — to your chest, terrified of an errant motorist or an assault rifle-toting psychopath or the looming wraith-hordes of fatal diseases.

More likely than not, you don’t give any of it a second thought.
You pack those fears in an infinity-ton bindle, shoulder it and promptly forget it. And then you trudge, walk, sometimes race onward, and not once, not for the love of God, no thank you sir, do you pause and wonder and open that sack of horrors, not even for the slightest peek. For even a glance would mean to be sucked, immediately and forever, black hole, into the deep, viscous tar pit that is bubbling despair and sadistic fantasies of grief and sorrow and angst and loss and darkness.
No, you keep on hiking, hill after trail bend after rocky gorge after mountain vista, having acknowledged those fears and rejected them, not in terms of their potentiality, their titanium, bomb shelter-proof truths, but because it is the only way to defeat that against which you are Lilliputian, powerless, faceless and meaningless.

You lead a happy, full life in the face of prospective, all too often inherent future misery. And when that midnight blackness does bear down, wraps it razor blade-studded tentacles around your throat, you take your beating and you towel off and bandage up and you keep on truckin’. If you can.

You live in the eye of the hurricane, and it’s only a matter of time before that sucker brings the house down, tears apart the very foundation of all you’ve ever known. But there you stand, outside, rain-drenched, lightning rod raised skyward, screaming for that puppy to come on, to give you all it’s got.

The best, most admirable part of being human, that spite, the ability to, consciously or not, ignore the warning bells, the howling alarms, the crimson wind-torn flags pleading with you to stop, to listen, begging you to take notice, to understand that something is irrevocably, intrinsically wrong.
Instead you continue, uninterrupted, your search for — and sometimes discovery of — joy, love, excitement. You dig it up, suck it out from whatever crevices or crannies in which it may hide, gulp it down and grin, find it delicious and ask, please, for another taste.

A Guide To The Most Niche Dating Websites You Could Ever Sign Up For

Trying to find the right dating website has become a lot like dating itself. Search “dating” on the app store on any given phone, and you get 2,200 results, which means a lot of duds to find the right website for you.

In honor of love and playing Cupid, I went through the over 400 would-be dating sites at AngelList, a site for start up companies, to find the right place for you to to, well, start up your love life.

If you want to avoid the unwashed masses that use OkCupid, try Ivy Date, where members are chosen “based on their intellectual curiosity and outstanding character”, or Sparkology, “a curated dating site for young professionals” that verifies that all men are “graduates of top universities” and offers “white-glove concierge services.”

For those who don’t care where their dates went to college, there’s Truffle, which only bothers to check to make sure that a would-be date actually has a job (freelance writers need not apply).
Men who are disappointed with how infrequently they are treated like pieces of meat should try Supermanket, a dating marketplace “where women are the clients and men are the products.”
TheJmom.com is the “Jewish online dating site where moms do the matchmaking.” MyLovelyParent.com, in turn, is for children who don’t want their single parent to die a lonely death.
For South Asians exasperated with the long match-making process, there’s Simply Match Me.
At YourCauseorMine.com, you will only find people who will go to the same protests as you.
For those who’d rather protest the idea of all things romantic and just want a friend or two, try itsplatonic.com.
Cuddleup, for its part, is looking for investors into its “Lyft for cuddling” app, filling the hole for all those people who want a quick no-strings-attached cuddle and can’t afford a professional cuddler.
There was also an attempt to start a site for those mourning a recent break-up. According to AngelList, Wotwentwrong.com was to feature crowd-sourced relationship advice. Sadly, the site never seems to have gotten off the ground. Wotwentwrong indeed.

How To Fall In Love

Love is one of those things that finds you when you least expect it. You can’t really go hunting for it and you can’t predict it. What you can do is help facilitate not-expecting it.

Start by telling yourself that you’ll never fall in love. Look in the mirror every morning at your stupid ugly face and make a mental note that nobody could ever love someone who looks like you. Take a shower and let water pour over you, down the length of your mediocre body. There’s no way another human being could ever find that attractive. Dry yourself off and repeat your mantra to yourself. “I can do anything.” That’s a stupid fucking mantra. You are a dumb fuck. You will never amount to anything and nobody could ever love such a sad waste of space. Get dressed in anything, it doesn’t matter because all your clothes aren’t cool enough.

With your expectations sufficiently lowered (“none”), you can now proceed through life. Go to class, go to work, see your friends, see your family. Have a coffee, have a sandwich, have a beer. Life is pretty awesome! You have a lot of good stuff, and since you’ll never fall in love, that’s just one less thing to worry about. Enjoy each day the way you would regularly, watching your friends couple up and strangers embrace. That’s so nice for them! Go home and watch your favorite TV show, update your blog, go to bed, repeat.

Proceed like this for as long as necessary. It might be forever, but chances are it won’t be. Love will slowly creep up on you in the form of a new friend, a stranger, a one night stand that you can’t get out of your head, whatever. This is where your training comes in. Don’t be fooled by this new feeling! You are worthless, you are ugly, you are stupid and nobody will ever care about you. Ignore any advances. Perpetuate your worst traits to further solidify your unloveable persona. Love might be real, but not for you.

Eventually someone will figure you out. They’ll see through your exterior and decide you are wonderful. They’ll love the things you don’t like about yourself and they’ll inspire confidence. They’ll
resuscitate feelings you forgot you had, or maybe never considered before. Don’t fall for this. They can’t possibly love you. The feelings are false. This person is probably delusional. They have been mislead. It’s those new shoes you wore, it’s that funny joke you told, that honesty you showed, the way you looked at them that night. Fuck fuck fuck.

