I exist in opposition. I’ve noticed that most of my writing here is either an outlandish story or some tirade about a problem in my head that I’m trying to work through. It usually involves some type of irrational anger at what someone has done, or a pattern of bad/incomprehensible behaviors I’ve noticed, and suddenly my whole day or week revolves around it until I decide to move it from my head, onto the page. Granted, it’s usually my mother or a coworker, but I think I need to have a problem or an enemy to try to work through and not necessarily understand but stew on to make it through the day. As I write this out, I’m starting to realize that I’m like that in life too, not just on my blog. For my own remaining sanity, my solution is to try turning that enemy or problem into something that I, or the people who know what I’m talking about, can laugh about.
I don’t include my name on my profile because I think I talk about people I know too much, and because the majority of my posts are weird and embarrassing stories or angry rants. But since I’m trying this whole practice of “opening up” — I grew up in Southern California and continue to live here after some brief sojourns abroad in college. I have had almost every job known to man, food service, bartending, event worker, administrative assistant, babysitter, and sales, yet somehow never retail. When I was in college, I used to have a side hustle of doing other people’s homework and taking their tests. In doing so, I learned that I actually really liked writing essays about themes and subjects that I know less than nothing about.
I started my page to give myself an outlet while I was climbing the walls during quarantine. I needed some sort of creative outlet because my only physical/mental outlet consisted of just running away from my apartment until I got tired enough to turn around and run back. This whole practice of writing a blog (or whatever you call these posts) is a new practice for me, because I am a bizarre mix of loving solitude and needing a group of people around me so that I can intentionally not share my thoughts or stories. Obviously, I do share with my close friends and family, but I learned a long time ago that when I let random facts of my life slip out, I usually get blank bemused stares, concerned glances, or some variation of “are you okay?” or “what is wrong with you?” I revel in that. But realizing people probably don’t share the morbid, dry humor my brother, dad, and I all share (see the chicken story on my profile that is only funny to us), eventually led me to continue this little pandemic project while I’m sitting in my little cubicle, pretending to work really hard.
When I say I exist in opposition, I know it’s something that I should probably correct. But does everything have to be fixed? As it stands, my little practice of perpetual defensiveness feels like it’s working for me. However, maybe ending these diatribes and anecdotes with an attempt at a solution is my way of trying to consciously correct my own thinking by turning this confusion into a lesson. Or maybe it’s just to get the weirdness out of my head so I don’t word vomit onto the people around me. Who knows? Not me, and not my therapy group.
Walking Disaster 