A long time ago, in a land far, far more Republican than the one I’m currently writing from, a very lost 24-year-old girl packed a bunch of slutty American Apparel dresses and half-broken Forever21 heels into the back of a Uhaul van and drove up to New York city because, fuck it, why not? She’d spend four years trudging through the fog of her mid-20s, giving up on all of the assumptions she’d made about what The Rest of Life was supposed to be and dealing with all of the emotions that come with feeling totally unsure of everything. And so she wrote about it. Pretty much all of it.
I’m not sure exactly when it was that I realized how distant I feel from that person who wrote about moving to New York and ‘figuring it all out’. Maybe it was the moment I signed my offer letter for me real, grown up job that left me no longer feeling rent-poor. Maybe it was when I moved south of 100th street for the first time. Maybe it was yesterday, when I was standing in a Container Store on the Upper East Side, guarding two carts full of closet organizers while my boyfriend went to check out some back-of-the-door hanger things because I now live with a man in a place that is not a dorm room or my parent’s house or my bed-bug infested room in a four bedroom above 100th street while he’s just hanging out until the co-op board approves his lease.
I know it wasn’t a single moment where I felt a shift, but increasingly in the past few months and, even more so, days, I’ve become aware of how different life suddenly feels. This blog, while at times was my half-assed attempt to get internet famous, functions as a dairy, of sorts. I’ve never really cared to remember my innermost thoughts because they’re usually about how many types of cookie/brownie hybrid I can make, but having an externally-facing diary has been really weird way to capture what I was like at a certain point in my life. Whenever I go over these posts, I get to see how I wanted to present myself to the world.
As I said, I dunno, three posts down from this one, I’ve really been wanting to write on here again in some sort of regular fashion, but every time I get halfway through a post it all sort of falls apart. I’ve spent the greater half of last year trying to figure out exactly why that was. It goes back to being a different sort of person. An adult, now, I think? Or at the very least not a person who can lament being totally, 100% unadult. My unadulthood is no longer unadulterated by adult-ness. <- I’m sorry, I had to. I’m rusty.
It goes back to the whole presenting myself to the world thing. I think the more put-together my life starts to get, the more I feel the need to protect my little world. Like I’m somehow going to make a joke about my job, or my relationship, or even myself and it’s going to ruin it all. I’m not good at nice things. Actually all of my nice things are locked in a storage facility by the West Side highway right now and I’m too lazy to visit them. Sorry, nice things.
Back to the point. Protecting myself is starting to feel really shitty and lonely, and I don’t think I want to do it anymore. So, full disclosure, I have no idea what the fuck I’m going to write about or if it’s going to be funny or will there be pictures or maybe I’m just going to post links to tattoos I’m thinking about getting and you guys can comment on them? I’ve thought about starting countless new blogs; an anonymous Tumblr with all my secret thoughts; “deep” shit written on napkins (also a Tumblr, probably?), a Twitter parody account called Bad Observational Humor (I think we actually did make a Tumblr for that one but it turns out funny bad jokes are harder to make than funny good jokes), but I think I’m gonna stick with what my generation is best at – narcissistic, self-involved, egotistic, vain (how many other synonyms has the New York Times Styles section used when describing Millennials?) blog posts about my life in New York.
Because, fuck it, why not?