why making friends as an adult is totes difficult

i wrote this post in the early morning of january 9.

i have to preface this post by saying that i didn’t allow myself to sit down and start properly writing it (properly, because i’d taken notes on my phone already) until i’d cleaned my room. my bed contained

  • clothes
  • books
  • a manuscript
  • my computer
  • vitamins
  • jewelry
  • a power cord
  • mail
  • and a few red pencils

and my floor was more of the same. i couldn’t sleep—i wonder why—and it was as if all that shit were cluttering both my room and my brain. i feel better now, but my bed has also become habitable, so i’m torn between writing and sleeping.

writing is winning, luckily.

my first reaction when i’m upset about something is to run away. i used to be a let’s-talk-this-shit-out, confrontational type, but now that i’m less volatile and more “zen” (in quotes because i actually kind of hate when people describe themselves as such), i retreat. or, at least, i fantasize about it and just delete my facebook account instead. i always come back, though, mainly because without the link to facebook, i can’t continue to cultivate my tinder habit. but anyway, budget, time, and an overall sense of rationality usually cull my urge to book a flight to ecuador.

i_love_you_man_l

from the movie “i love you, man”

yesterday, after having spent five days in a row at my boyfriend’s apartment, it was time for me to return to the place i actually live, a place where in the fridge i had only feta cheese and almond milk and, at that time, my worldly possessions had erupted all over my room. my boyfriend is traveling for work this weekend, leaving me to my own devices for the next four and a half days. while seven days ago i thought of this weekend as a time to catch up on writing, be social, and be productive, yesterday afternoon i had a slight panic attack that aside from a few loose plans, i didn’t have much to do this weekend in terms of actually interacting with other people. though it was more than that; because what i was truly upset about was the fact that other than my boyfriend, there was no one within a thirty-mile radius who i could call and talk to about the fact that in the three months i’ve lived here, i haven’t really made any friends.

okay, so i have, like, two who are my homegrown friends and not friends of my boyfriend. and i did call him, and it didn’t really go well. which is what usually happens when you expect someone else, especially your boyfriend, to put a bandage on your problems for you.

so i considered driving to orange county to see my best friend. i looked at flights to places in the west (la, san diego, denver, santa fe, seattle, san francisco, and reno) and checked out driving distances and times and hostels for places like the grand canyon, phoenix, and flagstaff. i googled “good weekend trips from las vegas” and “good places for writers in the southwest” (i was really stretching with that one), and i even looked into going to mount charleston in nevada, which is only thirty miles away. anywhere, really, seemed better than here.

i ended up making no decisions and trying to go to bed five hours before i normally do, which resulted in my waking up at my normal go-to-sleep time, maniacally cleaning my room, and writing this post.

the last thing i ever want to identify myself as one of these awful things, but at four a.m. i googled “how to make friends as an adult.” because i was thinking maybe this isn’t a problem only i am having. when i saw that writers at publications from buzzfeed to the new york times had addressed the subject, a small part of me wanted to kick and scream and say, see! it’s not just me! but mostly, i just wanted some fucking solutions that didn’t involve a meetup group that makes you and twenty other people paint the same goddamn thing, like a lamp or a snowman.

students-group-atlanta-art-classes

i don’t know these women, but they’re really happy about just having painted the ugliest high heels on record.

 

i’m not going to apologize for hating on those painting classes.

plenty of people enjoy them.

i am just not one of those people.

 

 

“when you are self-employed” is probably a search term i should have added, because unfortunately, one common suggestion was make friends at the office. it’s okay to mix business and pleasure! my “office” is wherever i want, and that includes my bed, the kitchen table and counter, a coffee shop twenty minutes away (to say las vegas has no coffee shop culture would be an understatement), my boyfriend’s apartment, and recently, the poker rooms at various casinos. surprisingly, casino staff lets a small girl (adult?) with a laptop full of children’s book manuscripts hang out there due to the small chance she’s helping her boyfriend count cards.

