Loves Labours Lost Part II or How I Fell Victim to the When Harry Met Sally Dilemma

I didn’t mention one pretty major thing in Part I, but I felt, in serving
the story properly, it needed to be discussed here.  One huge portion of my
life has been spent in the dating purgatory (well, the other besides
“She’s One of The Guys”-iosis) known as Are-We-a-Thing-Maybe-We-Are-But-Not-But-Kind-Of which leads to lots of Kind-of-But-Not-Really-But-It-Feels-Like-It Dates.  You’re thinking, oh big surprise, guys with commitment issues.  Imagine that!  It really goes beyond that, though.  These aren’t necessarily guys with commitment issues; these are guys who are so enigmatic for whatever reason (be it chivalry, shyness, or god forbid something else), they never tell you what they’re really thinking or feeling.  These are guys who give you just enough of those stupid “expert-tested” body language cues you read about in Cosmo magazine (believe me, I’ve read like, ALL of those godforsaken articles) to leave you utterly perplexed as to whether they like you or not, but it’s usually not on purpose.  A lot of times, the whole Are-We-Aren’t-We thing goes hand in hand with “She’s One of The Guys”-iosis, but really it goes back to the When Harry Met Sally dilemma: can men and women be just friends?

And you know what?  I don’t think it’s possible.  If you asked me a few years ago, I probably would have answered differently.  But that was before.  That was before I started on the treacherous path of Are-We-Aren’t-We with someone.  It’s one thing for gay men and straight women to be friends, but it’s an entirely different scenario when the man is also straight.  You know why, don’t you?  Because at some point you’re both thinking about sex with the other person; it may not be at the same time, but at one time or another you’ve both at least considered what the other person looks like naked.  Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about.  With a gay male-straight female relationship, sex is immediately out of the equation, which allows for deep bonding without the worry of giving off signals or developing some sort of sexual attraction.  This is not the case with straight men and women; it doesn’t really matter what you do, there’s always going to be some sort of attraction there, even if it’s for five
seconds.  Until physical action has been taken, the tension can’t and won’t

I have been embroiled in this situation for over a year and a half, so you can imagine how horrible the tension has become.

For a while, I thought maybe I was making it up.  Initially, I thought perhaps I was exaggerating tiny little details in the hope that he was reciprocating.  We’ve known each other for four years and counting, so our friendship had been steadily building.  I didn’t really start feeling an attraction until about two years into the friendship when he and I started spending more time together and having more in-depth conversations.  As time and our conversations progressed, we became close confidantes, sharing sensitive personal information.  I could feel myself starting to wonder where this was going, especially since I’d had lots of guy friends over the years but none I’d talked to like this (except, naturally, gay friends).  This is where the trouble started.

I’d notice glances in my direction, the touching of knees underneath a table, random text messages, and bits of conversation I’d analyze to pieces.  It’s funny how attuned I became to the minutiae of his movements, speech, and overall interactions with me; it was like I was Daniel Day-Lewis doing some super Method Actor-y observations for a role.  THAT’S how attuned I was.  I’d spend hours talking with friends, trying to dissect him.  Some days, I’d purposely do something to try to coax him into making a move or saying something that would give him away all to no avail.  He’d give some small indication one day, and the next, there’d be none.  Finally I decided to be done with the whole thing.  The mental turmoil just wasn’t worth it.

Ha.  As if I could just give him up that easily.

To quote that fine singer of club songs (I use the term “singer” loosely here), Ke$ha, “Your love is my drug.”

So maybe it wasn’t or isn’t love, but it’s DEFINITELY a drug.  I’ve tried to quit cold turkey, but like the Millennium Falcon caught in the Death Star’s tractor beam (again, sorry), I keep being pulled back.  He has this hold over me, and I’m powerless to stop it.  It’s the Great What-If that keeps pulling me back.  The Great What-If can be a very powerful thing if you let it, and I’ve let it control me for a year and a half, though there have been a few times when I’ve ignored it altogether because I was in one of my I-quit phases.  Somehow though, like Luke Skywalker with a tie fighter on his tail (I really apologize for all these references.  I have Nerd Turretts.), “I can’t shake him!”  I keep coming back to it.  Back to him.

It’s when we’re alone together that slays me.  He says something that burrows itself deep within my soul and subconscious, and I don’t know how to react.  Then he just LOOKS at me for far too long for a normal conversational exchange, and I know that with any normal person, these are opportune moments for a kiss…which still hasn’t come.  It’s some weird, self-imposed barrier that we’re both too afraid to break.


