At church I'm the rebel.
At work I'm the goody-goody.
To my coworkers I'm just a kid.
To my friends I'm an adult.
My trainer tells me I'm strong,
my scale tells me I'm weak.
The inside of my closet
and the outer layers of my skin are in a constant
battle
of who can be more
mature/fun/young/classic/fresh.
I refuse to change--
much less commit.
I stress things that define my progress
from a lost college student:
nail color
hair length
purse size
pant length.
And yet can't seem to decide on
what actually determines success:
permanent residence
resume quality
great credit
directions in any form-
I am not one to ask for them.
I am not one to ask for.
I am not one to ask.
(Never so lost)
I no longer know how to
be.
This is not another depressed blog post:
because it's friday night,
and every week leads to this
overwhelming moment of
disaster.
This is another person:
helpless to the pressure of
moving
while
staying completely still.
This is the worst possible place to be:
not left,
not right,
not up,
not down,
not great,
not horrible,
not satisfied,
not settling,
but in between.
At work I'm the goody-goody.
To my coworkers I'm just a kid.
To my friends I'm an adult.
My trainer tells me I'm strong,
my scale tells me I'm weak.
The inside of my closet
and the outer layers of my skin are in a constant
battle
of who can be more
mature/fun/young/classic/fresh.
I refuse to change--
much less commit.
I stress things that define my progress
from a lost college student:
nail color
hair length
purse size
pant length.
And yet can't seem to decide on
what actually determines success:
permanent residence
resume quality
great credit
directions in any form-
I am not one to ask for them.
I am not one to ask for.
I am not one to ask.
(Never so lost)
I no longer know how to
be.
This is not another depressed blog post:
because it's friday night,
and every week leads to this
overwhelming moment of
disaster.
This is another person:
helpless to the pressure of
moving
while
staying completely still.
This is the worst possible place to be:
not left,
not right,
not up,
not down,
not great,
not horrible,
not satisfied,
not settling,
but in between.
just know that i'm not ok.
but i will be,
because of this truth.
this is why i'm in love with advertising. this is why i'm obsessed with succeeding.
I'm not pretty when i cry.
I'm not sexy when i sweat.
I could sit here and type
page after page
about feelings and emotions
without trouble
because the issue isn't
writing what i mean--
it's having a backspace key to support my
inability
to commit.
The problem with
talking
is that it can't be unsaid;
i lack an engagement to verbal marriage.
I don't know what we're fighting for
if you:
always have the option to change my mind.
I'm not sexy when i sweat.
I could sit here and type
page after page
about feelings and emotions
without trouble
because the issue isn't
writing what i mean--
it's having a backspace key to support my
inability
to commit.
The problem with
talking
is that it can't be unsaid;
i lack an engagement to verbal marriage.
I don't know what we're fighting for
if you:
always have the option to change my mind.
and i:
never have the option to keep it.
I don't wake up looking good.
I'm paranoid of smelling bad.
Most days i like my hair,
and the way my stomach curves in, then out,
and the freckle on my lip.
I don't mind my big eyes,
or my big legs,
or even my wide feet.
I tan well.
I dress my best.
I always powder my nose.
But sometimes
(when it rains long enough,
or i go too long without a text,
or i have enough time to stop and think)
i can hate.
Sometimes:
i'd rather not play the game
than play with the cards i'm dealt.
i'd rather stare at the things i'm not
than count my blessings.
i'd rather not run back to God
because, again, i've been gone too long.
I'm really good at being a guy
but sometimes
(this time)
i'm a mess.
and i spoke too soon.
and i can't take it back.
and i'm sorry.
rich played this song on the way to minnesota that one weekend. that one weekend before it was all over, before the messy goodbyes and complicated "laters." that long van ride felt like what the author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower would describe as feeling "infinite."
i remember thinking: this song is really great. someday (after May) this is gonna mean alot more.
i'm not who i was 24 hours ago.
and i'm not copping out.
8: the number of times i cried today.
(including but not limited to: john the trainer's gym,
Fancy Q's sushi bar, facebook chat, etc.)
400: the number of dollars i will spend to see my friends in 2 weeks.
12: the number permanently tattooed on my palm.
(some call it obsession. i call it motivation)
9: the number of workouts i squeezed into a 5 day period.
0: the number of pounds i have lost in 2.5 weeks.
12: the number of frustration on a scale from 1 to Pissed.
22,000: the number of dollars that equal the hole in my financial aid when crossing the bridge to SCAD.
17: the number of books i picked up before committing to one.
6: the number of weeks i committed to the Bonefish Grill Bowling League.
3: the number of people i don't despise working with.
2: the number of managers (out of 2 managers) that have had DUI's in the last month.
5: the number of broken things i've yet to fix on Donny.
44: the number of years it will take for me to be an art director.
188: the number of hispanics that will be crammed into a tiny room tomorrow morning.
(including but not limited to: john the trainer's gym,
Fancy Q's sushi bar, facebook chat, etc.)
400: the number of dollars i will spend to see my friends in 2 weeks.
12: the number permanently tattooed on my palm.
(some call it obsession. i call it motivation)
9: the number of workouts i squeezed into a 5 day period.
0: the number of pounds i have lost in 2.5 weeks.
12: the number of frustration on a scale from 1 to Pissed.
22,000: the number of dollars that equal the hole in my financial aid when crossing the bridge to SCAD.
17: the number of books i picked up before committing to one.
6: the number of weeks i committed to the Bonefish Grill Bowling League.
3: the number of people i don't despise working with.
2: the number of managers (out of 2 managers) that have had DUI's in the last month.
5: the number of broken things i've yet to fix on Donny.
44: the number of years it will take for me to be an art director.
188: the number of hispanics that will be crammed into a tiny room tomorrow morning.
0: the number of flips given when updating this blog.
4: the number of states i'd move together to make my ideal country.
19: the number of people i would let want to live in it.