even if you didn’t recently move across the country to a city filled with crazy people, apparently, according to my web research, it’s straight up difficult to make friends when you’re older. our standards are higher (because “someone to party with” isn’t our only requirement once we’re no longer in college); our time is more limited because of jobs, kids, and other obligations; and the means for making friends as an adult are really fucking awkward.

my suggested meetup groups. the harry potter one is tempting.

i won’t feel bad about shitting on those painting classes, but i do feel bad about shitting on meetup. i want to like meetup. i want it to work (and to be fair, one of my two friends is someone i met through the app, but only because he took the initiative to message me outside of a writers group we’d both joined), but there is something inherently creepy and forced about it. i don’t want to be in a book club with 567 members. i don’t want to try salsa dancing. i don’t want to learn krav maga or needlepoint with a bunch of strangers. i want a group that’s called “let’s sit around and have wine or coffee and talk about shit!” and i don’t want to find it on the internet. i just want it to happen.

it’s possible that my veruca salt approach and unwillingness to be a joiner are not helping me out here. the truth is, i’m very social. i have a lot of amazing friends scattered around. i like talking to people, and i often end up making friends or connections with complete strangers in random places. my friend from australia, who now lives in the united states, remarked the other day that she had trouble making her own friends as well when she moved, but that she and i became lifelong friends in a foreign country in about a day. so we’re clearly capable. it’s just better when the art of friend-making happens naturally and not like some bizarre playdate you set yourself up on.

since last night i’ve done a few things. i inquired about getting put on a co-ed softball team, even though i’m half scared i don’t remember how to throw a ball; signed up for a site i found on the huffington post online called girlfriendcircles (i know, i gagged too); and joined a young professionals toastmasters group. i’m also considering going to a bar or a library solo, because those seem like normal places to meet people, and i can practice meeting them by shouting and whispering. it’ll really expand my vocal range and put me out of my comfort zone, both of which will help at my toastmasters meetings. or i can just combine the two and bring a book to a bar. nothing says, “be my friend!” like a young adult novel and some vodka.

is that weird?

alg-scotch-book-jpg

this is scotch. but you get the idea.

girlfriendcircles asked me to pick one of the following and only one of the following adjectives (annoying) to describe myself: sanguine, choleric, melancholy, or phlegmatic. while the main entry in merriam-webster’s for melancholy is “a gloomy mood or condition,” “quietly serious thoughtfulness” was also listed (and i’m definitely not sanguine, choleric, or phlegmatic). i’m going to take this weekend to quietly and seriously have some thoughts—

 

i’ve decided to stay in, and not run away from, las vegas—

about what it means for me to have a life here and who might fit into said life. while i still can’t stop myself from calling new jersey the h word, i live in las vegas now, and it’s about time i start considering this glittery insane asylum, and its residents, my home.

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“because wherever i sat [ . . . ] i would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.”*

this post was begun at four a.m. and finished at six a.m. this morning. i just now woke up in a delirious stupor in order to post it. i will now go back to sleep.

it’s four a.m. in my household, so naturally, all three members of my hippie artist family, and that’s includes me, are awake and prowling around the house and doing random shit. my mom is probably plowing through her fifth library book of the week, and my dad is most likely falling asleep perusing a passage in silas marner or the great gatsby that he’s already read two dozen times. i haven’t shaken my vegas routine, which is go-to-bed-at-six-and-wake-up-at-two-in-the-afternoon, and to have gone from stumbling out into the sunlight from a strip club this past monday morning at a time when my friends on the east coast were commuting to work to, screech, having shopping-cart battles with suburban milfs in trader joe’s this afternoon was some sort of jedi mind fuck, and i wish i could say that this weird restless before-dawn itch were a rare occurrence, but it’s not. i also wish i hadn’t just eaten three bowls of corn chex, a cereal i don’t even like.

the other day, when i told someone i was a writer, this person, a stranger, asked, “so, do you have some crazy weird schedule where you’re up all night and shit?” (the prose wasn’t so eloquent, but i’m fine to let the lack of articulateness go because the conversation took place in a crowded club at two a.m., and big, complicated words are hard to shout over edm. even schedule was a bit of a stretch.)