A person is starting to really care about you. You’ve tried to rationalize it away but you can’t anymore. You can literally feel them loving you. They might be crazy but they’re really convinced! Consider this instead of sleeping. Write it down in your private journal. Realize that love might actually be real for you too, against all odds. Try to fight this feeling because it goes against everything you’ve worked so hard for. “My mantra sucks and so do I.” Say it three times. Look in the mirror and try to hate your reflection. Stop smiling. Stop fucking smiling.
Turn on the radio. Pop songs are starting to make sense. Every song is real. Fuck! Turn off the radio. Go outside. The sun is shining and there’s a breeze. Something smells wonderful. Everything reminds you of the new feelings. Your brain starts making new connections between things and ideas. Snap, snap, snap snap snap. Everything leads back to them. New socks, scrambled eggs, polka dots, anything. This is too real. You are not built for this.
Wonder what else is real. Question everything. Predict several potential futures. Predict every potential future. Worry that this feeling might end somehow. Imagine yourself dying too soon. Wonder if you will ever feel like this again. Imagine your heart breaking. Imagine their heart breaking and feel like your heart is actually breaking as a result. Wonder if “soulmates” are a real thing. Worry that you will never sufficiently be able to thank them for everything. Wonder if they can tell you’re freaking out. Don’t say anything. Say literally everything. Fuck.
Look at yourself in the mirror. You’re still a little ugly but it doesn’t matter anymore. You’re still an idiot but it’s different now. Sit on the floor of the shower and let the water pour over your mediocre body and laugh. Everything is hilarious. Life is your mantra now. Everything is reaffirming. Love is real. Love is real even for you.

The Perks Of Being A Morning Person

I was a pretty normal teenager in that I often stayed up late on the internet. I didn’t “go out” a lot, because that was never my thing, but there was a distinct range of years right around when I started college, where I defied my circadian rhythm. Often playing Halo. Or Burnout.

Back then I could bounce back from only five or six hours of sleep much better than I can now, even though I’ve never been a coffee drinker.

Just a few years later, I was working a job where I had to leave for the bus at about 7:20 a.m. Since my job was hectic and I was usually starving well before lunch, I tried to always eat some kind of breakfast before work. But I was never hungry right after waking up, it usually took two to three hours for me to get hungry.

So, I would get up at 4:30 a.m., and half the time I’d be able to eat something before I left. Of course, when you have three hours to kill before leaving for work, you need something to do with that time.
I started finding ways to make use of that early morning jump start. I would produce music. I would write lyrics or read up on stuff. I would do graphic design or edit photos.
I do something similar now — I go to the gym (usually three times a week), but because it’s a complete zoo after typical business hours, I go before work when it’s practically empty. The best you can do after 5 p.m. is lay claim to one machine and pretty much only use that machine the whole time you’re there. The gym opens at 5:30 a.m. The (weekday) mornings I go, I get up at 4:50 a.m. On the weekend it opens at 7 so I “sleep in” until 6 or 6:30. On the mornings I don’t go to the gym, I usually try to do some writing, or catch up on email or other things.

Luckily for me, I’m not a huge social butterfly.

The one thing I have always loved about the early morning is the feeling that you are the only one, that you can slow down or even stop completely — just stand still — and take your time to look around, to breathe, to take everything in. Vehicle traffic is light or non-existent. There is almost no one out “in public” before sunrise other than joggers or sometimes dog walkers, and they usually just give you a nod of approval as if to say “nice morning, huh?”

It’s quiet, it’s still, it’s calm. There are no pressing deadlines, and best of all, you’re fresh, you’re at the peak of your energy for the day (at least I am). If you’ve already eaten breakfast, all the better.
It’s also pretty nice to watch the sun rise, when it’s not interfering with your attempts to actually be sleeping. It’s like greeting it at the horizon and saying “hello old friend, how are you today?”
There tends to not be any leftover party people stumbling home, no traffic screeching or honking, perhaps just the friendly clang of a streetcar going by.
And since most people sleep later than I do, with this lack of noise and distraction, I can concentrate — can focus — on getting things done (or at least getting started). In the afternoon the world is just too busy, too loud, too crowded. People are impatient to get home, a lot of people forget their manners. But at dawn, it’s calm, still, wide open for me to enjoy, and people are usually still half asleep. It’s hard to be rude when you’re half asleep.
Mornings are not as fun in the winter, but in the summer they can be gorgeous. It’s warm, possibly just the slightest bit humid out, but the heat is not yet stifling or oppressive. You can enjoy some sun and light before it feels like it’s trying to kill you. Fall is a bit disappointing because each day that pleasantness slips away, bit by bit, testing the limits and duration of your short-sleeved comfort. Spring is the reverse, each day is a case for optimism that maybe yesterday was the last cruelly chilly day you’ll have to face of the winter passed.
And of course, if you are fortunate to be in a happy co-habitation with a romantic partner at that time, mornings are wonderful because you get to watch your love in their most peaceful, relaxed state. You can quietly sneak out to do something nice for them (like make breakfast, or clean up), and then enjoy them waking up to the day in a nice way.
Being a morning person means getting to experience each day first, and arguably best. As long as I’m not tired, it is something I almost always look forward to.
So, good morning to you all — even if it’s night time when you read this. It’s morning somewhere!

What A History Of Self-Harm Is Like

I was 12 years old the first time I self harmed. It stung when the hot water from the shower touched it for the first time. But from that point on, I couldn’t stop. With every cut my admiration grew fonder and the razor became my best friend, but I needed more. So I began burning myself with lighters, erasers, anything that I could get my hands on that would leave a burning sensation on my skin. After a while, just the thought of not self harming left a bitter taste in my mouth. So I continued catering to my need of burning and tearing open my skin for 3 miserable years, and that was just the beginning of my fight to stay alive.

The best time for me to self harm was in the shower. So I made sure to shower every night and sometimes in the mornings before I started my day. I wouldn’t be 5 minutes into the shower before I grabbed the razor, bared down, and began making dozens of deep lines across my hip. After I was done, I would look at my artwork and begin to smile. I felt invincible , like no one and nothing could hurt me, nothing could take away my shine. But the feeling of being indestructible was soon overwhelmed by the distinct feeling of being numb. Numbed to the stinging sensation when the water hit my hip that I once loved, numbed to the fact that I was tearing open my once perfect skin and enjoying it, numbed to the fact that I was slowly killing myself, and I didn’t mind.

Soon after I discovered the feeling of being numb, it was like a black cloud hovered over me and sucked the love out of my heart. I was bitter, angry, mean, all of the things I swore to myself that I would never become. I began hating myself. I would look in the mirror and pull at my skin so hard it would leave bruises. I felt hideous, in fact, I felt as if I resembled a man. My facial features, at least to my eyes, were masculine. It got to the point to where I couldn’t leave the house, I couldn’t take pictures, I couldn’t go get the mail, without having make up on. Without my makeup, I felt like when people saw me, they thought, wow, she would be cute if her eyes weren’t so small, if her nose wasn’t so big, if her cheek bones were more defined. Along with this overwhelming feeling of self hate, came my best friend, depression.

