Any Advice?

I’m in a bit of a quandary.
I was recently moved to a different position at work and have been forced to get to know other people, something I’m not very fond of.   One co-worker, in particular, I cannot stand.  No matter how hard I try to understand him or how hard I try to lay my judgments down and just tolerate his incessant rambling, I cannot stand this guy.
We will call him Tim because I don’t like that name either (no offense to any Tims).
Tim is English.
Tim lived in England for the first 10 years of his life.
Tim is now 28 and still miraculously has an accent.  He even uses English terminology regardless of the fact that he has lived in America for the majority of his life.  Why?  Because his accent is the only interesting thing about him.
Our immediate supervisor is currently in Chicago which means more chit-chat taking place in the cubicle we all inhabit.
Tim spent the better part of yesterday echoing his thoughts across a sea of people who didn’t give a shit because he is the anti-Christ.  For whatever degree he is studying towards in college, I guess a basic psychology class is required.  Basic psychology apparently makes this guy an expert in the field which makes it very difficult to talk people on a normal level because of his excellent education.  No, I’m not exaggerating.
He disappeared for half an hour yesterday to talk to the CEO of the company and burst back in to the cubicle with air of superiority.

Tim (looking around to make sure an audience was present): Wow, I can’t believe I was gone a half hour… that guy knows A LOT.

Other co-worker: Oh?

Tim:  Yeah, he knows A LOT of theories, he’s really smart.  We just bounced thoughts [not his own, obviously] off of one another and he knew all about that one theory I was telling you guys about earlier [not going to bore you with psych 101 bullshit]… it was just really nice to be able to talk to someone on the same academic level as myself.

The rest doesn’t matter, I swear on everything I love and fantasize about, that this piece of shit had the nerve to say that.  They offer the same psychology class he’s taking in High Schools!  What kind of sad person needs that sort of glorification?  What sort of psychology expert needs the approval of people he deems inferior?  What sort of person thinks condescending to people earns them interested listeners, much less any sort of respect?

My quandary is this: Why is it bothering me so much?  Why can’t I just let it go?  The guy actually knows what he’s talking about, but he doesn’t hold any firm belief in any of it, he just wants to talk and make everyone else “look stupid”.
I wanted to scream at him that I’ve been reading philosophy, psychology and sociology books since I was 14 while he was discovering the miracle of masturbation.
I wanted to disprove his theories based on my actual experience and observation and tell him that it’s called a theory for a reason.  But I couldn’t.  I just sat and acted stupid and felt useless because even when I know I’m right, I don’t know how to open my mouth.

What’s more is that it made me consider why I, myself, need to prove to him that I’m not stupid.  I’m at this incredible point in my life where everything is unfolding beautifully and I’m growing in to the person I’ve always wanted to be and yet, I still can’t speak up.
In all of the confidence I’ve gained in myself as an individual, I still can’t open my mouth and tell people to shut the fuck up when I know I’m right because it makes me feel arrogant and condescending and that’s worse than looking stupid.
However, then I’m facing this situation again and I’m filled with actual anger.  Not just at my co-worker, but at myself for allowing this.
At what point do these two worlds collide and let me take the weight of inner-thought off of my shoulders? I’m so tired of listening to people talk to me like I’m an idiot and I’m so ashamed of myself for letting them make me feel this way.



There are no words for the emotional maturity that has blossomed inside of me.  For as long as my mind stretches into the past, I have struggled to balance my emotions, thoughts and reality.   Like the moon pulls the tides, I have struggled to resist the pull of my emotions, but I have finally learned how to maintain my balance in the trough of the waves.
I have, of course, been assisted by many great minds through the years; Nietzsche, Whitman, Rilke, Dickinson, Harper Lee and most recently — Dickens.  All of these great writers and thinkers (and so many more) have comforted me when I was held captive by my emotional turmoil and held a flame for both warmth and light in the velvet darkness.
Of course, music and friends/family have served as a lifeboat as well, but there is something about books — how you can wrap yourself in the world of someone else and escape your own while somehow pressing the two worlds together.  I’m not really sure I’m capable of fully expressing the love and appreciation I have for reading and the gracious impact the words have had on me, but I will never stop trying.
It is only within the past couple of months that I have noticed the deep, solid change that has taken place inside of me.  Not like the spurts of positivity that I have been showered with and then disappointed by.  This is a deep rooted change that has put me in control of how I let circumstances affect me.   I have not grown cold, but focused.  I have stopped trying to change what I do not like and simply accepted that it is alright to be recognizably flawed.  In fact, I enjoy my flaws, I no longer feel ashamed about my desire to be introverted, but I enjoy it almost to the point of overzealousness.  I no longer feel guilty or wounded by sudden changes in behavior of someone I considered myself to be on good-terms with (obviously an isolated incident).  In fact, I quit caring about so many small things because I started accepting myself ENTIRELY, not piece by piece, and I started believing more in the good-natured part of myself and believed that no matter what, the good in me would prevail.
I still consider myself in the threshold of this change, but this is concrete.  This is the milestone I’ve been struggling to reach for the past 5 years and it has greeted my life with incredible warmth and sincerity.
Normally this is where I would say something along the lines of, “I hope this feeling lasts forever” but for the first time in as long as I can remember, I know this is one of the building blocks to the person I’m growing up to be and I really, really love and respect her.