i answered, “yeah. pretty much.” sometimes we creative folk are predictable. dr. alice weaver flaherty calls my current affliction “the midnight disease,” aka hypergraphia, an intense desire to write, when a person becomes almost manic, compelled to express him- or herself on anything available, even a slip of toilet paper. i simply got out of bed and retrieved my laptop from the kitchen; nonetheless, the compulsion steamrolled all else.

which brings me to the actual purpose of this blog. i’ve wanted to write this post for a few days now, but i didn’t know how to start it. apparently, all i needed to do was drink coffee at eight p.m., sleep-deprive myself, copyedit 150 pages of a middle-grade novel, have a sort of weepy i-miss-you skype chat with my boyfriend (who’s in australia), and eat breakfast cereal that resembles and tastes like miniature cardboard potholders. oh, and research something for a family friend in exchange for her having altered several articles of my clothing (because when you’re an artist, you often pay people like your seamstress and accountant in favors instead of cash—it’s simple: you have none).

help-me-im-poor

 

 

 

 

anyway, a friend of mine, who, come to think of it, i haven’t talked to in a while (hallo!, as they say in the uk), posted a few words on facebook re: robin williams the other day, and i thought they were spot-on (i hope he doesn’t mind i’ve retyped a snippet of them here):

depression is often part of what makes comedians comedians (most of them, anyway). many artists are ticking time bombs. any of them could go at any moment. that’s the other shoe. the art is what keeps the demons away, but sometimes it’s not enough.

tons of people suffer from depression, but artists in particular, whether they be musicians or painters or comics, tend to lean toward the melancholy side of things. it’s been said that low self-esteem and pessimism often fuel success because sufferers of depression work extra, unearthly hard to put themselves in positions in which they are surrounded by so much good and bounty that the sadness melts enough as to be ignored. the mask of laughter or creative self-deprecation through art has helped many a performer battle, but never conquer, depression. i’ve had friends remark to me that they could never imagine that deep down i’m sad, because my exterior is making jokes and smiling and telling stories or running miles and miles. only someone who has the disease truly understands that these actions are vital shields against, instead, staring into the mirror and whispering to your reflection that you’re worthless. or worse.

monstermy mom told me that my great-grandmother once put her head in the oven to “prove a point” to my great-grandfather. ah, genes.

so i’m pretty open about the fact that i suffer from depression, and it’s not because hollywood has made it “cool” to see a therapist, the image of a person lying on a chaise longue (not lounge) with hands folded on his or her abdomen immortalized as being hip. never once, each time i had to explain to a new manager at a new job that every other wednesday i’d be gone for an hour for a “doctor’s appointment,” did i feel remotely cool or hip. i actually felt more like a special brand of loser, one who needed someone else’s aid to keep her emotions in repose. my brief surrender to the serotonin-specific reuptake inhibitor (ssri) celexa felt like a failure, and deciding to forgo the meds was a feat. discovering that running a long distance could fix my negatively charged brain for a day (just one fucking day!) was akin to winning a pulitzer prize.

i hope someday to know what that feels like in actuality, and i beseech whomever or whatever that my stupid fuzzy imbalanced headspace is plagued with ample midnight-disease nights as to fill an award-winning book.

but with regards to robin williams . . . to depression and to suicide . . . i have friends with whom i’ve argued about depression as a disease. people who love me, who know me so well, yet still say things like, i don’t understand why you can’t just be happy. you have so much going for you. you should be able to get over it. some people have real problems. or: suicide is the most selfish act. don’t people think about those they’d leave behind?

when caught in the throes of a depressive episode, the outside world can cease to exist. there is you, and there is pain. you’ve forgotten your defense mechanisms. you can’t bring yourself to sit down and write or go for a run or call a friend and tell funny stories. you’re nearly crippled, clawing at the carpet as if you have the strength to tear up the entire square footage of your room but not the energy to get up and get a glass of water to calm down. the past words from your friends and family, the “call me anytime” offers, seem empty; you don’t want to bother anyone. then, somehow, the gears can begin to move. you get up. you write three pages and feel better. you recite your favorite poem ten times. you eek out a hi text message to a friend. you think about someone you love finding you like that, and the image makes you shudder, nauseates you. an episode has passed. these are the lucky, triumphant moments. sometimes, though, they don’t come. nothing clicks, the hole widens and deepens, and some people slip.

i wish one of the funniest men to have ever lived weren’t dead. his jokes and impressions were markers of my childhood and the childhoods of most of my friends. (side note: two years ago i wrote a blog in which the headline was from hook, and it was another gem written at four a.m.) but i both understand and, more important, empathize with him, he who fought a monster and lost. all i ask is for those who can’t empathize, to sympathize, and accept depression as the disease it is. only acceptance will give us the power to destroy it.