Depression is an old friend. I met my dear friend, depression, in 4th grade, the first year I was bullied. I would cry in the mornings and beg my mom to let me stay home. I would tell her I was sick, that I threw up, or my throat was hurting. She, being the loving and caring mom she is, of course let me stay home. She had no idea how bad it was at school. I didn’t want her to know, just because I was terrified of it getting worse. Soon after I began crying and faking illnesses, I got to the point where I worried myself sick, literally. I got mono, also known as the “kissing disease”, in February of my 4th grade year. I honestly don’t know where I picked up the bug because I had never kissed anyone, so I assumed I caught it from the water fountain. I was out of school for over 40 days after I was diagnosed. I missed so much school, I had to go on home bound, which is when a teacher comes to your house once or twice a week, and gives you your work that you have missed. I didn’t get on home bound until around the last three weeks before I returned to finish my 4th grade year.

Ever since I met depression in 4th grade, she has stuck around. She left my life my 5th grade year, only to return 10 times as strong when I began my first year in middle school. My 6th grade year was hell, to be honest. The self harming was still very much an issue and my “friends” had left me behind for new people. My heart was broken, and so was my spirit. Girls at school began calling me a whore, a slut, ugly, fat, you name it. I was called it all. Girls tried to fight me, they tried to trip me in the halls, they turned people against me, and they made my only friend choose between me and somebody else. I had a lot to deal with. I don’t believe anyone, no matter if you’re 12, 13, 17, 30, or even 80 years old, should be put through so much. No one deserves that.

My crippling battle with suicidal thoughts, severe depression, self harm, anxiety, and BDD (Body Dismorphic Disorder), lead to my final breakdown and landed me a 6 day stay in a mental health facility. My family, friends, church family, and best friend, were shocked. They had no idea that I fantasized about dying, they had no idea that I imagined my mom walking in my room to find my lifeless body hanging there. These thoughts, feelings, cravings for death to be the answer drove me to insanity. But it also taught me a lesson about loving, fighting, breathing, and existing. It taught me that it’s okay to take medicine for you mental illnesses. It taught me that there is absolutely nothing wrong with seeking help. It taught me that I am strong, I can not be broken. I stared at suicide as it held it’s pretty hand out for me, but I resisted. I won.

Society now a days, throws a rock at you and yells catch, but before you can gather your thoughts, they throw 2 more rocks and expect you to be able to keep your head up, when the weight of all of those rocks is bearing down on your chest. This comparison to my experience with depression relates perfectly. I couldn’t keep my head up. I cracked under the pressure and thought that suicide was the only way out. But I’m not mad at myself for it. I grew as a person during this experience, and sure, recovering from wanting to die isn’t easy. There are days where I want nothing more than to pick up the razor and make art. But I can’t. I can’t do that to my family again. I can’t do that to myself again. I’m a fighter, and in the end, I will defeat depression. I will win.

Discovering Yourself Through Your Experiences

If you want to be happy, you need to be present in the moment, you need to open up your mind and eyes to see the universe from all different sides and angles. You need to be part of your own existence rather than live passively. There’s one bulletproof way to do so, and it’s to engage with your own life and push yourself into areas that are outside of your comfort zone. Even the smallest measures you take will count.

Have you ever heard of the term “momentphoria”? Well, you have now. Possibly because it has just been created. It’s not easy to explain certain situations that make you feel human but these moments are important because they somehow make you understand yourself better, in a magical yet realistic way. Momentphorias are certain experiences that occur when you feel inexplicably euphoric, as if an eruption of emotions that you did not know existed in you flows through your soul. They usually happen when you let go of familiar habits and experience something completely new to you.

It was that one summer afternoon, when my friend dragged me to my first yoga practice in the great outdoor with at least fifty other sweaty strangers, that I finally viewed life from an entirely different angle. Literally. The instructor guided us into our next position: the most uncomfortable one, downward facing dog. It was then when my whole perspective changed. I opened my eyes and what I saw left me feeling heavy with gratefulness. I saw mother earth upside down. And I don’t know if it was the zen-high functioning at the time, but I felt as though the weight of the entire planet was held in the palm of my hands. Yet, I also felt as light as a feather. As though I was falling against the sky, defying all laws of physics, gravity, and Newton’s apple. Newton was wrong at that specific moment. I felt small and not in a bad way, but in a way that is somehow liberating. If earth was this big and I was this small, then how tiny were my worries in comparison. I was in utter awe, hesitantly trying to keep my eyes open like a newborn child that is scared of the unfamiliar change of surrounding. But then I finally embraced the view of the sky and its endlessness, its infiniteness. In that moment, I fully acknowledged my existence in this humongous space that I often don’t give enough attention to. All it took was to see my world from the same lens but from an unfamiliar angle to make all the difference in my perspective. It took the patience to balance myself in discomfort on all fours, to really see the bigger picture that holds my existence together.
If you want to discover who you are, you need to discover what makes you shiver with passion. And in order to do that, you need to keep trying new things and experimenting new techniques to live by. It will make you happy, almost ecstatic to see what you will see, learn what you will learn, and feel what you will feel. The new things you choose to try may not be as comfortable as the new show you chose to watch on your couch, but at least they’ll have a solid impact on you. Often, just like anything worthwhile, the impact is not instant. But when you’re well down the road, you’ll look back and notice how much your choices changed you. Good things rarely happen when you religiously follow your routine. For example, a new and exciting job is somewhere outside your day-to-day life. It’s out there waiting for you to come in its direction. A new and exciting friend is also doing different adventures that are outside of your box of comfort, which is what makes them attractive in the first place. It only takes getting yourself out there to understand your purpose. Maybe you’ll change your perspective or maybe you’ll change your entire life. It doesn’t have to be an epic change of lifestyle; just doing one new thing every day can magically turn your dull life into an extraordinary one. And it will make you feel more alive than ever.

21 Things You Should Know By Age 21

1.

