It’s 2013. I’ve felt weird about it since it happened.
The most notable reason being that I wasn’t prepared. I was really banking on the end of the world on the 21st. I can’t believe the Mayans got it wrong. There are so many people to blame. I don’t know where to start.
It’s 2013 and I haven’t made any resolutions except to be more honest with my life and to not make it all about me as much. It is always about me, so this is a lot more difficult than you might think. Other less interesting resolutions include: (1) write something good (2) quit something bad (3) get engaged.
These are lofty goals, particularly the third one. There is a candidate or two, but neither of them know they are candidates, and honestly, it’s not my responsibility to tell them.
I ‘ve whined my way through my 20s - I don’t want to begin (or continue) my 30s in the same way.
I remember feeling beautiful and effortless once. It was in 7th grade, and it was because all the attention was on me - not that everyone was staring or anything like that… but they were all calling me. I was the one they wanted. Now, that was a perfect moment.
I haven’t had a perfect moment since, but that is what I’d like to write about. Those little special ephemeral moments that happen in an instant, but you remember two decades later.
“Where does that fantasy world exist?” Joe was curious.
“No where. It doesn’t exist anywhere” stuttered Mel. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
Joe grabbed her wrist, not forcefully, but close enough and pleaded.
“Look, Mel. I need this. I know you may think I don’t. But I do. Just…”
“I’m sorry…” Mel began.
“I really need this.” Joe trailed off. He was unaccustomed to begging. His life had always been somewhat charmed to the outside observer. He was a relatively attractive young man, who was bred from a respectable family. He knew the difference between a salad fork and a fish fork, and ultimately always got what he wanted. That is, until this particular encounter with Mel.
Mel was skeptical. She had developed a terrible crush on Joe ever since the first day she started work at his company ten months ago. He brought her an ice cream sundae, a ritual he celebrated with all of his new hires. The practice was later banned after a lactose intolerant hire was hospitalized. When Joe later asked his new employee why he didn’t tell him he was lactose intolerant in the first place, the man said, “No one wants to disappoint the boss on the first day of work.”
It was true. No one ever wanted to disappoint Joe, including Mel, but Mel had no choice.
If she let him in to this new world, he would see everything that she felt about him. The family she created for them, the home they lived in, the memories that did not exist in their current, tactile flesh. Indubitably, she would look like an insane person to the person she cared most about. Mel could not let that happen. Never.
She’d rather have him think she was a horrible person in real life than sully one fragment of her perfect fantasy with him.
He wouldn’t understand – he couldn’t understand. In fact, she couldn’t even understand why he wanted to go to her world. Wasn’t his world (the one they currently occupied) good enough? He had everything he could ever want. She couldn’t even fathom what he was missing, and she didn’t want to.
He had everything that she was working so hard for. He already had so much power over her. It would be unfair for him to infiltrate her fantasy too.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you in.” Mel softly replied.
“Why not?” Joe acquiesced
“It’s all I have.” Mel said wistfully.
And it was this truth which promptly ended their conversation.
“how many times have i had the same converasations with potential boy adventures? the whole- laughter, what makes me tick, my favorite hobbies, my little act… i wondered how many times im going to have to flirt it up with all the same stuff. with how many people will we have to engage in those delightful, but ordinary first flirty conversations where we decide that we connect or we should flee from one another.”
Ever since I saw these boots, I knew I wanted… to make them!
So, I did:
Get all your materials: Mod Podge (glossy), paint brush, glitter (I used different sizes), shoes, and masking tape (not pictured)
Tape your shoes on the part that you DO NOT want glitter on. Do not skip this step. It’s just like painting a room, you really need to make sure to cover the rest of the shoe.
Mix roughly equal parts Mod Podge and glitter in a bowl.
Paint an even coat of the glitter mixture onto the shoe. It will look white and creamy. Wait an hour, then paint again. Make sure the coats are as smooth and even as possible. Continue to wait an hour before each coat. My shoes have five coats of paint.
Let dry for a few hours. Then do a final coat of only Mod Podge over the shoe to seal it in. Let dry completely. Remove the tape.
When it’s not writer’s block, you should write a letter
Why haven’t I written in you for so long? Is it that I have lost the will to write? Am I so used to typing my messages in 140-characters and curtailed status updates that I no longer require the vast white abyss of Microsoft Word to coagulate all my thoughts?
It’s not just this blog that I have neglected—I have “forgotten” to respond to emails, cards and letters for months. I, who used to keep three journals in my possession at any given time (regular, funny thoughts, book notes), can now barely muster a single blog entry a month.
Well, it’s not Writer’s Block. WB implies that you have tried to start writing, but something blocks that ability. My friends, I have had yet to even attempt a single piece of prose (except for the one you are currently reading).
The truth: It is that I have nothing to say. No passionate stories to tell or meaningful moments to analyze to death. The news and the events of the world that used to affect me deeply no longer make any impact, except for a simple scan or a retweet.
It’s as if my greatest fantasy and worst nightmare have met in one lucid dream—where I am so utterly content in my personal life (finally!) that I am engulfed by a dull complacency, robbing me of any deeper introspective thoughts.
Have you ever felt like that? I know it sounds a little crazy, but I feel that when I’m doing well, I lose the urge to write. Instead, I completely dismiss the fact that I’m a writer and pretend to be someone else. Writing has helped me get over so many hardships, that when I am not really in one, it feels… almost unnecessary.
I tell the blank page: “Sorry, dude—you got the wrong guy. I don’t need you anymore.”
That’s not even all of it. I still think about writing all the time… mostly because I am highly aware that I’m not writing anything. And that I am a terrible blogger for that very reason; since, the No.1 rule of blogging is, after all, consistency!
I feel bad about it— almost like it’s a break up or something. I miss writing a lot. So I’ve gone and done something that I usually reserve for my broken heart only (which I suppose, in a way, I currently have) I’ve written a letter of which the contents you have been privy to so far.
I am bearing my feelings on the matter, which actually feels therapeutic. The keys are slowly beginning to feel familiar after months of dormancy. My eyes start to embrace the text upon the screen. Maybe I do have something to say after all.