 

*who else? slyvia plath in the bell jar.

“finally, from so little sleeping and so much reading, his brain dried up and he went completely out of his mind.”*

this post was written earlier this morning.

i’m in one of those really fantastic moods in which i don’t feel like talking to anyone. there are about five or six text messages in my in-box that i haven’t even opened, a few from hours ago, and probably by tomorrow i’ll get follow-up messages from those friends asking me if i’m okay. i generally don’t do this sort of thing, so when i do, my friends know that i mean business about my anger, sadness, or whatever it is. it’s midnight on saturday (or, i guess, technically it’s sunday), and at this time last week, i was out on the lower east side, wearing the tightest dress and highest heels i’ve ever worn in my life, and six hours away from going to sleep.

at this moment, i’m in bed at my parents’ house—i’m going to keep calling it that until i get to the point where i stop being in denial that i, too, live here—wearing my ex-boyfriend’s pajama pants, neon-blue socks, and a long-sleeve shirt. oh, and my glasses. i’m truly one of those versatile girls who writes on her match.com profile that she can be “up for a night out on the town or a low-key night staying in.” i’m the perfect woman, you’ve found me, congratulations.

up until a half hour ago, when i decided to take the longest, most scalding shower ever, i had copyedited for twelve hours, interrupted only by pouring and imbibing more coffee or eating some sort of carb. let’s just say i should buy stock in clif bars if the company is publicly traded. (well, turns out it’s not—upholding its values and not selling out or some other garbage—so i guess i can’t use my nonexistent money to buy shares. maybe clif’ll give me a job instead.)

a friend once told me that i remind her of the energizer bunny, and i’ve felt as though, for months and months now, even a year, that i’ve been able to somehow do so much without collapsing. but, as i found out this weekend, even those with seemingly bottomless energy sometimes tap out. in a fight, though, there’s tapping out, leaving the brawl on your own terms, and then there’s getting straight-up knocked out, after which you come to only when your body is ready. on friday night, i took a high kick to the head.

all week i did a slew of idiotic things, from trying to go through the subway turnstile without it even occurring to me that i should swipe my card, chewing a piece of gum i knowingly dropped on the ground in one of the most filthy places in america, and trying to correct the word humorous, which was clearly spelled right, because i was convinced it looked “too british.” i also missed my train stop on wednesday night, which would have made sense had i fallen asleep, except that i was awake. when my dad called to tell me my train had just left red bank, i swore up and down that we’d just left middletown, the previous stop, and i realized i was two stations beyond mine only when we were pulling into long branch. i had zero recollection of the train stopping at my destination or the one past it.

these may seem like silly examples, but they are things i normally do not do, or, at least, i don’t do them all within the same week. i am very tired, and very stressed, the following on my plate for the next two months:

  • 9/30: stop working at simon & schuster (oh, i quit my job on 9/3)
  • 10/1: leave for costa rica (i have my flights booked, nothing else)
  • 10/3: turn thirty
  • 10/12: return from costa rica
  • 11/3: run the nyc marathon (oh right, and before that, train to run those 26.2 miles and raise $3,000 for my charity; if i don’t raise the full amount, i pay the difference)
  • 11/16: leave for las vegas
  • 11/27: fly back to return home the next morning, in time for thanksgiving

meanwhile, during all that, i need to worry about purchasing my own health insurance, getting steady freelance work and building new relationships, obtaining new clients, developing my website, writing my blog posts, working on my novel, getting business cards, networking, trying to figure out how to become a travel writer because that’s simple, missing my former coworkers and the office environment and new york and all my friends in north jersey, and working on not desperately missing my boyfriend, who now lives in las vegas. i’m aware that i sound like a huge crybaby. sorry. most of these things are very cool and exciting, but now mounded, they’ve overwhelmed me.