The Act of Socializing From the Perspective of a Hermit

Last night, I experienced a moment where I realized I had peaked in social awkwardness.  I felt the walls of my inability to understand the act of socializing close in on me and squeeze away any confidence I carried with me into the evening.   I tunneled as quickly as I could through years of reading philosophy and psychology books to take charge of the situation and make the best of it, but found myself pressed in to the background of a group of people I had nothing in common with.   I grabbed my bag, sneaked out the back like a rat and left concluding that I was boring, mature and rather friendless.  All of which carried no self-pity, but a rather harsh self-examination of how I ended up alone and crying on park bench across the street from a good friend’s graduation party.

Had I been this way my entire life, my hide would have been thick enough to protect the teeth of bitter self-loathing from sinking in, but the truth is, I haven’t always been this way.  I’ve always been a loner, always in my own mind, developing my own opinions and practicing my own philosophies.  However, I haven’t always been so withdrawn from other people.   Yet, after spending the rest of my evening reflecting my past, I realized that 95% of any social life I’ve ever maintained has been strictly for appearances and hardly ever for genuine interest.

What bothered me even more was the fact that in order to press myself in to a social situation without raising any eyebrows is to drink.  Get as much liquor inside of me as possible and ride passenger to my liquid courage.
Every angle of that particular “solution” strikes me as pathetic and insincere.  Which begs the question “Am I a hermit by choice or because I have no choice?”  Have I been so psychologically damaged by my past that I fear closeness with others, or am I genuinely uninterested in what people who share no common interest have to say?

In no way could I ever be considered arrogant, judgmental – absolutely, but not arrogant.    I am simply a firm believer in my own opinions and would prefer discussing human nature rather than human interests.  I prefer “naked conversation” where all parties are stripped of self-lies and false-confidence.  For me, a conversation doesn’t have to have depth, just honesty.

I suppose the point I’m (sloppily) trying to make here is that nothing is truly wrong with me.   There is something more wrong with drinking to “fit in” than there is staying home and enjoying my time privately.  It used to make me feel guilty and ashamed, but now, I realize it’s just what I enjoy.  And that’s not to say I never want to go out and drink again, we’re social creatures, too much time alone is unhealthy for one’s mind; we need stimulation and challenges, but not to the point where it becomes self-destructive.

While I believe it’s necessary to push ourselves out of our comfort zones, the result should be rewarding, never damaging.  And, although I know last night wasn’t the last time I will ever feel uncomfortable or suffer an anxiety attack, I will never have to feel guilty about it again.

How I’m Going to Avoid Being a Loser for the Rest of My Life

I am a frustrated twenty-seven-year-old failure.  I am a slave to the chronic ritual of a Monday-Friday job that leaves me felling empty and pointless.  In fact, falling in sync with the ritual is a reoccurring thing within itself.  The most time I’ve spent at one job was the 2.5 years I gave to Starbucks.  I don’t even think I made it to the .5, maybe the .2.
It’s around the first year mark that I begin to get jittery and cynical.  I truly do feel something is fucked about bestowing our loyalties to the company we work for, yet fear losing our job when passion or desire meet occupational priority, but that’s a different story and I’m choosing a different path this time.
The problem here is that it’s not just my job, it’s everything in my life.  I’ve been playing by the same rules that have set me back since before they started setting me back.  Take this blog, for example.  It’s full of random accounts of a life that even I’m not interested in hearing about.  Full of bitter “truths” and failed “revelations”.
I spend hours thinking about life and what I think is wrong with other people, what’s wrong with me, and what philosophy best suits my life.  The thing is, I have no life to suit a philosophy to.  And though I have no qualms when it comes to being honest with myself, it’s a pointless ability if you don’t enforce the necessary change that such a knowledge requires.
My problem is, I have no goals to live up to in my family.  I have one brother who, by honest comparison, I’m actually doing better than.   With that “hovering”, I have absolutely no motivation.   I have nothing to look at and say “wow, what the fuck am I doing?”.
It’s a comfortable backdrop for personal excuses and it’s gone on too long.  I’m almost thirty. Thirty.  T H I R T Y.
There is no excuse good enough anymore.
I’m tired of the self-loathing that constantly consumes me, tired of feeling like shit about the beige outlook I have – I’m just tired.  It’s much harder to make excuses than to actually get off of my ass and do something about my “plight”.