“Growing up” doesn’t suck. It’s a time of learning and adjusting, but would you really like to be back in that jail cell of a high school again? Yeah, didn’t think so.

2.

You were only friends with the majority of your high-school friends because you were forced to be with them seven hours a day, five days a week. There’s gonna be some separation, and the true friends will stick around.

3.

Absolutely nobody owes you any-fucking-thing. Not your mom or your dad, your grandparents, your teachers—nobody. Get off your ass and work for what you want.

4.

You, however, do owe yourself something more than Burnett’s or Smirnoff. Stop buying the cheapest alcohol on the shelf and treat yourself to something nice every once in a while.

5.

Getting new tires for your car is gonna be expensive, but don’t buy the cheap ones because you’re only cutting yourself short in the end.

6.

Take advice when you can get it. There are plenty of adults who are more than happy to give you their two cents on any given life topic. Take advantage of their wisdom and stop being so damn stubborn.

7.

Acting bitter toward the lovey-dovey couples you always see around is the reason why you’re single. No need to be judgmental of others’ relationships…focus on you and your nonexistent relationship. LOL

8.

Your nonexistent relationship is completely all right. Take time to truly get to know yourself before you begin to incorporate a whole new person into the picture.

9.

Facebook/Twitter/Instagram, etc. are awesome ways to keep up with friends, but you must realize that social media is where people share the best part of their lives. You don’t see their burnt dinners, their ugly breakups, their failed exams or posts about how much weight they have gained. Stop using it as a medium to compare lives.

10.

As much as paying rent sucks, at least you have the opportunity to do it. But, umm, pitching up a tent in the corner of the park next to the hobos is oh-so-tempting.

11.

Relying on a significant other to bring happiness into your life leads to countless tubs of ice cream, lonesome pizza binging, and a couple of tears. But mainly the first two.

12.

Family first. And family doesn’t automatically mean blood related. “Blood is thicker than water,” but ketchup is thicker than blood, so what does that mean? French fries first, duh.

13.

You may have it hard, but somebody has it harder, and they aren’t making up excuses as to why they can’t do something. They are making shit happen. Go make shit happen.

14.

It is not necessary to document everything you do on social media. You don’t need to put your whole life on display. Unplug yourself and have a little bit of fun.

15.

Saving money is probably a good idea and all. However, the tighter you hold onto your money, the more stress it’s going to bring you. Money comes and goes; it’s OK to splurge on random shit.

16.

Stay away from credit cards. Those pieces of plastic can fuck up your life real quick. Leave them for emergencies; otherwise it’s just not worth it.

17.

Baristas at Starbucks think it’s a funny game to intentionally spell people’s names wrong. I didn’t think it was possible to butcher a name as simple as Kate, but I’ve seen it happen with my own eyes.

18.

Sparkling water, Advil, ramen, and a good nap work magic on hangovers. Don’t knock it ’til you try it.

19.

Sometimes silence is the best answer.

20.

Chipotle is always the best solution.

21.

If you want to go ball up in your bed and have a good ugly cry, you are more than entitled to do so. Sometimes you’ve just gotta let it all out. But when you’re done crying, jump back on that horse and wreak havoc.

My Need To Be In Control Makes My Life Uncontrollable

I am a messy person. I talk without thinking all the way through the words in my head. I make impulsive decisions that, in hindsight, are very poor decisions. A seemingly endless amount of homework, books, notes, and papers completely crowd my desk. My bookshelf is stuffed beyond its capacity. My sheets are hardly every folded in place and my clean laundry is only returned from the hamper to my closet when I need to use the hamper to wash more clothes. The biggest tell of my messiness is my handwriting. If you were to compare my notes to the notes of a 3rd grader, I guarantee that you would find the 3rd grader’s notes more legible.

And yet, there is one thing about me that is organized, orderly and precise: my life. Or rather, I work the hardest at making my life as controlled as possible. I love making plans. I try to schedule everything. Even my studying is scheduled (30 minutes of studying with 10 minutes of break. These timed sessions are kept completely exact). I’m the freshman who voluntarily goes to the advising office to plan out my four years of college.

If there is any uncertainty or problem in my master schedule, I try to fix it the moment I notice it is an issue. But until the issue is fixed, the uncertainty eats at me. The anxiety of the uncertainty will continue to torture me until the uncertainty is made certain.
This happens to me in the seemingly most meaningless and stress-free situations. Like when I had to order my contact lenses during winter break before I returned to school. I freaked out over everything that could go wrong when I would call the office to order the lenses. What if I say something wrong? What if they won’t let me order them? What if the contacts don’t come in time? What if I can’t get them? What if I have to wear glasses for the next semester?
Just thinking about this experience makes me feel unpleasant. And of course, like everything I stress about, it all worked out just fine.
It’s even worse when the plans must be changed. There have been many instances where I have cried over an unforeseen need for me to change the plans I had previously carefully laid out in my head.
I know how ridiculous this all sounds. I really wish I weren’t this way. I wish that I could have the maturity to know that everything will work out just fine. I wish that such a simple task of reorganizing a plan would not stress me out to tears.
And yet, I continue this life of anxiety. It’s my addiction for control. How ironic that my quest for the control of my life causes my sanity to spiral out of control.

How To Date Women When You’re An Invisible Femme

I like things with lace and sequins and bows and pearls. I am unapologetically guilty of wearing leggings as pants. Many days of the week I make use of a dreaded device commonly known as an eyelash curler.

I look like your average 20-something cisgendered woman…and I like to date women.

People rarely, if ever, assume I’m queer when they look at me. Even for other queer people, my queerness isn’t usually perceptible. It’s hard to detect through the projected aura of my French manicure.

I know I’m not the only queer woman in a frilly dress and five inch heels with pink lipgloss. There are plenty like me. And not of all of them have trouble finding a girl to date. But I’m sharing my story for the queer girls out there who do feel invisible. This is for the girls who want to date girls, but wonder “With boring hair like this, how will I ever get her to notice me?”
In the modern day queer world there isn’t a code. Last year, I read an article about finger flagging, the idea that lesbians paint their ring finger nail a different color to signify their preference for women. That is great in theory, if you are able to examine people’s hands without looking like a weirdo, but even if you accomplish that, the sparkly ring finger is now a popular style for every twelve year old and their moms. There is a lot of advice out there for combating femme invisibility with a triangle ring, or one feather earring, but what if that just isn’t your style? Without any reliable way to visually communicate that you like ladies, what is a femme, particularly a new femme, to do?