i’ve become more concerned than usual about money recently, probably because in two weeks i will no longer be getting a steady paycheck, so i’ve taken on a lot of side work. i haven’t said no to anyone, and this act of writing is the most fun i’ve allowed myself to have all week. the amount of work i’ve taken on has left me wrung out and cotton-brained, and on thursday, realizing that i had promised a publishing house i’d return copyediting and proofreading tests to them within a week, i hurriedly completed the tests and sent them back, too worried about seeming flaky to ask for more time (on a self-imposed due date, no less). drunkenly overconfident in my abilities, i assumed that even tired, overworked kaitlin’s skills were superior to most, and i figured, when i saw the e-mail response in outlook, that i had passed the test with flying colors. and why wouldn’t i have? i work for the second-biggest publishing house in the world, and i already freelance for four out of the big six, as they’re known. this last house would have completed the sexfecta (yes, i just made that up).

anyway, i didn’t pass. and when i looked over my tests, my boo-boos circled in purple (for shame, my favorite color!), i couldn’t digest the things i’d missed, including overlooking two of the same word in a row and not noticing that the r in concentration was missing, which is really just downright mean and mocking. there were other egregious issues, and had a freelancer submitted that sort of test to me, i wouldn’t have been impressed. to feel a potential client, and therefore potential projects and income, slip through my fingers was horrible and i felt humiliated, but that wasn’t even the worst part. the worst part, to me, was that i let a due date get to me, that i let the idea of gaining income cause me to forget why i do my job and why i chose this career.

practically every second of my day is consumed with books, whether it’s at my full-time job, while freelancing, or when i’m at home, thinking about my novel or discussing my dad’s manuscripts with him. i’m consumed even when reading for pleasure, which is barely pleasurable anymore because i can’t stop myself from seeing a book through the eyes of a copy editor or proofreader. i’m consumed with tweeting quotes by famous authors. i live and breathe literature; i need it to survive. but, just as i need food to keep kicking, too much of it will make me sick. i’ve been swallowing words whole, without tasting them, seeing them as a means to an end, and in the process, they’ve made me ill.

i gave up going to boston and running a half marathon with my friend this weekend to stay home and work. i would have had to work regardless (this time my deadlines are nonnegotiable and most definitely not self-imposed), but i decided that my jobs deserved more. more attention, more love. the manuscripts i have to work on are authors’ souls set in print and maybe one day some kids’ favorite books. they’re works of art, not a paycheck, not a due date. i wish it hadn’t taken a failed test to make me see this, but unfortunately, that’s what happened. but today, instead of seeing my job, a manuscript, as money in my pocket and mere words on a page, meant to be reined in by my grammatical hands, i tried to read it as a story i picked up because i wanted to read it. then, you know, i just happened to hyphenate words correctly and change mantle to mantel because no author can ever get that shit straight.

“i have a passion for teaching kids to become readers, to become comfortable with a book, not daunted. books shouldn’t be daunting, they should be funny, exciting, and wonderful; and learning to be a reader gives a terrific advantage.”

—roald dahl

books-and-heart-jpeg

*cervantes, don quixote

“and the darkest hour is just before dawn. . . .”*

i wrote this post on june 30, after a late night out on saturday, june 29, and while plagued with a fantastic hangover.

i’ve found that we humans do our deep thinking at times and in places that personally suit us best, which of course, makes perfect sense. maybe it’s when having a cup of coffee in the morning, before our day starts. when showering, letting the hot water go cold as we mull over various dilemmas and potential decisions. while driving or commuting. or maybe right before bed. or even while brushing our teeth (my friend, by whom i just ran this post, told me that’s another ideal thinking time). but i think there is one time, and one place, in which no one should be thinking at all, and that’s during the early hours of the morning, when we’re in bed, around three or four a.m. or so. it’s still dark, and it’s too early to get up, but it’s also too late to fall back into a deep sleep. yet despite the fact that this point on the twenty-four-hour daily ride is not ideal for thinking clearly, or rationally, i often find that this is when i’m most awake and the least likely to be capable of banishing any negative thoughts. when i’m up at this hour, nothing can soothe me and no one can reason with me. and mostly, that’s because no one else is awake to let me vent and tell me how unreasonable i am acting.