So, I reapplied with FAFSA, purchased the study guide for the placement test and researched the necessary requirements for Nursing.  Nursing, right?  Not journalism, I know.  However, I’m not copping out on my dreams, I’m actually making them easier to achieve.  For someone who strives for independence, applying for financial aid and spending money going to school for a career that’s oversaturated and filled with competition for positions that pay little and don’t even interest me, that actually puts a worse feeling in my stomach than not going to school at all.
Firstly, there is always a demand for nurses – it’s a field of work that assures a job.  Secondly, it gives me the freedom to move just about anywhere I please.  Thirdly, my cousin, who is an RN (and only two years older than me),  just bought a house.  Not even thirty and bought a house.
And to anyone who wants to tell me that I have no idea what I’m in for, I know.  Trust me, I know.  My best friend was a CNA for about 2 years and showered me with all of the gory details of what nursing entails.  But that’s okay.  Cleaning someone’s shit off the sheets has nothing on feeling like a piece of shit every day. Nothing.
It’s also important to consider that my patience and rationality are at best when someone is genuinely in need of care or patience.  And anything that makes me feel like I’m good person actually makes me a better person.  When I feel like a good person, I take better care of myself, and when I take better care of myself, I’m happy and when I’m happy… well, I don’t know because I can’t say that I’ve ever been truly happy long enough to know what my potential is capable of.  And that’s not a self-served pity statement, it’s the truth.

So, how is this not copping out on my dream to write?  Because I don’t need anything on paper to freelance.  I will have to bedazzle the fuck out of someone with actual writing (not this blog shit), but I’m willing to accept that challenge.   I don’t want a job that requires a desk, a computer and editing skills.  I don’t want a job that doesn’t give me creative room. If I rely entirely on a journalism degree, I know that’s the sort of job I’m looking at.  However, I still plan on getting a degree in journalism to make my dream of writing easier to attain, the only difference is, I’m not resting my entire future on that particular piece of paper.  I don’t have to be a journalist to write a book or research something and write about it.   The way I see it, Nursing is a respectable career that pays well and can provide me with plenty of opportunity.  Opportunity to pursue whatever I please.  For obvious reasons, it also gives me something to write about.

Even if it’s not what I really want to do with my life, it’s not a desk job, or retail or a food industry job.  It’s not boring, repetitive and habit-forming.  I would actually have to remain alert and focused and aware of what I was doing.  That can only have a positive affect on everything else I suck at.  Despite the fact that I’ll have to experience death and immeasurable sadness (I am extremely susceptible to the emotions of those around me); I’ve built so much of my philosophy of life on emotional happenings and emotional survival, that it can only strengthen my character while simultaneously bringing me to my knees.  And the idea that all of that pain could actually find it’s way to my pen… I just…. well, I feel terrible for saying that but it personally confirms that this “career decision” is a positive move.  I haven’t even come close to taking a step in the right direction since… I don’t know when.

I honestly haven’t felt this motivated EVER.  And regardless of the many things you’ve read on here about “I’m going to do this” or “I’m going to change this time” or whatever the fuck I felt like writing that day, this is something I’ve never felt in my entire life.  I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that getting a CNA doesn’t require a degree, it’s a program and it’s something I can do.  I know that the real “financial support” lies in becoming an RN, but I have no problem building my way up to that.  Especially if it gets me out of whatever the fuck I’ve been doing with my life the past ten years.

