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Addiction, Schmediction

I’ve been obsessed with personality tests lately. From Meyers-Brigg to BuzzFeed ‘What donut are you?,’ from Kibbe Body Types to Color Seasons - I can’t stop. I think I’m looking for some sort of answer to myself - a guide, a list, a chart. Something I can follow without thinking, because thinking seems to get me in trouble. I’m indecisive; I will stand in the freezer aisle for 10 minutes, trying to pick the perfect ice cream flavor for this moment in time. I want to try everything, taste everything; I’ve not been able to settle on a career, a city, a lifestyle. I can’t seem to dig down through all the layers of “should want” to figure out what I do want. I’ve felt lost for a very long time. For my entire adult life. Some things are starting to come into focus, like I know I love writing, but so much else still feels hazy. You can see how BuzzFeed quizzes would be helpful to a person in my situation. It all started innocently enough. A few years back, as part of the onboarding process a...
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I'm Not Cool

I was applying for a job with the Roads Department, they needed a writer for writerly things. I actually have experience working on a road crew (a very random summer job - I was in The Union!, such a Woman of the People). So I’m trying to mention it in the cover letter, An opportunity I had once upon a summer of my misty yesteryears to labor amongst the masses on a road crew most fair , is how I understood from my friend and cover letter reviewer, P, that I had written about the experience. I was both indignant and confused. “How else am I supposed to say it?” “Just say I spent a summer in college working on a road crew. It rocked ,” he said. “Can’t you just be cool?” “Not really, no.” Is how I wish I responded. You know, be a cool girl admitting she is not cool but showing that she actually is cool by admitting she isn’t cool. However. Looking back, I must confess my actual reply was more along the lines of me shrieking “Alas, for no! I cannot!” and flinging myself upon the cardboard...
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Vampires!

I was super into vampires in junior high. This was not Twilight (which was a Vampire Revival for me as a young adult) but Anne Rice. I had a terrible crush on Lestat. In addition to wanting to make-out with Lestat and other such loin frothing, there was also the hope that Lestat Incarnate would turn me into a vampire and I could live FOREVER. There was just so much that I wanted to do, so many lives I wanted to have, places I wanted to explore. I wanted to experience hundreds of years of the world, see what became of it, what new inventions and people came about, who were we all wearing in 2347?! Plus, perhaps with the certainty of endless years stretching out in front of me, my mistakes wouldn’t hurt so badly. (Note: I was a melodramatic 13-year-old, these were T-ball level mistakes.) And lastly, I was just really afraid of death. Wishing super hard for immortality was a pit stop in between a waning faith in the existence of heaven and a fervent hope for the existence of reincarnatio...
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I Want to Transition to a New Life

I want to transition to a new life. I’m not happy where I am. Stuck in a job that makes me feel helpless against the unending misery of the world, no extra money for leggings, and a car full of mold. I need a new life. Like becoming a hot bitch CEO, or a hot bitch software engineer, or a hot bitch do-gooder. Obviously, the first thing I need to do is get my aesthetic down. For example, I can’t be a hot bitch CEO and not wear pencil skirts and stilettos - what am I, an asshole? So Becoming a CEO Step One, I need to learn to walk in heels. Luckily I got a pair of 1.5-inch pumps from Nordies Rack last year for $60, so I can practice prancing up and down the length of my 500-square-foot apartment. Once I’ve mastered the smaller heels, I can go back to Nordies Rack and buy taller heels. (Note to self, make budget.) In order to make sure that I don’t look like an idiot at any company picnics, I should practice walking on grass - I don’t want to be the only baby in the three-legged race weari...
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Tomorrow

Annie was Travis’s favorite thing. Especially the song, Tomorrow . The cast recording we have on vinyl is worn down from being listened to so many times, the voices far away and static-y. Travis died when I was eight-months old. He was still a baby himself, only two. I don’t really remember him. I’ve got no clear memories of his face or his feet (which I reportedly loved to play with while he sat on the couch). But there are feelings I have around certain things, echoes of memories of you will. Like how angry Annie used to make me. It was going to be on TV once when I was quite little, maybe four. Mom was excited, “Oh Sunshine! Annie’s going to be on TV! Don’t you want to watch Annie ?!” And my rage was like the fire of 1000 suns. It rose up in me, this searing hate and revulsion for that stupid girl and her ugly red afro, the mean woman, the scary bald man. I’m pretty sure I threw a fit on the floor of Mamaw’s living room. Floating in my memory, Mom’s stricken face retreating into ...
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