i’ll occasionally do some writing during these instances, and while, then, i believe that i’m making valid points and coming to some profound conclusions, when i later read anything i’ve written at that ungodly hour, the words are completely absurd, as if some verbally gifted demon hacked into my brain and spewed some well-written yet bat-shit crazy, half-baked ideas that i had previously thought were positively brilliant. think joyce’s ulysses if it were merely straight-up nonsense and not a nonsensical masterpiece (and, actually, it’s not even really nonsensical; most people just think it is).

there’s a song called “in the wee small hours of the morning,” an old tune that was first recorded by frank sinatra in the 1950s, that i always think of when i find myself unable to sleep, my heart filled with dread. the song is about how you miss the person you love, if they aren’t there or if they don’t love you back or whatever, most desperately during the early morning hours. i was talking to a friend recently about trying to do any real productive thinking at this time and she said that she doesn’t believe our bodies were created to handle thought during those hours. almost as if we’re supposed to be shut down, like a computer. yet sometimes, when a thing is bothering us, we reboot, and all sorts of irrational ideas come barreling through the wall that our sleeping brain was supposed to have been programmed to put up for about six to eight hours. there must be a glitch.

why am i talking about this? i’m not completely sure. maybe i just feel the need to try to understand why we can’t quiet our brains sometimes. why, like a car with cut brakes, our perceptions of things can abruptly lose control and our thought process can work up to a dangerous speed as we can’t help but let it roll downhill into a busy intersection. i am also worried, maybe, that twelve hours from now, i’ll be staring up into the bleak ebony night, wondering if the decisions i’ve decided to make in the next few months are going to be ones i regret or can’t take back. or both. or possibly something worse i haven’t even anticipated. i know i’m being cryptic, but right now i have to be.

months ago, when i still lived in hoboken, i was awake in the middle of the night, and i became inspired to compose a poem (one of the few examples of middle-of-the-night writing i’ve done that i think is actually decent). i’ll get to that soon.

but behind the poem, there’s this. so, for a long time, i was fortunate to have someone i cared about sleeping next to me in bed. it sounds silly, but even when that person was snoozing away, it was nice just knowing that he was there. when i’d wake up at four a.m., upset about something, i could look over, feel safe, and roll back to my spot, where, in about a minute, i’d again be asleep. i wrote the poem below long after that person had vacated my bed, and although, while writing, i was in an apartment with two roommates, i felt as if i were miles away from any other form of life. you can quickly get used to having the comfort of a warm body next to you, and when the other side of the bed is empty and you still take up only “your” half, you wish someone would fill that space. and sometimes, right after that person is gone, you think that anyone can lie there. that anyone can step in and give that comfort you used to have. i have made mistakes with this—because i was lonely or sad or confused—and i mistook anybody for that somebody. and when i was alone, i felt uncontrollably restless and uncomfortable in my body, as if it were merely a vessel meant to keep me trapped, and i wanted so badly to have someone else there. now, having moved past the lonely and sad phase (albeit maybe not the confused one), i can now think of only one person to fill that void, and maybe that’s even worse. because when he isn’t present, there can be no replacements—no second-string quarterbacks, understudies, or stand-ins—so it is during those wee small hours that i do miss him most.

anyway, this is one very convoluted and slapdash post. i’m almost not even sure that i didn’t write it at four a.m. instead of four p.m. . . . though maybe four p.m. when one is hung over and has the sunday blues is about as close as one can get to dawn.

sometimes i try to run through the early morning anxiety, when everyone else is still asleep

nyc skyline at sunrise
sometimes i try to run through the early morning anxiety, when everyone else is still asleep.

here’s the poem.

a collector truck backs up,

beep.

so this is how

a few stragglers wind home from the haunt,

whoo-whoop.

your midnight goes

a streetlight goes out,

zap.

yes, this is how

a few bars from a song in a passing car,

doo-doop.

your midnight goes

a set of tires on a dewy road,

skid.

when you’re all alone

a few rodents scurry to their homes,

scritch-scratch.

in a big, big city.