Throughout my life I’ve found people across the gender spectrum to be attractive, but my early dating life involved a lot of boys. I had it all figured out. I knew how to snag them and keep them wrapped around my finger.

And then a gorgeous chapstick lesbian with her short hair and her tie walked into the room. There she was! The one I’d been waiting for – the woman I found both mentally and physically exciting. I was totally ready to date my first girl.

Except I wasn’t. Take all of the butterflies and nausea of a normal crush and add on the “It’s so awkwardly obvious that I have no idea what the heck I’m doing!” factor. And because every time I ran into her I just so happened to be wearing a new dress from Forever 21, she wasn’t making any moves.
I tried my usual strategies, but for some reason my lingering hugs didn’t seem to make her weak at the knees and she didn’t even notice when I accidentally/on purpose brushed my ankle against hers. I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong. My milkshake had systematically brought several men to the yard, but she wasn’t having it.
There were two main factors standing between me and a lifetime of love with this girl. One was the fact that intimacy between girls and their friends is seen as normal. In high school, my best friend and I would hold hands and skip down the hallway together and nobody gave it a second thought. So when I thought I was turning up the charm, this girl thought I was just being friendly. Later on she told me that she had literally shrugged and thought to herself “I guess this is how straight girls make friends.” Sigh.

Soon after meeting her, I entrapped her in a conversation about the qualities I liked in a partner. I painted a romantic picture of my ideal date, thinking she would see herself there and desperately want to make it happen. When she told me that she was looking for someone that she could stay in bed with all day, I told her I was good at that. She couldn’t possibly misconstrue what I was getting at, right? Wrong.

The other major factor working against invisible femmes is that because your outward appearance doesn’t clearly shout, “Hey, look at me! Queer lady over here!” you have to find another way to send that message.
My insinuations got through, but I had confused the heck out of her! She remembers trying to decipher my “mixed messages” with her roommate, insisting that I was straight but unable to ignore my strategy of aggressive flirtation. She started to think that I was just flirting with her because I liked the attention. I didn’t know how to convince her otherwise so, being the stubborn woman that I am, I just kept doing what I was doing. Eventually she caught on to the fact that I actually wanted to date her, but because I never clearly said so, she assumed that I wasn’t brave enough to take the leap, and she wasn’t going to do it for me.
This is not to say that other queer women are utterly clueless when it comes to femmes. And they aren’t baseless in being careful about dating someone who is seemingly straight. Let’s acknowledge that messiness and save it for someone else’s article, because even knowing that doesn’t make it any easier.
You’re probably wondering why I didn’t just say something. How hard would it have been to take the reins and tell her that I thought she was really great and that I wanted to take her out some time? Sure, that seems obvious now, but at the time that seemed terrifying.
It also seemed like the only viable option. So, after months of crushing on this girl, I finally asked her to go out with me, wouldn’t take no for an answer, took her to a gay bar, and kissed her on the middle of the dance floor. And that was that. No amount of volunteering to help with her projects, subtly touching her shoulder, or even telling her that I wanted to lie in bed with all day was going to open the door for me.
You see, fellow invisible femmes, the world has been conditioned to see our barrettes and patterned tights as a sign that we totally want boys in our pants. Sure, you could cut off all of your hair or put on a plaid shirt, but as my mama always said, “Stop bugging me and just tell me what you want already!”
In the end, a combination of awkward persistence and blunt honesty worked for me. So rock that mini skirt, flaunt your fake lashes. Just be prepared to actually tell a girl that you want to take her home.

How It Feels To Have Lost My First Love

Everyone tells you how much it will hurt when you go through your first breakup. You see it in movies, you hear about it from your parents, and you watch your friends go through it. But no amount of sappy movies or stories from other people can prepare you for what it feels like when it’s your turn to experience it first-hand.

My ex and I had first met a couple of times at parties and what not but I had never really noticed him until one night in particular. It was late in May and the weather was just starting to get warmer. A bunch of us had gathered in our friends’ backyard for some drinks. I remember looking at him and wondering where I had seen him before – something about him just caught my eye. I pulled up a chair and we started talking. We just clicked so well almost instantly. It was as if I had known him forever even though we had just met. I couldn’t tell you what we were talking about but I remember laughing and laughing and laughing literally all night. When everyone was leaving he me asked for my phone number, and we were literally inseparable since that day.

We fell in love so fast. We couldn’t get enough of each other. I wanted to do everything with him. There was nothing I could think of that would be more fun than going on an adventure with this incredible human being. We just had so much fun together. He was always there to help me when I needed him and I was always there to help him, too. Falling asleep in his arms was the greatest feeling there was. If I was sad or scared or having anxiety all I had to do was feel his arms around me and none of it mattered anymore. Months and months went by and these feelings just never changed for me. If I’m being completely honest, they still haven’t.
Of course we had our fair share of fights. If you don’t have arguments in your relationship then you don’t care enough about the person your with. There were definitely times where we got carried away and maybe said some things we didn’t mean, but at the end of the day one of us would apologize and we would spend the rest of the night making it up to each other. I never could have predicted that one day that wouldn’t be how it was.

One day in late January we got into the silliest little argument but for some reason it just wouldn’t blow over like these things usually did. He seemed to have shut down. He didn’t want to talk or work it out and I couldn’t help but feel confused. That night he drove to my house at 2am with tears streaming down his face. I came out of my house and sat there in the car next to him. After a long period of silence he stopped crying long enough to spit out the words “I just don’t think I love you like I used to.” At first, I felt everything go numb. Then, I went into a state of complete denial. I put his head on my shoulder and held him close, telling him that wasn’t how he felt, he must just be confused because of an argument we had gotten into earlier that day. He agreed with me and amazingly we stayed together after that.

