I don't know

               My coherent incoherency was as endless as the day itself. The warm water was glistening around me whispering beautiful coos and hums, as if inviting me to stay in its body forever. I felt as if we would stay forever. I believed that we would be that close, that fun, that safe and silly and free and daring and confidant forever. Silly is my favorite luxury, and also the first insult I ever got in trouble for. If someone had told me that any young boy or moment or fight with my parents or job interview let down would have ever thieved any of our individual boldness from us, infecting the others with insecurity, I would’ve laughed in their face. I was as much in love with those girls as I envisioned myself loving my own future daughters. They were my peers, but so much more.

 I’ve never understood others when they recall memories from the past and describe them with such detail yet claim that they didn’t know how good that memory was while they were living it. In every big, meaningful stepping stone and glistening second of effortless happiness I have known it as a moment that would stay with me forever. I have looked around and devoted more mental energy into that stream of conscious minutes than any test I’ve ever taken, knowing full well that my current state of being was one I would recall to future children at some point, shaping me into new, unrecognizable versions of myself, having known more fulfillment than I ever could of asked for.

 I wonder if we can truly hone in on it, our moments of blinding light, if we don’t live our moments of deafening dark with the same vigor? People claiming to be living but dead to half of themselves. We’re made up by particles and atoms, but demand the freedom of the full feeling of life. Feeling, emotion, that’s what drives our lives isn’t it? Why are we doing ourselves a disservice in running from the uncomfortable? You know what makes me uncomfortable? The phone rings and it’s my dad. Or I turn off the interstate after my four hour drive south into my small, southwest Virginia, Appalachian town, and social anxiety creeps in, holding me captive. The ever expected and predictable, earth shattering question; What are your plans after graduation? I mean, come on, do any of our elders (all respect implied) really have the right to ask us such a question in this economy, this day in age? No one really knows where they’re going or what they’re doing, or no one that’s worth a good conversation anyway. But you see, I’m not allowed to run. I have no rights in escapism. Well, there’s school, Richmond, the city, my friends, buttttt I still allow those dreaded moments to infiltrate my self-perception, my psyche, because, just maybe, I need the push. I need the accountability. I need to damn well believe in myself with ten times the confidence it takes to say “You know, I don’t really know where I’m going, but I know that I want to write. I know that I want to live in a city that I love. I know that I want to speak to women and America. I know that I will make myself proud. I know that my ambition and work ethic will work for me. I know that I won’t settle, and that’s all anyone needs to know.” I guess the question is; how well can you know yourself while living solely in the light? How could I possibly know what I love so passionately about myself (candor, bravery), without knowing what I hate about myself (hyper criticism that consumes me and suffocates my relationships, fear, a flighty mind, insubordinate disorganization)? We need to know ourselves so that when it comes down to it, we live your truth.

The Ultimate Judas

It’s been a week since adulthood punched me in the nose with its brass knuckles and kemosabe vibe. I mean, it really favored more Judas than ‘sabe, but that’s not the point. It had a sketchy, jaded kind of deep smoker’s whisper, as if to pull me into an alluring, 50% off sale at H&M that only I were made privy to. I was going through a list of fancy summer internships that I’m relying on acquiring in order to obtain further pasta this summer and rent money out in the sweltering, slow killer of your mother heat of Richmond. It all happened at once, like a trippy dream, like the cocaine trip episode of “Girls” (omg, another ultimate modern day Judas story, except Hannah was Judased twice, by her real friends). The first one read “Social media knowledge……. Bs, bs, bs.” It read like the end of my life. I gave myself a pep talk, I said, "You are an avid and proud member of the generation of narcissism, and if anyone can make up made up talents, skills, and individual specific trades (maybe frankincense or myrrh) at the drop of a hat, it is you young grasshopper.” So I allowed that to resonate. Then I moved onto the old “Whatever, Carrie Bradshaw couldn’t use anything but Microsoft Word and look at her now” mantra. It was all gonna be okay. I was channeling Hillary’s greatness and Beyoncé’s most fierce moments of bravery. I moved to the next to find the same predicament. The colors began to run together. It was a color pukefest. It felt like I, who rarely ran for any purpose, was in that facebook profile pic worthy, wildly popular Color Run thing.

All I could see was the repeated re-iteration of another pile of stress on top of the already crushing weight of a roommate that put away my dish .8ths of a second after I used it, immediately scolding my irresponsible ways, the expected debt coming upon me in a wave like that one in “Blue Crush” that knocked Kate Bosworth’s head into the rock, the piles of clothes laying on the floor and my bed that explained my inability to purchase groceries this week, the pile of applications picked up in my search for a new part time anything, anywhere. All in all, I was maybe a little on edge. I mean there was also that whole 15 credits to be trying to pass and two campus papers to be writing for every week (resume building), but hey!, I mean, there is always that extra time I had been keeping in the back of my “yeah, sleep is for delinquents” pants pocket to revamp my blog, start using it every day, and create a twitter to become active with, because after all, all the generation of narcissism is really good for is social media. And that was it. That was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me economy of 2013.

So here I am. This blog won’t be about me feelin’ my muse, some political release, funny banter, or for the entertainment of facebook friends. Oh no! No. No. No. This blog is about achieving a job in a job world that doesn’t need me. It’s about proving with three months left that I am SUCH a blog, social media whiz that YOU (whoever you are) can’t let me go. I’m going to be the Kimmy in “My Best Friend’s Wedding.” I mean, I’ll probably end up the Jules. Here I am, giving it the old college try. I say commendable to say the very least, but Who’s asking me?