Rent a Career? It’s cheaper than buying

Trying to decide what you want to do for the rest of your life is supposed to be easy, right? Just like picking a candy bar at the gas station, or solving the Da Vinci code? But, does anyone have a copy of the instruction manual? I think I’ve mixed up a few of the steps. I always thought it’d be an immediate process, like I’d read a fortune cookie and it’d all make sense from there. Lately, I’ve realized I’ve either been eating the at the wrong restaurant or this is all a crazy hoax. I’ve never had a singular idea of what I’m completely passionate about in life, it’s usually five to ten things at once. It’s almost like a potato chip, or pillows, or ineffective political leaders in the US. You can’t have just one.

Personally, I feel like a phony anytime I decide something feels right, because it doesn’t feel like how you’d expect. In media, it’s like shooting stars explode in the sky at birth spelling out your career path and from day one you develop the beautiful skills needed, just think of every kid’s movie you’ve ever seen. But I must be an extra in this film, because I was never typecast a perfect future. Even though, I know media stereotypes shouldn’t affect me so strongly, they have developed my thinking anyways and thus, I’ve become terrible at any long-lasting skills like practice, patience, and commitment. Just so quick as I’m excited to start a project, I’m also quick to jump to the next big thing. This has led me to many abandoned ideas, plans, and even connections with others.

Certainly, I wish I felt differently and try each day to find something that fits better than what I thought before. But in this modern world, where good, passionate, well-paying jobs are as rare as a Willy Wonka golden ticket, it’s hard to feel anything but fear. It almost feels like all of us in school are dogs feverishly chasing after balls for so long, that sometimes even if we are lucky enough to catch one, we don’t even know what to do with it anymore. The average student changes their major multiple times and colleges never cease to remind you that it’s totally normal, but being indecisive in this process can also be a hindrance. I’m petrified of being stuck in a job or a major or a place that I just don’t care about, but I don’t even know what that could possibly be.

Running away from everything that doesn’t feel magical is really scary actually and truly makes me feel more like I’m in a Julia Roberts film than anything else. I don’t know where the steady and charming Richard Gere of careers is, but I just keep hoping one day it’ll plop right in my lap. It’s enough to turn me into a grumpy old punk, saying “Damn the man!” and trust me I do, but unfortunately that’s not a job hiring as far as I know. If anything, it may be an unpaid internship that I could get saddled with because entry-level positions are apparently reserved for the gods. But after years of school putting this intense spotlight on finding the “eligible bachelor” career for us all with never-ending personality quizzes, what happens if nothing intrinsically clicks with who we are? I guess all there is to do is keep trying and like the grumpy punk I am, stick a safety pin in it (the existential crisis, that is).

Just In: Millennials are ruining the “millennial article”

Reading the news each day is becoming a frightening game of Peekaboo or Hide and Seek, as I scroll on my phone I hold my blanket up in case a headline sends me into a fit of terror at the possible future of our world. But there’s always one headline that pulls me out from the safety of my covers in exasperation and it starts with one godawful, fateful word. Millennials. Could you have possibly guessed it? I read at least an article a week about how we ruin everything we touch, and everything we don’t touch, and everything we don’t even think about touching, apparently. Each time, I am rightfully frustrated beyond belief at the audacity of the older generation. I mean, yes our generation is trash, definitely, but not for what you think.

Millennials can ruin the diamond industry, chain restaurants, and department stores all they want, but I will never forgive them for taking away the most important things in my young life- Wonderballs, banned in the US because of kids choking on the beautiful treats. But as a reasonable adult and writer, I am able to contain my personal anger and vengeance for delicious chocolate spheres with sugar candies rattling me to my core and focus on the real problems of today. Personally, I’m worried for the future of college debt and whether children will get to see their education through, I’m worried about food security in a raging capitalist country that refuses to acknowledge climate change, I’m worried about living in a world where people believe prejudice is extinct because progress has been made. But by all means, please continue to write stories about why my generation is buying too many avocados.

I will admit that at first it was amusing, but like the spinning teacups at Disneyland it’s getting old fast and now I’m nauseous to even think of it. Against all odds, millennials are changing the world and I’m proud of our generation for what we’re doing. I’ve had enough of taking flack for being on my phone when there’s a Starbucks full of older people on theirs, enough of seeing these articles shared on Facebook, enough of using our generations’ creations than knocking us down for spending our time on our passions. There’s so much irony in this whole exchange at this point to fill at least three Shakespeare scripts, and boy, am I sick of the Elizabethan drama. The jokes are writing themselves and we’re all just along for the ride, but maybe we could try that method with our editorials instead. This world is a scary place with no Wonderballs, but the least we could do is catch a break when it comes to our shopping behaviors.