I should have let him break up with me and drive away that night. I was wrong. He really didn’t love me like he used to anymore – but I couldn’t force myself to accept it. The next couple of months were really difficult. We started fighting almost every day because we wanted different things. He grew a sort of distain for me because I couldn’t let go of him, and he didn’t want to hurt me, so he stayed. He was unhappy. He wanted to be single so he could party with his single friends and hit on slutty single girls at parties, and I was the only thing that was standing in his way.
It’s crazy and unfair how love can be unrequited. How could he have just fallen out of love so fast? It didn’t make any sense to me and I guess that’s why until the very end I had tried to tell myself it couldn’t possibly be true. Picturing my life without him was a terrifying thought. When you have one person right there with you every day for a long period of time, being without them is scary. He was the one person I told everything to, and I couldn’t accept the fact that he just didn’t want to be that person for me anymore.

Eventually all of this blew up and he just decided it was time to let me go. He had gone on long enough pretending to be happy with me when he wanted something completely different and this time I didn’t beg him to stay. I mean, what’s the use of continuing to love someone with all of your heart if they can’t do the same for you?

Being without him was worse than I could have ever thought it would be. Nobody will be able to prepare you for the emptiness you feel when you lose your first love. I felt physically sick, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, and I was just a complete and total mess. I was crying everywhere I went – on the bus, at work, in school, in the shower, and especially when I was alone in my room. It isn’t like they make it seem in movies. You know how it goes. The girl who got dumped is sad and depressed, and then the guy wakes up one morning and realizes he made the worst mistake of his life. Next thing you know, John Cusack is standing outside of her room blasting “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel on a boom box, refusing to leave until she takes him back. That doesn’t happen in real life. In real life, the only boy I have ever truly loved left me because he just really wanted to be single and experience his 20s, and he doesn’t regret that decision at all.
At times like these it’s important to remind yourself that it isn’t your fault. There was nothing I could have done to change his mind. Sure I could’ve cried and begged for him to stay – and he probably would have – but it wouldn’t have changed the fact that this relationship was something he didn’t want to be part of anymore. One day he woke up and realized that the path he was on is nowhere near the path he wanted to be on, and who was I to hold him back from that? Besides, if he thinks he’ll be happier getting with random girls at parties than he would be with me then he’s kind of a douche anyway, right?
It’s been a week since the last time I spoke to him and I’m still not okay by any stretch of the word. There are pieces of him everywhere. His old soccer t-shirts and all the presents he’s ever given me are still scattered around my room. It’s ridiculously hard to let him go, (maybe because I didn’t think I’d ever have to). My favorite quote from John Green says “You can love someone so much, but you can never love people as much as you can miss them.” He will always have a special place in my heart, and I will never forget him or the love we shared. I don’t regret a minute of loving him because it was the best feeling I’ve ever had and it was nothing short of an adventure. They say time heals all wounds and I have never hoped more that this saying is true. To any girl who’s going through the same thing, you are definitely not alone. Heartbreak is a very real feeling and right now the only things that can help are some sappy movies, a really good breakup playlist, and surrounding myself with friends and people who remind me that everything is going to be okay.

The Hidden Life Of A Music Producer

I’m new here so I might as well introduce myself.

My name is Adam, I’m from a small town in the United Kingdom, I work as an Insurance Advisor as well as working as a DJ in local bars and venues. So to you I’m just another dude walking through his path of life. Now here I am writing to give you an insight into a life that no one sees, not you, not my friends, just Me, Myself and I

People approach me while I’m behind the decks and say things along the lines of “Wow! You’re a DJ, you must have such a great life and get so many girls and get laid all the time blah blah blah…” and yeah, don’t get me wrong I love what I do, there is nothing on this Earth that can relate to the feeling of seeing a room or arena full of pissed up people loving the music you’re playing and giving it their best dance moves, even if it looks like they’re having a seizure. Basically the way it goes is: If they’re having a good time, I’m having a good time.

And while I’m fulfilling my passion, there is not a lot ‘great’ about this line of work, or my life for that matter.

People assume that just because I’m a DJ means I’m the most popular person walking into a club, girls clinging to me like plastic wrap and every guy wanting to be me. This is far from true, in fact, this is probably one of the loneliest jobs you could work.

I’m on the road a lot, although I work weekly at the bar I have residency at I still ‘tour’ and work in other venues, I hardly get time to see my friends, I suffer from chronic depression, which in turn leads to fluctuating confidence levels, and while girls love DJ’s (this is a well-known fact) they love confidence more, and can smell an unconfident guy as if he had shat himself 5 miles away.

This contributes to the depression greatly, and I know there are many others (DJ or not) who know how this feels, so here I am writing to tell you how I cope.

I make music.

A lot of music.

When things play on my mind to the point where I’m feeling at the brink of suicidal, I sit in the bedroom studio for hours on end producing House music. Sitting there and doing something productive takes all the pain away from your mind and focuses it on the new track you’re making, and my mood at the time often has effect on the music I make.

And when the track’s finished, I sit there with a grin on my face, feeling accomplished as I click ‘Upload’ on SoundCloud.

And it works.

Every time I do this my mood sorts itself out, I no longer hate myself (for the moment), and my confidence soars to the point where I’m doing quite well in the sex life department.

Then a couple of weeks later I’m back to my usual self, feebly watching my crowd dance the night away, unable to maintain a conversation with a woman, and then back in the studio I go.

So I love my job, but at the same time, my job will be the death of me. So to those feeling the same, know that there is a place in society that only YOU alone can fill. Play the hand you were dealt.