We’re stuck in a rut, and there has to be a natural progression to this, otherwise this cycle will continue, and he and I will keep coming back to each other, unable to move past this chemistry we never explored.  I keep wondering why we keep coming back.  I wonder why I’m not more upset that I haven’t heard back from a guy I had a little fling with over a month ago.  I wonder why I had such a hard time trying to tell my guy friend about that guy.  I wonder why he seemed a tiny bit jealous about it.  I wonder why he texted ME at 3 am one night from 1500 miles away instead of trying to get lucky with three girls he found cute at the bar he was in.  I wonder why he and I always seem to wind up sitting together at parties and bars and in the park.

My best friend, patient listener that she is, has told me on more than one occasion (including last night) that I have to break this vicious cycle.  I’m well aware of it.  I know I have feelings, I won’t deny that, but I also haven’t figured out what I want to do with them.  I don’t know what I want, and I sure as hell better know if he and I ever talk about the giant LOTR-ish elephant in the room (I think those are actually called Mumakil in Return of the King.  I had to look it up on Wikipedia.).  I know a huge part of me is just curious to see if he and I could work in that way, curious to see if we could work together physically too.  I won’t pretend that I think he also hasn’t considered it before.  He’s not stupid; I know he’s probably at least once noticed what’s going on between us, but he’s never done anything about it.

Well, kiddo, you can’t have it both ways.  Either you’re just a supportive friend or you want to be my boyfriend, but you can’t be jealous when I pay attention to another guy that isn’t you.  If that bothers you, then fucking DO something about it.  I can’t wait on you forever.  I won’t wait on you forever.

One of my favorite moments of When Harry Met Sally is when Harry, after years of are-we-aren’t-we moments, realizes on New Years Eve he loves Sally so he runs through Manhattan and finds her at a party to tell her, even though she is angry with him.  He tells her that “I love that you get cold when it’s seventy one degrees out, I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich, I love that you get a little crinkle above you nose when you’re looking at me like I’m nuts, I love that after I spend a day with you I can still smell your perfume on my clothes and I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Years Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of the life to start as soon as possible.”  It takes her by surprise, and she says “You see, that is just like you Harry. You say things like that and you make it impossible for me to hate you. And I hate you Harry…I really hate you.”  Then, of course, they kiss.

And while I know romantic comedies all have some sort of semi-cliched moment like this, I can’t help thinking that maybe THIS is what I want.  I want someone to know me that well and find all those weird little quirks about me wonderful; I want that sudden realization they can’t do without them.  They can’t do without ME.  And I don’t want them to be afraid to just tell me…even in the middle of an awesome late 1980s New Year’s Eve party.

I don’t know how all this will turn out.  I know I have to do something about this.  I am tired of indecision.  I am tired of being one of the guys.  I am tired of not being taken seriously as a woman.  I am tired of the glances and the missed opportunities and the soulful conversations that make me feel special but never really lead anywhere.  And as tired as I am where I should quit, there he will be to say that he would be lost without me or that I have a way of knowing exactly what he needs to hear and I just understand him better than anyone else.

You see?  That is JUST like you.  You say things like that, and you make it impossible for me to hate you.

Loves Labours Lost Part I

I’ve been doing a lot of examining lately on the part of my feelings, specifically for another person.  I promise I’m not delving into any sort of territory close to that of a teenage blog riddled with sob-stories of unreturned crushes and OMG!-worthy love declarations.   However, to get an accurate picture of a person, you have to observe all facets; otherwise, you’re going to get a very one-dimensional impression.  That being said, please allow me to indulge myself today.  This blog comes in two parts.  This is obviously part one.

First, some facts:

1) I am not a serial dater.  I’ve had like, one actual boyfriend in my life, and lots of sort-of-almost-but-not-really boyfriends.  No, I’m not a lesbian; I’m just picky, awkward, busy, and a whole host of other excuses that don’t really completely explain my lack of romantic male companions.  My brother, on the other hand, has dated numerous girls, been engaged once, and now is dating a girl younger than me.  I wouldn’t necessarily say this bothers me (okay, it bothers me a little), but I don’t understand why my brother is such a serial dater, and I am not.  It’s weird because we balance each other out in a way: he is never alone, and I am always alone; well, independent, which leads me to number two…

2) I have always been an independently minded person.  My mother, for a woman who got married at a fairly young age (uh, nineteen to be exact), has always sort of instilled in me this feminist view of being self-sufficient and strong.  I am the baby of the family, so I’ve always been a little more outgoing than my brother who is the stereotypical protective first-born.  I’ve always been more opinionated; I’m more liberal.  I grew up thinking I could do anything and be anything I wanted to, because my mother told me I shouldn’t limit myself.  My mother never has wanted me to feel I had to rely on a man for happiness, and because of her, I don’t.  I rely on myself to get things done and make my own way, and I’ve never tied my personal happiness to whether or not I had a boyfriend or garnered attention from the male species.  Though I am, by birth (and of course, occupation…actor.  DUH.), a bit of an attention-seeker, I try not to base my personal worth on someone else’s approval of me, especially men.

