stray observations served without comment
- moving is a phone etiquette workout
- moving is an attempt to force various divergent circumstances to align with your will
- I think Time Warner Cable is lying to me
- my mom quoted Rush Limbaugh in conversation yesterday
- I interrupted soft indie rock radio at a bar last night to play “Fuckin Problems”
- I’m afraid to clean the house alone in case a millipede too large for me to endure should appear
She describes a study in which best friends’ brains nearly synchronize when exchanging stories, even to the point where the listener can anticipate what the storyteller will say next.
My earliest poems were a way of talking to somebody. I suppose to myself.
Today I fidgeted nervously in front of a bald man at the bank while he explained to me the process of student loan repayment. This added curious spice to the situation of failure and inertia that I am currently in; suddenly, now, the thousands of dollars I slung willingly at education are in need of repayment.
I am not a unique case. Thousands of us mildly talented, academically successful types find themselves spurned by the plan they thought would carry them through the next phase of their lives. It was so easy to think that because I cared, because I tried, it would work out. But it simply isn’t like that, which is one of the oddest discoveries for a thoroughly American youngster. Sometimes, no matter how hard you work, you can’t be the self made man. You can only pick up the scraps.
My scraps are many. I feel sort of dismantled by these circumstances, incapable of moving forward because the bottom fell out entirely. I was supposed to be listening to the bald banker as he explained the details of my debt. But I spent the better part of that 20 minutes nursing a steady undercurrent of questions: What am I even good at? What did I do for 4 and a half years? Why am I sitting here discussing interest rates?
The odd thing, the very strange and terrifying thing, is that I’m the only one who can answer those questions. It was always easy to mouth the plan I believed in, the goals I had, the aspirations I arranged to fit what seemed best at the time, because the circumstances I was in seemed to echo them. That’s what college is, really - an echo chamber, where whatever you’re yelling loudest for comes back to you, making it seem true. Now, without that comfort, determining that I can only listen to my own voice - well, that’s another kind of repayment entirely.
in which i am my own worst editor
failed project proposals made to myself, by myself:
- an inventive portrayal of the day-to-day of a record store clerk in a small town
- a series of short stories about haunted churches
- personal narratives as album reviews
- ernest hemingway fan fiction
- Thought Catalog
- responses to particularly bad Rolling Stone write-ups
- a lengthy piece on the topic of ‘rejection’ full of Keats references and almost gleeful self deprecation