RIP Chester

      Over the past couple of days, I’ve desperately tried to write something raw and truthful about art and life and the beauty that encapsulates both, in light of Chester Bennington’s recent suicide. But if I’m being completely honest with myself, I can’t muster it. I’ve coughed out a few impotent phrases or useless chunks of speak here or there, but none of it feels quite right or real to describe a lightness that this man has brought into our world, when it is so obviously dark. I really didn’t expect that this death would take a toll on me, or anybody I that didn’t knows could. But it’s not just this man or his brave dedication to expressing himself that’s striking me. It’s that, I know, and I’ve watched, experienced, and suffered along with so many people in my life. I’ve loved and lost and loved again friends and lovers and perfect strangers to depression, anxiety, and other mental illnesses.

          I used to think that mental illness was a disgusting and demonic creature that flipped people inside out and blinded them of any color, but blacks and whites. Yet today, I’ve come to understand it’s not quite so simple. Yes, mental illness is evil, there’s no doubting that. There’s no doubt that hearing voices that want to tear you to shreds, feeling that constant nagging feeling something’s not right- that emptiness, that isolation, that destruction that can happen to anyone at any time within their own heads- is wrong. But it’s not something that goes away and it’s definitely not something that needs to be shied away from. Today, I know that it is okay to be struggling, and that there are people who you can rely on whether it’s a stranger on the internet, or your closest friend, or whoever it takes to know that you’re not alone.

             I say this all with a fairly heavy heart and a fairly cloudy head, as it’s hard to acknowledge. There are so many stigmas and disbeliefs out there when often people are just looking for help, but that’s not all there is in the world. Of course, there’s the darkness, it’s always going to be there. But if you can look, and I mean really look, not just glance and skate by, but push and push and push against the grain, you can look up and see that there is something redeeming to the world. Sometimes it’s hard to find, but sometimes it’s as easy as knowing you have someone who has your back or knowing that no matter what you’re here. You are here, with all these stupid beautiful things around you, and you deserve to be here among them. You’re valid and worthy and important.

             I know it all sounds like bullshit. Of course it sounds so, why would random words from a stranger mean anything against what’s in your own head that knows you, your weaknesses and strengths and miseries, why would my words mean more than that? Well, you’re right, I don’t have a good reason to why, but sometimes you’ve got to listen to other words that aren’t the ones you’re holding so deep inside yourself. So, if it takes watching a hero grow up in front of you and crumble underneath their own pressure and then be illuminated for a very personal and beautiful art, then that’s what it takes. At least, that’s what it’s taking for me. It’s taking a lot of understanding other people’s experiences to push myself, to heal, to try again and again and again. And again. And it’ll never stop being hard. There are days I want to throw in the towel, just like so many others out there know, sometimes it’d just be so much easier to throw in the towel. But we don’t.

               I think, if you can open your eyes and get out of bed and that was your whole day, you deserve congratulations. And if you’ve written five essays and are still going then I applaud you too. Whatever your normal is, that’s okay. You don’t have to be so hard on yourself, especially when the world is already so hard from the outside. Sometimes you need to know you deserve a break. You deserve to sit in peace for a moment and try to let your thoughts dissipate and feel your heart alleviate some of the stress and just watch the sky as it fades into night. Or something equally bullshit sounding. Most importantly, I think it’s time we acknowledge we’re not alone, we are loved, and we are not demonic, because we have problems and conditions and battles going on that no one ever seems to see. We might not be okay, but we’re never going to stop trying. Even if that means caving into the sadness and fear sometimes. And I certainly think that’s congratulation-worthy.

Sleep is for the WEAK

       Over the years, I’ve heard loads of different ideas of how I could get more sleep- drink chamomile tea, get off your phone, punch yourself in the face, etc, etc. And yet, my sleep schedule could not care less. When I was younger, I would have nightmares so often I was afraid of what my mind would create in my sleep. I’d stare at the clock, or the ceiling, or the light shadows creeping through my windows waiting until I eventually was too tired and would have to succumb to my subconscious. Waking in a feverish panic, I’d fear that my family had died, my house was filled with monsters, or worse, that Mufasa from The Lion King had survived his lion death and had run off and eloped his lion mistress with his secret second lion family. Which actually when I think about it, I’m sure would induce unsurmountable distress for me now, but luckily my brain has since decided to give up on its imaginative terror games.

           But I’ve always been a poor sleeper, I’m incredibly restless and would easily kick someone (myself included) in the face on accident. Once this happened at a sleepover and the girl got a bloody nose immediately. I would like it noted the Tarzan soundtrack was playing when it happened. This is always something I try to bring up casually to dates, but they never cease to let me know, “You never stop moving in your sleep.” I know, it’s not like I just flip a switch and suddenly decide, “You know what? Screw you and also get so far away from me that you’re actually in the Pacific Ocean! I want to hear you splashing, f–ker!” I wish I could though, because that would mean I could probably turn it off and, although the movie Click has made me very hesitant to body-controlling remotes, I have to admit it would be nice to sleep a night where I didn’t flail around like I was wired to a defective car battery.