Anyhow, there is a point to all of this.  I am giving in to the path less traveled.  I am tired of saying I’m going to do something with no intention of actually doing it.  I am tired of how I feel about myself and how I feel about other people.  I am saying goodbye to the person I am and becoming someone entirely new.  I would like to have respect for myself and feel free from personal burden.
But most of all, I would like to lay down at night and welcome positive thoughts to my pillow rather than feeling like a piece of shit failure, because I am not one.

Tuesday Morning 9:00am

In life, there are few certainties.  For one, we all die.  For two, we’re all in constant stages of transformation.  While it may take some of us longer to reach a particular milestone than others, we all greet some point in our lives with a glance back upon the path we took to reach level ground.   By watching my elders grow, I know that life constantly changes a person and the longer you live, the more different you become.
I am the prime definition of a late-bloomer.  However, had I sped through the early stages of my youth, I’d be living a life I was equally unhappy with.  At 18, I was glossy-eyed over Wes Anderson (still am) and was sure that becoming a writer/director was the only thing that could make sense of my life.  At 23, I was sure a doctorate in philosophy was the missing link in my life.  Now, at the turn of 27, I will be attending my first semester of school for a journalism degree.
One could say that had I done what I wanted at 18, I might be doing what I want now.  But, experience and the general knowledge that comes with getting older and coming to terms with reality tells me that film is an over-saturated industry full “knowing the right people”.
And with that in mind, an anti-social, shy hermit isn’t really the sort to mingle with folks of that nature.  I’ve been writing in journals since I was thirteen years old.  I have pages, upon pages, upon pages of sentimental crap encrusted in misery and mental plights galore.   But there are moments in those journals, when I’ve re-read them (yeah, I’m that sort), that I’ve truly amazed myself.   Because at the core of everything I write, there is passion and honesty.  You won’t really see it here as much, but my journals are the pages of my soul and everything I’ve ever suffered and contemplated lies naked in the binds of them.   I was blessed with the ability to form words out of insoluble emotions and I’d be an idiot if I thought a career in writing wouldn’t make me happy.
For a long time, I was (and still am) disappointed in myself for not making something more of my life these past 10 years.  But then it occurred to me, had I gone to school for film or philosophy, I’d have still wound up here.  Only, I’d be more in debt and feel like I’d wasted just as much time.  Philosophy is still a passion and a doctorate is something I would like to work towards but it’s something I want at an older, wiser age — after I’ve seen more of the world and have experienced my own theories.   What sort of philosopher can teach others of life without ever having left their island in the ocean?
My point is this: it doesn’t do anyone any good to feel bad about the things they haven’t done or didn’t do.  It simply takes recognizing that you are in control to change it.  And about all the “what if I had” or “why didn’t I” bullshit, forget it.  A chance you didn’t take created an opportunity for something else.  And no matter what the outcome, it’s ALWAYS something to grow from.

2013, ain’t it a beaut?

Today, I filled out my FAFSA application for Financial Aid.  Today, I also decided I should really start working on that whole “aspiring alcoholic” thing.  This was before the FAFSA business.  So now, in a tingly, merry state of mind, I can hold my head up.  Should I be ashamed?  Probably.  Am I?  No, not really.  I figure, I’m a failure in every other aspect of life, why not give my nagging blood the thing it craves and succumb to my heredity?   My family is full of failed dreams and alcoholism.  And hey, at least I’ll really have something to write about, right?
I already make myself miserable by trapping any happiness in thoughts of doubts and insecurities, so why not weaken such a cruel structure with some liquor?  Hell, at least then I’ll have an excuse other than sheer laziness for my lack of accomplishments.  And my family will look at these days, here, as the days when I really could have been something.
It’s like giving in to my destiny.
You see, after my grandmother died (the smoking alcoholic she was — to give you an idea), my mother found a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey hidden in a drawer in the kitchen.   My grandmother, Nanny, fought cancer for about 11 years and claimed she’d quit drinking after her first visit to the hospital in those 11 years prior to her death.  She battled with smoking and had weened herself to the point of being able to not smoke in front of other people, but we all knew she still smoked.  I told my mother to let Nanny live her life in a way that was comfortable for her, but my mother nagged her about it anyway because well, daughters need mothers.  The same cravings course through my mother that course through me, and we both inherited our “desires” from  my grandmother and grandfather.   My  mother had successfully fought off the demons until she lost both parents last year and now she spends her weekends in a drunken stupor from wine.  Last week, I flew home for Christmas and stayed 7 days, 5 of which were spent drunk with my mother.  How wonderful it felt to rest in the bottoms of bottles 1,700 miles away from my problems.
And now, with flushed cheeks that greet saddened cheekbones, I have continued my grandmother’s legacy.  Only, she was brave and stubborn and confident and she died living up to  the bold letters of her name.
Sure, she was sad but I’ve come to accept that we’re all sad, we’re also all happy.  We’re a mess of every emotion tangled in to a single, conscious vessel, obligated to ignoring certain things because, well, we have to if we want to be happy.  I simply have problems with putting on my blinders.  It’s not a bad thing, necessarily, but it takes it’s toll.  And tonight, I drink to all of those thoughts and problems and to my grandmother who was certainly brave, honest and genuine until the day she died.
I’ll get through my problems but it will never be below me to drink some of them away.