3) I have a lot of gay male friends.  This is a double-edged sword.  I love my friends, regardless of their sexual orientation, but I admit I have sometimes relied too heavily on my asexual relationships with them instead of allowing myself to be open to sexual ones with men who are decidedly not into Youtube-ing videos of in-her-prime Whitney Houston and fawning over Jake Gyllenhaal.  My gay male friends are my soulmates.  Every woman has one who is the Will to her Grace, and I am no different.  The problem is that as great and wonderful as they make me feel, there is one thing that gay male friends cannot provide their female companions with, and unfortunately, that is a very important thing.  One friend, in particular, encompasses pretty much everything I want in guy; he’s my gay version of the straight man I want, and though our relationship is all kinds of wonderful and full of love, he can’t love me in all the ways I need to be loved.  It sucks, but I don’t fault him for who he is, because that’s precisely why I love him.  Gay friends are great…until you mistakenly date one, which leads to number four…

4) Yes, I have dated a guy who is, in fact, gay.  Every woman in the performing arts has lived this story at least one time.  I dated a guy who came out two months after we broke up.  There were tears.  There was outrage.  There was disbelief.  There was a huge fight.  There was a year and a half of silent treatment and bitter feelings.  Then there was growing up, acceptance, and reconciliation.  Now, he and I are just good friends.  Needless to say, it isn’t a pattern I really want to repeat, so I feel that in many ways, this has influenced me more than any other factor.  I am more cautious because of this situation.

5) I am more than acquainted with the tricky devil known as “unrequited love.”  I have harbored more than my fair share of crushes on people who didn’t feel the same way.  A lot of this silliness occurred in high school when all I wanted was a guy who wasn’t my gay best friend Taylor (no offense, baby boy!  I love you!) to sit next to me on the bus on the way to marching band competitions and hold my hand.  Yeah, I know, nerdy and silly, but that’s how I felt every time I saw yet another slutty flute player seducing a percussionist (the percussionists are the ultimate marching band bad boy) every Saturday in the fall.  I won’t pretend that there probably wasn’t a boy or boys who maybe had a crush on me, but if they did, I certainly didn’t know nor did they try to make a move on me.  I seemed to like guys who were unattainable in some John Hughes-ian way: Jake Ryans and Blane McDonnaghs who happened to play trombone or sing baritone next to me in choir.  Pretty much all my serious dating attempts in high school failed terribly except for when I dated the gay who I didn’t know was gay.  But let’s be honest, my unrequited love led me to date a GAY MAN.  To be fair, he was pretty straight at the time, but still.

6) I have often been the victim of a terrible syndrome called “She’s One of The Guys”-iosis.  What?  You haven’t heard of it?  Well, let me explain.  This syndrome often occurs when a guy deems a girl cool because she can hold her own at Halo multiplayer on XBOX, can quote every line of The Empire Strikes Back, enjoys watching baseball, hates Katherine Heigl rom-coms just as much as he does, idolizes the Beatles, and can hold her liquor with the best of them.  He loves “hanging out” with her because she will debate with him over who was the best captain of the Enterprise (uh, Jean-Luc Picard OBVIOUSLY) and watch multiple episodes of Family Guy without complaining.  She doesn’t talk about Ryan Gosling obsessively or wear a mile of makeup like Kim Kardashian.  She can tell a raunchy joke like the guys in the Hangover but still seem classy about it.  She’s cool.  She’s funny.  She’s “just a friend.”  THIS is “She’s One of The Guys”-iosis.  It’s THE absolute WORST, because no matter what you do, he’s become blind to the obvious observation that you are, in fact, NOT a guy.  These guys like having you around because you’re good for a laugh and aren’t annoyingly ditzy.  You don’t get grossed out by them.  Because you happen to be smart, funny, and enjoy things that aren’t necessarily “girly,” you thus become a dude and not a desired (and sexually desired) object.  Emma Stone is doing a lot for us that fall into this category right now, thankfully.  She’s proven that it’s okay for girls to like dude things but still be feminine and sexy and desirable.  I’m pretty sure every guy on the planet wouldn’t mind nailing Emma Stone.  Guess what?  Emma and I are about a week apart in age and have the same type of personality, gentlemen…except that I’m not famous and therefore, slightly more attainable.  It’s so annoying when a guy says they like Emma Stone because she’s sexy but also sort of a dude.  I’m like, well, she’s not the only one, if you’d tear your eyes away from your all-engrossing game of Madden NFL and notice me, you fucking idiot.

