We’ve reached the “‘n counting” portion of our program. I’ve been 30 years old for a month and 29 days. Interestingly enough, the year I reached the milestone age thats been built up to be the turning point in my adulthood, turned out to be the year the world decided to end. A global pandemic, murderous hornets, and a president that advised American citizens to ingest cleaning fluids to cure themselves are all running free, while I’ve spent the last 48 days in lock down with my 1 year old doxie named Frankie.
Everyone says your 30s are like your 20s, but with money. They also told me my ass would be fatter. I’m here to say that my ass has not gotten fatter and while I have money, it all goes to bills, rent and ordering takeout because I am too
afraid lazy to go outside and grocery shop.
Its been 3 years since my last post. 3 years since i’ve written anything I was brave enough to share. But, yes, I’ve been writing. I’m always writing. Even if I don’t put pen to paper or finger tip to keyboard, I am “writing.” My mind has always had an everlasting dialogue. Words, words, words. Ever since I could remember, a narrator has been spinning my thoughts into prose whether I could get it down or not. I’m always in my head and I am always telling a story. My life has always been centered around storytelling even if my only listener is me. It just so happens that my personal stories have been fucked up and, truth be told, I’m not proud of the kind of characters I’ve portrayed as of late. Nobody mentioned that 30 would be the year I’d have to take a good look in the mirror and see my character’s scars, fuck ups and traumas up close and personal. Or maybe they did and I ignored them, which is a thing i do when I don’t like what I’m being told. Either way, I’m more forgiving of myself than I imagine others would be. Forgiving, or enabling. I haven’t decided yet.
I lost my father and my grandfather within a year of each other. I ended a romantic relationship. And another. And another. And another. All while still giving them just enough to transform them into toxic situations that need actual endings. See? Enabling or forgiving? Friendships have shifted, too. And when I sit back and reflect on these growing pains, I can’t help but think about how much easier they’d be if I did have a young Leo DiCaprio hanging around to help lighten the loud. Do kids even have TV heartthrobs anymore? Either way, my life is a far cry from a Nick at Nite TV program. But hey, at least theres a cute dog, right?
While I’m no family sitcom cliche, I have reached that ever so sought after moment that many millennial girls aspired to have if they grew up in the era of pink tutus, couture and cosmopolitans. I’m alone in my very own apartment on a Saturday night, typing on my Macbook and drunk off of a bottle of sauvignon blanc. I’d say I’ve become a regular Bradshaw if it weren’t for the fact that I live in Queens and I own not nary a Manolo. But if its toxic behavior and witty banter you’re after, I’m still your girl.
In all honesty, coming back to this blog wasn’t exactly on my list of To Dos. Sure, I pay for the domain, but I began to question myself as a writer. Don’t all writers? Yes, I know I said that I’m always writing and I AM. But I stopped seeing myself as the kind of writer with something to say that was worthwhile. I still question that in this very moment. But tonight, someone pulled my card. I’ve always described myself as non-confrontational but, shit, I’m confrontational as fuck. Not physically because I’m way too vain and don’t want to risk injuries that alter my appearance. But the truth is, I’m always ready to do verbal combat with any motherfucker that has something to say about something I am passionate about. Tonight it was my writing. And yes, I reacted. Because while I can question myself, I dare anyone to try and question ME about my ability to do this shit!
So here I am with a fire lit under my ass and a pending hangover in the morning. I want to say that this will be the start of an ongoing habit of posting weekly, and writing chapters to a novel, which will lead to a book tour and blah blah blah. But have I ever been the type to lie to you? Yes. But not about this. Do I want to write? I mean really write? Yeah, eventually. I’m glad I’m here rambling and letting it out, whether its Pulitzer Prize winning or not. But after having my card pulled, coming here to unload and essentially talking to myself through a keyboard, I realized I’ve never been the type of storyteller to do it for anybody else but myself. I’ve just always been grateful that while I ranted, raved, bitched and cried, someone out there felt me. But it’s never been about anybody else but me. And I think 30 will be a testament to that. I’m doing shit for me.