*from “dedicated to the one i love” by the mamas and the papas

“all we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”*

disclaimer: this is long. i’d read it in segments. warned ya. oh, and i wrote this yesterday.

greetings and happy new year from tens of thousands of feet in the air—i am on a plane from houston to la guardia. at 6:28 this morning, i shot out of bed in my hotel room, realizing that i had not set an alarm and my previously nearly fool-proof internal clock had done me wrong for only the second time in my life (the last was in 2002 before my eight a.m. statistics final): my flight had left five minutes before i woke up.

i had started this post last night with the intention of saying that this year i am not going to make a resolution, because for the last however many years i have rarely kept any of the ones i have made. i’ve given up on ceasing to bite my nails and cuticles, a highly unattractive habit that i picked up at age nine and haven’t kicked since. they (“who,” right? i always think that when i use that phrase) say that you can form a habit in two weeks. chewing on my fingers has been twenty years in the making and i have far many other more detrimental issues to tackle first, although when one of your male coworkers remarks that “your nails look like hell” and “you need a manicure,” you should probably think about painting them with cyanide or large doses of potassium to keep yourself from gnawing. better yet, i think i should get one of those electrified collars with which pet owners torture their dogs, the idea being that i’d get a little shock every time i put my fingers near my mouth. eating would become quite an adventure.

anyway, when i had started this post last night, my friend and i were in austin, texas, sitting on our hotel beds, wearing hyatt robes, drinking vodka and club soda, and listening to late-90s and early 2000s rap and r&b (think dmx sprinkled with some 112, ludacris, and ja rule, the last at the insistence of my friend, so please don’t judge). to be honest, if we hadn’t gone out after that, i would have been perfectly content with our evening, which i suppose can be a good or a bad thing, depending on how you look at it. oh, and the fireworks over the river were nice too.

if i absolutely needed to make a resolution, i guess i’d say i’d want to be a better, more responsible person overall, a better friend, a better daughter, a better colleague. a better human, in general. unfortunately, i think we can throw increasing my level of responsibility, along with keeping my nails pretty, overboard, being that mere hours into 2013 i missed a six a.m. flight on new year’s day that i probably shouldn’t have booked in the first place.

when my mom got pregnant with me, everyone said, jokingly of course, that they were worried she’d leave me on top of the car and drive away. i’m starting to wonder if, when or if i ever decide to venture into parenthood, my family and friends will say the same about me. despite all the haters, my mom ended up being the world’s finest mom, and this christmas i told her and my dad that no one can say that they have parents like mine, but i know that everyone would say that they wish they did. i mean that with every ounce of my being. i can only hope that people will be as wrong about me as they were about my mom.

a few weeks ago a friend and i were talking about his upcoming oral surgery to remove his wisdom teeth, something that i know he has been quite nervous about. he asked me about my experience, knowing that i didn’t go under general anesthesia, and i said that i had had a good one, if getting three of your teeth yanked out in under ten minutes while you’re awake can ever be described as such. when he asked me why i opted for a local anesthetic, i told him that i don’t like general anesthesia, and i have a goal of ultimately never having to go under. when he pressed further as to my reasoning, instead of just leaving it at a general distrust of being knocked unconscious, i said that i knew someone my age who had had complications with general anesthesia and, well . . . i pride myself on honesty, and i have a lot of trouble lying convincingly, but sometimes, i think, i don’t take others’ feelings into consideration enough, or, maybe, i do so after i’ve already opened my big mouth. case in point. i definitely didn’t help my friend feel any less nervous, but i’m pretty sure i made him more so. i feel horribly about it and would even if he were a stranger, but it’s a hell of a lot worse when it’s someone you really care about. (if you’re reading this, i’m sorry, for the umpteenth time.) be a better friend. ugh. trying.