Life Lessons From Growing Up On A Farm

Ralph is not your typical run of the mill granddad. This man is over six feet tall with hands the size of my face. He’s weathered from the long days spent on the farm and has a “this is how it is” kind of attitude. He wears overalls seven days a week and is usually sporting a trucker hat from either a feed store or some other bizarre place he’s been. He doesn’t blame anyone for anything and takes things at face value. He is just as strict and coarse as he is forgiving and gentle. Ralph is the kind of man who, when he towers over you and tells you to do something, you ask if there is anything else you can do. Don’t disagree with Ralph; that was the unspoken rule.
Now on a farm in Oklahoma you can pretty much do whatever you damn well please. I started riding horses as a child and found that the farm was a place of safe haven for me. I could go to granddads for the weekend pretend to be Wyatt Earp and ride across the plains searching for outlaws. I continued going to the farm to ride horses, dehorn and castrate bulls, brand cattle and play cowboy. As time progresses little boys grow to be teenagers and so on. Soon I was taught how to drive the old farm truck. Now this is just a small two door, standard transmission Toyota pick up that’s already beat to hell. But to me, this was a brand new cherry red Ferrari. I drove that thing like a mad man. I would tear across the fields, rip through any water I could find, and “herd the cattle”. Well it wasn’t too long before I found out that an old 90 something Toyota is no Ferrari.
I was screaming across the field one day and decided to try my hand at a few drifts. Now with Oklahoma being the way it is dry and dusty, drifting was very feasible. The first couple attempts weren’t too bad — I would gun it and then slam on the brakes and turn to the right. Yea I slid a little…but I think I need just a little more speed. Yea that will do it. OK. Here we go… Slam it in to first peddle to the metal. There we go 3000 rpm’s time for second gear. Done. Now were gaining some speed ok shift to third… Keep on pushing, fourth gear there it is.
Now I’m flying down the old gravel road way faster than any 14 year old who can barely see over the steering wheel should be. I crank the wheel to the right and pop it into neutral then slam on the brakes. Ohhhh yea were sliding baby! Wait a minute uh ohh, ohhh no this isn’t good. The world starts to go vertical on me. Next thing I know the truck has flipped onto the drivers side. I’m trapped inside the cab. My door is flush with the ground. The windshield is cracked from one side to the other. The passenger door is jammed and I can’t get out.
…
Now keep in mind this is a farm truck. So as I look around I notice that the old coffee can that was in the passenger seat is now no longer filled with the nails it once held. There are nails everywhere! And I’m not talking your little house hold nails that you use to hang that “artsy” photo you picked up at hobby lobby. I’m talking big ass farm nails. Nails used to hold fences together. Nails you drive through steel when your fixing the feed trough. I was scared out of my wits! So finally I am able to squeeze through the window out the back of the cab into the truck bed and out onto the dirt. Keep in mind I am fourteen years old wearing black jeans, a black long-sleeve shirt with pearl snaps and of course my cowboy boots. Now as a fourteen year old I have seen my fair share of car chases in the movies. When a car flips over it explodes. That’s just the way it is. So as far as I’m concerned at the given moment I have just barely escaped with my life!
I’m about a half a mile away from the house, so I’m not worried that Ralph saw. But I’ll tell you what. That was THE longest walk of my life. So the whole way back I’m thinking to myself what am I going to say? What will he do? Maybe he will castrate me like we do the bulls. Oh god this is going to be terrible. “God if you let me live through this I will never ever…”followed by tons of empty promises. So after my own Green Mile Walk I am nearing the house. Oh god he’s already outside. Why, why does he have to be outside!? So I get closer he’s leaning on the fence chatting with one of his buddies about who knows what probably where to move the cattle or what truck he’s gotta fix next. Who knows. So I muster up the courage, walk right up to him, and blurt out “I flipped the truck in the pasture.” He looks at me…Looks out to the pasture… Looks back down on me and says “Well we better get the tractor and flip her back over.” I can’t believe my ears. What has just happened there is no way there are no repercussions from this. I don’t have to go find my own switch for you to spank me with? My mother has told me stories. This can’t be happening. So we saunter over to shed, find ourselves a heavy duty chain, fire up the tractor and head out to the pasture. Me perched on the over sized wheel well of the tractor dreading what’s to come, him driving down the gravel road as comfortable as if he were in a rocking chair on a Sunday morning.
Ralph hooks up the chain to the truck then the other end to the front loader on the tractor. He flips it back over then turns to me, “Welp, get in there and start her back up.” I look at him like he is crazy. “Are you kidding me?! That truck is going to explode.” He was adamant that I must get in the cab and start it. However I think he quickly realized that I to was adamant about not getting anywhere near that truck. I was terrified. He understood. He strolled over to the truck, tried starting it a few times, then showed me the battery cable was disconnected. We reconnected it. He tried again. Nope the engine was flooded (or something to that effect) we waited. Finally the truck started again. He was patient as he told me I would need to drive the truck back to the house. After some careful thought and seeing him (as far as I was concerned) risk his own life starting the engine. I decided I would most likely survive a short drive to the house. We got back to the house. Not much was said about me flipping the truck. We had a few laughs about it but nothing more. He knew it was just a farm truck and I think he was happier that nothing had happened to me.
I’ve thought about this experience quite a few times over my life. There are a few lessons I pull from it. Using compassion allows for healing where as reprimanding tends to cause people to shut down. Had my granddad not had any compassion I quite possibly could have never gone back to the farm on my own. I would have been scared to death of him. However he took pity on me, realized I was a young boy and that I didn’t know any better. He didn’t chastise me for the mistake and then send me inside. He helped me work through it. He taught me that even if you make a mess you still need to clean it up. He welcomed me back with open arms and then showed me how to take care of the problem. Sure I was a little terrified of going fast in the fields after that but with good reason. Ralph taught me too have compassion for others. To listen and help solve the problem instead of telling others what they have done wrong. He showed me how to immediately forgive someone and how to find a solution. Had my grand dad Ralph not helped me that day. I would not have this story to tell. I would not have this fond memory of him. Now as I look back, I am able to recall a time when my granddad loved me and taught me to be a man.

6 Things To Remember When You Go Holiday Shopping

1. Unless the cashier/sales person has done something to personally offend you, FIND A MANAGER. Retail workers do NOT get paid enough to deal with your complaining bullshit.

2. If you’re one of those people who don’t trust plastic and prefer to write check, BRING CASH. The lines are going to be long enough already so please be considerate of the other shoppers. No one wants to stand behind you and watch you write a check when we all know that a debit card is the same thing.

3. If you feel the need to return something on Black Friday or Super Saturday, lie down until that feeling passes. Now I know that sometimes it’s unavoidable (i.e. you can’t get the same sale price unless you get that new size/color on the same day, it’s a time sensitive gift) but if you have absolutely no choice, at least remember these rules:

• Have your receipt readily available.

• If the same person who does returns is also the cashier, don’t walk up to them expecting immediate attention. Get in line with everyone else.

• If you don’t have your receipt, that’s your own fault. You can either get store credit or do an exchange. You can NOT get angry with the associate. They are just following the rules.