            Even more recently, I’ve been lucky if I can even reach that point and have to fight my body to sleep for any semblance of a full eight hours. Usually, it’s more like five on a good night, if I can stop waking up every. single. hour.  Then, I’ll war between, “I’m so tired, I need to sleep immediately” (while continuing to not do so) and “I’m never going to sleep again, might as well start an all hours’ art museum with a snack bar and jukebox”. Not sure why a jukebox, but honestly insomnia makes less sense than that decision does. The worst, though, is the make it or break it phase, when I just begin to slip into the pool of sweet, sweet slumber. Often, in this part of my night I’ll be talking to myself mentally and realize if I’m having thoughts, I’M NOT ASLEEP! And my half-asleep self will wake up so violently I almost touch the ceiling. These abrupt and jarring awakenings typically are the second half of my sleep patterns that scare people off and I can’t blame them, even if I think it’s amusing.

       So if you ever see me in person and feel the urge to let me know, “You look tired”, don’t worry about it, I probably have three layers of under-eye concealer on and am still waking up from my melatonin-induced grogginess. This is my normal, I’ve got it covered. (Finger guns are, most definitely, implied here.)

College is where we’re all going to die from flesh eating bacteria, probably

College. It’s a necessary yet completely insane evil. To put my hectic experiences with university thus far into words, I’d probably have to kill you, or at least have you sign a very hefty confidentiality contract. For one, it’d be so long you’d probably die anyways by the time I was done writing it and then I’d have to add footnotes and you’d groan from beyond the grave and I’m positive neither of us want that. For two, you’d probably learn so many things you never wanted to know and then we would never be able to look each other in the eyes again. However, to put it most simply, when in doubt everything is a meme. Somehow you can never escape pure lunacy on campus and truly you don’t want to, because the minute things seem normal you realize you’re the loony b—ch on campus. But it happens to us all, so you might as well embrace it and be the best loony b—ch.

I used to perceive college to be an academic Babylon, or Atlantis, or McDonald’s Play Palace. At least one of those is comparable, but mostly, it’s more like you’re Tantalizing or Testicles or whatever-his-name-is in the Underworld. You’re constantly asked to reflect on life changing experiences you haven’t experienced yet because you’re too busy going to classes to get a job to eventually pay to have those experiences. AND you get eight colds a semester, maybe that part is just my hellish experience, but to be fair stress does weird things to your body. Someone once told me that they got Pneumonia from having severe anxiety, which seems counter-intuitive to me, but I don’t run the show. I just run the organ that runs the show.

Some manage it very well-  disgustingly chipper with travel mug and full-length parka ready for eight AM lecture. (Listen to literally everyone when they say you can’t do eight AM, they’re right. You can’t, it’s futile, and you might die of Pneumonia if you try.) The parka may have more to do with Minnesota than Intro to Mass Comm, but in comparison, I attended those lectures wearing the same hoodie from the day before with half a granola bar in hand. I wish I was able to spring up with the sun and perfect a messy bun, but if I’m lucky I can roll out of bed with enough time to make it to class at all and remember to slather on some concealer so I don’t look like an actual ghoul. Most girls will tell you something along those lines, but I promise you I mean it. I will haunt your classroom wailing and clanking my shitty canteen bottle on your seat as I crawl to the last available spot conveniently located in the middle of the 200 seat lecture hall.

College is also the only place I know where you feel both old and young at once, like a four year Benjamin Buttoning. I often feel like a small kid surrounded by talented and intelligent adults, but then I’ll turn around to see freshmen almost being slaughtered in the bike lane and I’m having geriatric whiplash. (That could be a rad band name. We could tour with Hippocampus and call it the Go-Pher It Tour, but that would probably end with an infringement lawsuit.) Maybe, I’m getting ahead of myself, but it’s hard not to here. Bachelor’s degrees are essentially high school diplomas these days and I’m forever reminded that I don’t have a resume made of gold, unless ‘Successful Streak Of Being Last Place In Mario Kart’ or ‘Clearly Not Knowing How Capitalization Works’ are suddenly marketable skills.