i have never written or typed umpteenth before. what a truly odd word.

i’m pretty sure that every year for the past seven years or so, when i’ve made my annual new year’s facebook status update (obviously a real critical item on the checklist of life), i’ve included the lyrics below from my favorite guster song, “come downstairs and say hello”:

to tell you the truth, i’ve said it before.

tomorrow i start in a new direction.

one last time these words from me—

i’m never  sayin’ them again.

i look straight at what’s coming ahead,

and soon it’s gonna change in a new direction.

every night as i’m falling asleep,

these words repeated in my head. . . .

expecting to become better at things overnight is a tall order, and just like i think that you don’t instantly feel more in love on the day of your wedding (not that i’d know, but . . . ) or closer to god on the day of your confirmation or more grown-up when you graduate from any level of school, i don’t think you can improve yourself once the clock dings midnight. i don’t think you should expect to, either, or else you’re severely setting yourself up for failure. the classic example that everyone points to is the overcrowding of gyms on january 1 and the stark emptiness of them on january 2. today i plan on not running and most likely eating msg-infused thai food that i had delivered instead of walking to a restaurant for. (side note: i ended up eating an eggplant parm sandwich. not much better.)

i think that most people are generally too hard on themselves. i also think that most people are genuinely good, even as i internally yell at some of them for being so god-awful stupid sometimes. though i do like to think i’ve worked on my tolerance of other humans a bit. but as one of my old bosses might say if he were to see a tourist in times square taking a picture with a lopsided and demented sponge bob squarepants: “humans.”

so resolutions . . . i’m so over them (#shitgirlssay). making fake hashtags is here to stay, though, so if you don’t like them, well . . . i don’t really care. but let’s not say resolutions. let’s say goals. i like goals. goals are good. i will now attempt to give my resolutions a goal makeover.

  1. lose weight. every damn year i make this resolution. what about, instead, drink more water? sign up for another half marathon? run three times a week without getting hung up on distances? even a mile is something. i forget this far too often.
  2. be a better friend, daughter, colleague. “better” seems to imply that i’m not doing so hot in these three roles (i almost wrote rolls. fuck, i’m tired), and maybe that’s the case, but i’m going to say that i want to do something every day to let the people in my life who i care about know how much i value them. it can be anything from a text message to a gift to skywriting my love for them in the air. if you want to increase the odds of getting that last one, i wear a size-seven ring and my favorite color is purple. and i really like pizza. and falafel.
  3. stop biting my nails/cuticles. hm. eh. i’m allowed a vice.
  4. be less angry. be more positive. happiness takes work.
  5. write a novel and read all the classics i never read in high school and college. oh yeah, easy peasy. how about just “write  more”? read more? not all my blog posts have to be marathons like this one. and the scarlet letter isn’t going anywhere.
  6. write down your goals. this one can stay. but i’m going to add an amendment of learning to be realistic and not include more than . . . six. five? does this count as the sixth?

i have deposits upon deposits of guilt that have crystallized in my heart and are taking up valuable real estate inside me. there are many, many things i am not proud of and will probably never forgive myself for, but holding on to this negativity is eating away at the person i am and the person who i envision myself becoming. my goal is to leave most of this baggage in austin, some of it in houston, and the rest in effing la guardia. i think tackling items one through six will become much easier if i can do this.

taking the trip to austin with one of my best friends was like a tonic. late afternoon yesterday, after having spent a solid three hours lying in bed watching reruns of daytime talk shows with practically zero motivation to get up, she made me go downstairs, be around humans (!), and have a festive drink at the bar (pumpkin vodka is amazing, by the way). she told me that when we went back upstairs, under no circumstances was i allowed to go back under the comforter. so i guess i can accomplish goal number two right now. i dedicate this post and my willingness to accomplish my 2013 goals to her. i think that, because of her, i can meet them. last year, 2012, was a bizarre and awful, yet wonderful, 365 days, but without her, the good would have been far less common. i don’t believe in god and i only loosely believe in fate, but i do think you are meant to meet some people, for they will change your life in ways you never thought possible.

so thank you. and happy new year.

*j. r. r. tolkien