December 1st

When people ask me what I do, it’s sad that writer has grown more and more distant from my identity in the past few years.

I’ve been stuck. I have been so stuck. Writing is such an extension of yourself. To put your mind garble into words and publish it takes a good amount of knowing yourself. A sureness in what you’re saying. Well, I’m starting to realize that I’m not sure if I know what my point is anymore. I’ve lost that sureness within myself.

And how unfortunate. You can’t just get it back. I can’t read over my past writings and hit a resurgence. That’s a version of me stuck in time. We don’t relate anymore. I can’t borrow old confidence. I have to find new confidence in who I am now. But like…where?

I’ve come a long way as far as character development over the past few years. I used to be very closed off from people, the world, and my own emotions. And today has become one of those times where I’m reminded of a big catalyst of that development for me. Today, December 1st, marks the day one of my best friends died two years ago. He meant more to me than I completely understood until I lost him. And without that friendship, I’m not sure when I would have shed my defenses. It’s possible I’d be that same hurting, boarded-up-heart to this day.

I like the person I’ve come into. I wouldn’t wish to go back to who I was before. But, this is where I find my thoughts at odds. Lost in between 1.) being proud of the progress I’ve made in love, managing and expressing emotions, sympathizing and empathizing with others, and 2.) setting myself up to be constantly hurt and disappointed because the world functions on another selfish, inconsiderate, and hostile axis. I feel like I was happier being an asshole. People didn’t take my kindness for weakness. There was little to no risk of losing people and things because I poured very little of myself into anything. I considered friends more like human resources for whatever worth I gave them, and they were dispensable. I was comfortable. I was in control, but it was so empty.

Now here I am in all my personal growth from that emptiness, trying to love unconditionally in a cancel culture. To put it simply, I’m facing some serious discouragement and defeat right now. I posted about it before, how 2018 felt hopeless and miserable because the progress I was making was more loss and clearing my life of things that weren’t good for me, and fewer gains. I felt 2019 was a big turn around. I thought I was finally seeing my future coming into place and I was getting excited to step into it. Now I’m hitting some changes that have killed that excitement and left me in the same small, crushed, and questioning state I was in two years ago.

My friend Mateo was such a dynamic individual, I struggle a little sometimes thinking y’know, I wish we traded fates because he would’ve done so much more with this time than I have.

I know that’s no way to think. I’m trying to not let that be the stopping point in my streams of consciousness. So what is next?

I first heard this song on an airplane heading from Morocco to France for a layover before heading home. Anderson .Paak wrote it as a tribute to Mac Miller, who’s death occured within the same year I was mouring Mateo’s death. The moment just stuck with me as I was looking out of the window from the sky and hearing the lyrics,

I’m workin’ on a world premiere
And I could see the world from here
They ask me where I’m going from here
Shit, anywhere long as the runway is clear

It was so fitting. I had it on repeat for the whole flight. And I’ve gotta realign my mind to think like that, I’m working on a world premiere. And I’m rebuilding that confidence to share it, even when I’m shaky on the delivery.




Much Ado: Get Your Own Pen

Don’t ask me for a pen.

You’re not getting one.


Never ever again.

I don’t care if it’s somehow a matter of life or death. You better ask someone else.

And you can thank all of the awful thieves that have left me bitter and jaded. I’m not getting over it and don’t you dare tell me I’m overreacting. I want my mother{expletive}ing pens back.

I’m a writer. I care about pens. I always have one on me. Actually, I always have at least four or five on me of assorted colors. I need those. Every. Last. One of them. Have I shown you my notebooks? Here, look at a page.


I also color code my life so it’s easier to see what I need to do in a day in my agenda book. Writing and blogging gets written in light blue. My knitting projects are in dark blue. Work is green, because money. My internship duties get written in red, because they’re time sensitive. School stuff is orange, because orange is very meh. Fun things are pink, and errands are black. Guess which one is MISSING? Only the most important, the pink one. Is this what you wanted rotten thief? To take all of my fun away? No fun for me? Thanks a bunches! I do you a favor and this is how your repay me? Noted. You hear that? NOTED.

What absolutely infuriates me about things like this is at some point, it’s my fault. I’m the one who keeps putting my faith in inconsiderate, forgetful morons. Expecting them to return my belongings. I know better than that.

People prove to me every hour of every day that they aren’t worth my trust. And worse than being mad at inconveniences like this one, is the self awareness I’m cursed with that shifts the ultimate blame onto myself.

The only joy in being angry is directing it at something or someone.

You can sit there and think about how they’re the worst. How you’re pretty much a saint for trying to aid them in their unpreparedness; oh the poor, lost soul who can’t think of possibly needing to write something in a day. How much you suffer for the sake of literacy and preserving language. How much better you are than them because you would have returned a pen you borrowed. You’re a thoughtful person like that. You know the pain of having your belongings snatched away from you, and you’d never bring that kind of pain upon a fellow man. The world is lucky that people like you still exist.

But I can’t be angry at anyone but myself. That takes out all of the sick pleasure of being mad and that’s just depressing. So now I’m mad, and self loathing, and I have no outlet because it’s not like I can write, because where the fizzityuck are my pens???

You know when the naive among us ask why bad things happen in the world?

Well, I have a theory…