Forgiving Paul McCartney

I have always held a grudge against Paul McCartney for being such an asshole. Suing Lennon over whose name was first on lyrics credits and being one of the main causes of the Beatles breakup – he was just such an asshole during the White Album recordings and throughout the entire breakup.
Yet, I’ve always been sure to praise his songwriting and musical capabilities because it would be stupid to deny that he’s gifted when, clearly, he is. However, I still never gave his solo career any attention.
The thing is, as I’m getting older and maturing, I’m realizing all people do stupid things when they’re younger and all people do stupid things when they’re stressed and I’ve lightened up on many of my grudges. Paul being one of them. Despite the fact that I still don’t really care for him as a person, his music is wonderful. George has and always will be my favorite Beatle, regardless that I don’t really care for the majority of his solo career, it’s not the music that I love him for. Lennon has always been my favorite when it comes to music and his ability to weave music and politics was incredible. But, I have to say that so many of the things I’ve always loved musically about the Beatles are embedded in the solo career and other projects of McCartney, and listening to his music feels like a velvet cocoon.
His music is kind and incredibly pleasing to the ears. I should feel guilty for never listening to much of his solo work, but it had to be at the right time and the way I’m feeling right now… how perfect.
It’s so wonderful to grow up with music as my teacher. Because I can see past Paul’s flaws and embrace the talent that I’ve always ignored for “personal” reasons, I can use that knowledge to battle my own flaws.
“Forgiving” Paul McCartney means opening my eyes to a new way of thinking and understanding that we all fuck up and we’re all going to continue to fuck up. If only everyone’s balance for their mistakes were as beautiful as Paul’s.

Life as the Kid Who Shit Their Pants

When I was about four, I developed a sort of resistance to pooping and refused to poop.  I’d cross my legs until my face turned red and I couldn’t breathe; I honestly feared pooping because I thought it hurt.   My mother was aware of my problem and even had family members try to scare the shit out of me, literally.  My cousin who was four years older than me, cornered me in the bathroom when I was five and told me that if I didn’t poop, it would come out of my mouth.  She swore it had happened to her before. I guess it scared me, because I still remember everything about that moment, but it did nothing for my situation.

Out of options, my mom took me to my pediatrician who told her to buy mineral oil and put it in my juice.   She did and I still hate Tang to this day.  While it softened the poop, the problem was more of a mental one.  The evidence of skid marks in the undies was a dead giveaway that the mineral oil wasn’t working it’s magic.   I can’t imagine what she, as a mother was going through, but I was perfectly happy not pooping and I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t be.  This continued throughout my elementary years and the meet-n-greet with the teachers during registration became a ritual of my mother asking them to please speak in the hallway.

As I got older, I wised up a bit and starting throwing away the bacon-strip panties.  This, however, became a problem when my underwear drawer began depleting.   At that point, she wised up and bought underwear with a different day of the week printed on each pair; all days Monday-Sunday.  If any days went missing, my visits to the restroom were supervised.  I think my brother (8 years older than me) was probably more traumatized by the whole thing than I was.

My parents have been divorced since I was about 2, so my brother and I would spend one week at my moms and one at my dads.  Even though my dad knew about my problem, he either hated hearing me bitch about drinking the tang with mineral oil, or he was bitter enough at my mom to not make me drink it.   Either way, weeks at my dads were poop-free  with all the skivvies I could ask for.   So, after my mother became the Hitler of panties, I got the idea to start sneaking underwear from my dads to wear.

I remember having a little, plastic purple trashcan with a lid on it in my room, I had started hiding my shitty underwear in it under whatever other trash a little kid accumulates.  For whatever reason, I didn’t consider that my mom was the one who cleaned the house.  I remember the day she discovered my dirty little secret.  She just sat the empty trashcan (now with no lid) on my bed.  I walked in to my room and just stared at it.  Stupidly enough, I peeked inside to see if maybe she didn’t find the underwear.  I didn’t find underwear.