Don’t get me wrong, I love college and I’m very glad with my choice to do it. But sometimes the future is just so daunting and I just want to sneak into my old dorm just to nap for a little while. Preferably no one else would be there, because even I’ll admit it’d be f—king weird to snuggle someone you just met, even if unintentional. They’d be like “Who are you and why are you in my bed, also why are you crying? Is that concealer dripping off your face or is it your flesh? Wait, are you a ghoul, is this dorm haunted?” And then security would come and drag me away and probably force feed me “food” from the dining hall, which is definitely cruel and unusual. And then everyone would say that I’m a complete and utter loony b—ch, but you’ve got to admit if you heard that story, you’d probably say I was the best loony b—ch. So take that Yik-Yak, I’d smoke you all out any day.

Initiation, awakening, preamble…

Thesaurus roulette: A game to play when you are indecisive but ‘introduction’ feels too obvious.

I wasn’t sure if I’d ever commit to creating this blog, but I finally have and now I need to explain, to give some sort of pondering as to why I did. I feel there are, likely, people in a similar condition where they feel like I do. A feeling like you’re not quite where you used to be, but not quite where you’ll end up. A Bridge to Terabithia, maybe, but with less sad stuff and young Josh Hutchersons, probably. If nothing else, this blog may sort out whether my gnawingly animalistic thoughts are truly out of the ordinary or, at least, start untangling this spool of thread I have tied in knots around my own identity. Maybe this is a coming of age tale you can relate to, or maybe I’ve fooled myself into thinking so (just as I seem to have fooled my teachers my understanding of comma rules). All I know is I feel inexplicably like this is right and there is nothing but need in my chest pushing me to write, to work out those kinks, to release the aches in my knuckles. So without further ado… I want to explain my title*.

            Throughout my life, I’ve experienced plenty of downright excruciating fear about who I was or wasn’t. Young me sought to fit in so tightly that I crammed my feet in to shoes two sizes too small, literally. I burst at the seams with desperation to seem like everyone else, but I don’t think anyone ever bought that gag. I tried too hard, talked too much, wore Hot Topic merchandise. (Picture a shirt that reads, “Only vampires can love you forever.” And don’t forget the glitter! I can feel the wince on your face, trust me it’s permanently engraved in my own.) To survive this, I buried my sense of self so far in the sand, it woul

It’s only fair that if I discuss how unbecoming my youth was, I give an example photo, right?

d take me over a decade to realize I’d even lost it. However, identity crisis aside, I always clung to music. But when the human clock struck twelve and puberty crashed upon me, and everyone seemed to be triple glancing at each other before making any move, music became a weapon. I swiftly adopted this self-preservation technique and scoffed at people who listened to Uncool ™ music.

            Cynicism sunk in to my mind and ate at me until I was a mere shell of myself. It wasn’t just about listening to things ‘before anyone else’, it was entertaining to challenge myself to find things so obscure that they were often out of my capacity of understanding, but I’d never admit to anyone that I didn’t know what the f—k an arctic monkey was (and truly I’d still pay you a few bucks to keep that between us). Yet, never have I known a time where people, including myself, were so monstrous as we rolled our eyes at people simply enjoying themselves.  Today, I fall into fits of violent cringing when I remember how I cast insurmountable displeasure across others so casually I may as well have been setting a table. Even after shedding that ideology, it took years for the barbed edges to truly rust and fall away.

Today, I’ve scrubbed myself raw of this acerbity and am slowly becoming myself without bitterness. Battling writhing self-doubt, extreme bouts of awkwardness, and a meager sense of nostalgia for a simpler time- I try and fail and try again desperately to find a concept of self that feels more like a comfy cable-knit sweater and less like an itchy polyester thing you’d find at a flea market. To be clear, I have no clue what I’m doing, but as I’ve grown I’ve met people who have gone through similar experiences and are also adjusting to the wild possibility of individuality without consequence. In a recent conversation with a good friend a sobering moment hit me**, when I said, “It’s almost like you can just… like things and not have to feel stupid,” or something equally ridiculous to actually have to say out loud. But he knew exactly what I meant and despite how crazy that is, it’s exactly what this is about. I write now, in hopes, of documenting this bewildering journey, from debauchery to serendipity and every yikes-inducing obstacle in between.

*Disclaimer: My experience may not be your experience, but since it’s my story, I tell it honestly to what I’ve felt, thought, and, observed. Which may be ludicrous to you, but, my fellow ex-hipster, that’s just the point.

**A note about sobering moments: Why is it never a gentle tap on the shoulder? Or a passed note in class written in smudged ballpoint ink? It’s almost like life has had enough of your nonsense and just says, “You know, this is it. I do all of this and you don’t even realize.” So then you’re walking into a brick wall when you’re just trying to make it on the damn Hogwarts Express and suddenly you have this whole house elf of a situation when all you want is a little bit of fun. It blows my mind every time, but what I’m really trying to say is life is just a house elf in disguise and you gotta throw it a sock every once in a while or it’s gonna start throwing bricks your way. I’d rather lose a sock than be hit by a brick, but if you really like bricks….Touché.