7) I refuse to dress slutty to attract attention.  Okay, I’ll admit I love a good see-through blouse, short skirt, or plunging neckline as much as anybody, but I don’t make it a habit of wearing that stuff regularly.  I’m more likely to be a little fashion-forward and daring if I’m going to a gay bar with friends than I am at a regular “straight” bar.  The gays make less of a deal about this kind of thing (probably because there’s usually a lot of half-naked shot boys running around and drag queens with outfits that would put Gaga to shame), only acknowledging that you look “fierce” and hot.  There’s not really a competition.  I can dress for me.  Every time I go to an every day bar, I hate looking around at all the girls dressed like they’re auditioning for an even trashier version of the Bachelor (is that even possible?), flipping their hair and guzzling drinks so they’ll seem witty and cool like the Sex and the City girls.  Of course I want to look good, but I dress for myself.  As a Scorpio, I’m all about the mystery; if you give everything away, he can’t wonder what you look like naked because he’s basically already seen it.  I pretty much just stick to something showing off my gams and some red lipstick, 60s style eyeliner, and mascara.  That’s my standard bar outfit.  Take it or leave it, gents.  Hope you’re happy with Slutty McSlutterson because I guarantee that the only thing deep about her is the deep V she’s wearing to show off her tits.

8) Like everyone else on the planet, my first kiss was terrible.  I was sixteen, and he was seventeen (Quick!  Someone find a gazebo.  It’s a Sound of Music moment.).  As I’ve mentioned, I was a little starved for male attention in high school, so when he started giving me some, I jumped on it and clutched on for dear life like I was on the sinking Titanic.  He was all involved pretty heavily in theatre.  We were in Seussical together and also the same choir.  He was nice, but I should have realized he was taking advantage of my naïveté and inexperience.  He had long-ish red hair and was rather fond of wearing a camouflage army jacket with pretty much every outfit (what a rebel).  After several long, flirtatious MSN Messenger chats (Oof.  Dating myself with THAT reference.), we decided to meet up one day to “hang out” at the park.  He didn’t have a car (batting 0-1 already there, kiddo), so I had to pick him up.  We sat underneath a tree and sort of awkwardly talked for a while, anticipating the real reason we were there.  Finally, he stopped the awkward conversation (thank god) and started kissing me (Uh, God?  I’ll take that awkward conversation back now.).  It was beyond terrible: sloppy, too fast, a lot of shoving of the tongue into my mouth.  Of course, I hadn’t really kissed anyone before, so I didn’t have much comparison, but I had watched enough soap operas, John Hughes movies, and Moulin Rouge to know this just was NOT cutting it.  I mean, I enjoyed it in a I-can’t-believe-this-is-actually-happening-just-go-with-it-because-it’s-better-than-nothing way, but I knew then and there that this was all he wanted (well, I’m betting he wanted to “MSN Messenger” with my pants too, but LOL, that just WASN’T going to happen.  C-ya L8R!).   After about thirty minutes of pure tongue ravaging (batting 0-2 now, sir), I finally was able to pry myself away from Mr. Army Jacket and kindly suggest I needed to meet up with my parents for dinner.  After driving him to his house where he insisted on Sloppy-Joe-ing all over my lips yet again (uh, that’s 0-3), I said goodbye and drove away.  After that, I pledged to never let myself be so desperate that I make out with a guy who just throws an army jacket on over everything because he thinks it makes him look rebellious because it’s not rebellious; it’s lazy and kind of gross.  Also, he was preying on my inexperience and insecurities, and THAT is DEFINITELY not cool.  Also, I’m pretty sure he gave me mono that following summer (0-4, dude.  Your batting average sucks.), which was one of the most miserable experiences my tonsils have ever had.  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I stay away from redheaded men who aren’t Ron Weasley, Rupert Grint who plays Ron Weasley, and well, any Weasley or actor who played a Weasley.  To this day, I can still almost feel and taste that tongue in my mouth.  (0-5, Clayton.  TKO!)