Somewhere in the second grade, I gave her hope that I’d stopped the whole business.  I thought I had too.  I was regular and it didn’t hurt to poop anymore.  But then came the third grade and for some reason, I missed my hay days when I got in trouble for stashing poopy panties all over my room.  One day during craft time, I was clenching in my seat.  I asked my teacher to use the restroom (really so I could go wipe the skids from my britches) and she told me to wait.  So I sat down and continued crafting.  About that time, I noticed it; the smell.  I looked at the kid Benjamin next to me and asked him what the smell was (hoping to blame someone else).  He looked around and then James (who either hated me or had a crush on me) said “Ewwww, I bet it’s Whitney”.  Oh, that’s right, he hated me.

I saw the teachers face go white and she sent me to the nurse.  I sat crying in the bathroom for nearly an hour until my mom (who worked 45 minutes away) finally came with fresh clothes, panties and looks to kill.  She smothered me with kisses and told me to change.  I changed only my underwear in hopes to divert the suspicion from myself.  She marched me to my classroom and asked the teacher to step in to the hall for a moment.  She then told me to stay in sight and wait for her near the restroom (which was halfway down the hall).  I walked to the restrooms and started playing with the water fountains when all of a sudden, her voice carried up the hallway.  I peeked over the fountain and saw her hands flying everywhere.  “…told you if she asked to go to the restroom, you let her!”  “I’m so sorry, I know you did, I know, I know, I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

At that moment, I felt really bad for my teacher and knew it was my fault.  Even though I couldn’t really help what I was doing, I also knew I could have tried harder to not shit my pants.   While I still battled the problem through the rest of elementary school and well in to junior high, it was at that moment that I stopped laying lines in my pants.   Even now, I can go a few days without going “big potty” as my stepfather, a grown man, calls it.  I don’t know if it’s a real problem or if I somehow destroyed my bowels during my poop-refusing childhood. Either way, telling stories of the glory days when I was hiding underwear in boxes of barbie clothes  is one of my favorite things when it comes to getting to know people.  Not because I’m proud of it, it’s funny, but yes, it is embarrassing.  However, once people realize that the bar has been raised, it’s usually then that they start digging deep in to their dark places.  And oh my gosh, there is nothing better.

There’s a quote I found in a pocket calendar when I was about 14.  It said, “Accept that some days you’re the pigeon and some days you’re the statue”.  I remember cutting the quote out and gluing it to something that I was going to keep forever (I have no idea what or where it is).
I’ve found, as I’ve gotten older, that when you’re generally the statue, the best way to deal with it is through self-deprecation.  I have a loooong history of embarrassing moments, and I have survived the sting of each one of them by splashing the burn with hot water.  It may be painful, but if you give it a minute the water turns cold and begins to soothe.

I don’t care what anyone says about “health of the mind” or any of that crap — if it clears your mind and rationalizes the situation for you, I say go for it.   No matter what you do in life, you’re going to come face to face with some part of your past eventually, and the clearer your mind is, the better chance you have of coming out of the battle in one piece.  I used to be embarrassed of things from my childhood, but somewhere along the  way I took a leap of faith and told someone about my “shitty” childhood, and to my surprise they told me the fucked-up parts of theirs.  Just last week I told someone about some of the strange things I did as a kid and they told me things equally fucked up.  It works every time and with it come relief and acceptance about things I can’t change.

With age comes experience and through experience, I’ve realized that by means of doing really weird shit, my childhood habits were actually pretty normal.  And now, I get to openly laugh at the embarrassing things I did because let’s be honest, kids don’t know any better so they’re bound to do weird, horribly awkward shit, and as an adult, you have 2 choices: You can accept it and laugh at it or you can let it haunt you.  It doesn’t really matter how extreme whatever happened to you is, the truth is, you can’t change anything about your past.  You can’t go back and make it different, make it better or make it more or less than it was.  It’s just something that happened to you.

So, today, this month, this whole year – it’s been bad, it’s been rough and I’ve had to drag my feet the entire way.  But I know that even in as little as six months, this could all be different and this doesn’t really define me.  What I choose to do with the outcome of my choices and how I choose to handle them will be the only thing that defines.  And I know this because I was the kid that shit my pants in class and lived to tell about it.