4. ALWAYS pay attention to signage. I understand that unless you’ve worked retail, you don’t understand how to properly read SKUs or how some things are abbreviated BUT, you can at least attempt to double check the price yourself before you stop everything at the register for a price check. The holidays make all stores crazy messy. This brings me to my next point….

5. PUT THINGS BACK WHERE YOU GOT THEM! This should be a no brainer. I mean, it’s what we learned how to do in pre-school. Unfortunately though, Christmas shopping makes everyone forget their manners and they leave things in all sorts of places.

6. Be kind to others. People are quick to lose sight of what this time of year is really about. Before you push someone to grab the last copy of Frozen ask yourself, “Is it really worth it?” Whatever it is you feel the need to be aggressive towards others for, I PROMISE you will find another one before December 25^th. There are always sales throughout the season so it’s worth a few extra bucks if you get to also keep your dignity.

How I Fell In Friend-Love With My Person

It was my boss’s birthday party, and the bar was dark and crowded. I was nervously picking at my co-worker’s plate of cheese and olives, and trying to make conversation. It was one of my very first opportunities getting to know them outside the office, and I was excited to socialize with them and their friends as we toasted to the big man’s good health and chattered amongst ourselves in the back room of the delightfully dingy, candlelit Berlin bar.

She sat at the opposite end of the table. Tall, blonde, and strikingly beautiful. Her bone structure was killing me, and though I try to keep such thoughts out of my head, I instantly conceded to my high school-ish insecurities, figuring that a woman that winsome would be flighty or mean. I’d had bad experiences with the pretty ones. So when my other boss, who sat beside her, introduced us, and announced that she would be attending the letter writing workshop I was hosting in a few days, I was tickled, nervous, excited, all at once. I sheepishly smiled and quickly ducked off to the restroom.

Only one other person signed up for my workshop, and I’ll admit I was a pinch nervous, as it was my first time instructing a group, however small. I wrote down a little speech to give about the lost art of letter writing, why it was so important to me, and why it deserved a sacred place in modern society. I even included some quotes by mostly famous dead people about the romance and beauty of hand penned correspondence.
Natalie — that was her name — smiled and listened, and took photos of me while I talked. She didn’t laugh. She wasn’t laughing at me. This was not what I expected. I didn’t mean to expect anything, but old habits die hard, and I was used to being met with sharp laughter and some cloying statement like, “Oh, how cute. You’re so into this, aren’t you?” In fact, we drank wine and crafted the night away, talking about a shared love of writing, travel, adventure, the joy of life itself, and what had led us to Berlin. I biked home in a buzzed state of girl crushing contentment, grinning and rosy cheeked the whole way.

There was an initial testing period that consisted of Natalie sending me links to artists and playlists I might like, and we retweeted, favorited, liked, tagged, and “Oh, girl! Me too!”-ed each other until it was clear this friendship was on like Donkey Kong.

But it’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment our friendship became “official.” There isn’t usually that one moment in time that a lightbulb or heart appears over a person’s head and they realize, “I love this person! I’m her Harry, she’s my Sally. That person is my person!”

Was it on Halloween, when instead of getting mad at me for having one too many at her private company party and hunkering down over a toilet at the karaoke bar until she had to carry the half dressed sun goddess out to a cab (which I proceeded to get us kicked out of), she brought me back to her flat, fed me bread, Tylenol, and water, and let me share her bed and wear her fluffy slippers?
Or was it when we went on our first trip together, sharing our mutually incurable wanderlust and melancholic vibes, poring over books and sitting together in silence, each penning equally deep thoughts in our journals, taking breaks to sullenly stare out the window as the Danish countryside stretched out before our eyes?
Was it the first time we argued? Me, upset and internalizing some random comment that she made (honestly, not even about me, and made after a day of traipsing all over town and not getting enough time alone), and refusing to talk about it, sulking and feeling miserable for over a week? Because when someone matters to you that much, you can’t go to sleep angry, or sad, or mad. You’ll be haunted until you patch things up. That’s how love works. That’s friendship.

I can’t say when it happened, but she became my person, and even better, I became hers. And it’s been a lot of work, it hasn’t been easy. We live in different cities and time zones now. She has a terrific job that makes her happy, and I’m scrounging around doing odd jobs to support my writing.

She’s a little more April Ludgate, I’m a lot more Leslie Knope. She reaches the top shelf for me, and I run to save us prime seats on the bus or train, so she can amble along at her own pace to meet me. She takes my picture, and I dance whimsically as she captures me the way she sees me. When I stayed with her parents and her mom discovered I was nearly five years younger than Natalie, she asked me, puzzled, “What on Earth are you two doing together? What an unlikely pair.”

But when I think about how much I love her sometimes, my heart swells to twice its usual size, a lump emerges in my throat, my nostrils flare, and my eyes tear up. It’s not easy to explain, but that’s how I know someone belongs in my chaotic journey of a life.
In my life, people don’t usually stick. They are a revolving door of sparkly new characters. And at first, I was genuinely skeptical of her. She was my “type”— a strong, independent, leading woman character. Combined with my forces, sometimes a combustible pairing. Would she try to manipulate me? I’d been hurt by pretty puppeteers before, so these fears weren’t coming from out of left field.
But she didn’t give up on pursuing our friendship when I was wary, and where she too had walls, I didn’t relent in loving her and tearing them down. It was the first time I hadn’t thrown in the towel and instead decided to stick it out, because it was worth it. She’s worth it. 100 percent. Every time.
So whether we lay in darkness and silence listening to Nick Drake records and feeling morose because we’ve death and despair on the brain, or whether we ride trains and drink cheap beer in parks, laughing and looking down the bottle to make ships and shapes out of tumultuous waves of ale, the time is well spent.
And I thank my lucky little stars I have her, because I waited a long time for her. Most little girls go to sleep at night thinking about their future husband—please be handsome, please be kind, be strong, be rich. But I thought, God, please give me just a friend who is kooky and weird like me, someone I can talk to and share clothes with and giggle about boys with.
I began to lose hope because we always moved and changed schools, and they never wrote back. My forget me not anthem became so tired and desperate, I almost believed myself invisible, capable of mysticism beyond my reach. I learned the art of letting go, and letting go again. And to open up quickly like a flower, and just as quickly wilt and fade away, because nothing is permanent.
But it all led me to the nomad.