9) I have never been in love.  Of course I have experienced the familiar accelerated heartbeat, the butterflies in the stomach, the sweaty palms, and the goosebumps.  I have felt desired.  I have felt lusted after.  I myself have lusted and desired, but I have never been in love.  Yes, I love my friends, and I am completely smitten with several of my gay best friends, loving them as much as a person can love another person without romantic feelings involved.  I would take a bullet for some of them.  But I have never felt that euphoria, that overwhelming feeling of two halves making some beautiful whole.  Sure, I’ve had that sort of “first love” thing where you like someone on a pretty deep level and you know you’ll always be tied to them in an emotional way because they were the first person who made you feel a little special and prized, but that’s not love, really.  It’s more akin to admiration or something.  It’s people like me who can’t wrap their heads around what it means to be in love because we don’t know.  We’re the people who get jaded because it’s like a special country club we don’t have the membership to.  I want to play golf with love!  I want to play racquetball with love!  I want to have a pool boy bring me free drinks with love (well, who doesn’t?).  In all seriousness, though, I keep hearing this whole “you just know when you know” thing, and all I can wonder is when it’s going to happen to me.  Will it ever happen to me?  I know, I know.  This is one of those great, unanswered questions about life.  There have been so many poems and songs and great pieces of literature written about love.  So many movies.  Yet, I just find no solace in that.  These people are describing their version of love, what has happened to them, born out of their own experiences.  I just don’t think anyone can actually really tell you what being in love is like.  The famous authors can get close, but it’s still just words on a page until you’ve felt it.  I think love brings transcendence.  Add love to those words, and they transcend the page into something else; something purely mythic.

I want the mythic.  I want the transcendence.  It’s getting it that’s the hard part.

Stay tuned for part II.

The Perils of Office Intercoms

Can you see my face right now?  I mean, I know you can’t since you’re reading this, and we’re not like, having a skype conversation (despite the fact my blog entries can be rather chatty).  If you COULD see my face right now, you’d see that it’s Ariel-from-the-Little-Mermaid red.


Because I just totally embarrassed myself on the office intercom system.

I’ve been temping the last few days at a children’s clothing company called Gerson & Gerson Inc which manufactures adorably chic little girl dresses (think Violet Affleck) under the name Bonnie Jean.  I had to make an announcement that designers were to bring their fall samples to the showroom.  Unfortunately, I misheard the word samples and thus had to repeat the message about three times until I finally got it corrected.  At the end of the third time, I just laughed and said, “sorry for the confusion.”

This is the first office I’ve temp-ed in that has an intercom system.  It makes me feel like I’m back in elementary school when I use it; only this time, I’m the annoying, yet sweet secretary forced to give alerts.  I’ve been doing well up until this point, evoking the relatability of Pam from the Office with the cool wit of Moneypenny from Bond and just a hint of the sexy professionalism of Joan from Mad Men.  I’ve studied the great secretaries of the world and adopted their best traits.  Unfortunately, none of them could teach me how to effectively operate an office intercom system in a way that wouldn’t make me sound like that Ms. South Carolina beauty pageant girl who couldn’t answer the question about U.S. maps.

I promise I’m not an idiot.  And I also promise I can locate the U.S. on a world map, Miss Teen USA 2007 pageant judges.

Anyway, office intercoms should be banned.  As an actor, you’d think I’d find using an intercom system fun and easy.  You’d think I’d just LOVE hearing myself monologue-ing like Brando or a comic book villain about office visitors, food deliveries, and general office announcements.  You’d think I’d want to take advantage of a captive audience and force everyone listen to me sing Celine Dion power ballads.  Nothing could be further from the truth (though the Celine Dion thing sounds like a great office prank); I hate hearing my own speaking voice echoing back at me.  I feel like an idiot every time I have to make an announcement.  It’s like my hair in middle school: horrifying.

I’m just really glad I don’t work in elementary schools, theme parks, Wal-Mart, or the Pentagon because as much as I love to hear myself talk, I don’t actually love hearing myself talk.

Olsen Twin Envy or How I Want a Passport to Paris in 2012

One of the things I really want to accomplish this year is getting my first passport.  I’ve been lusting after one since before the Olsen Twins made the so-bad-it’s-good-and-highly-cliched 1990s film, Passport to Paris, which we somehow talked my high school French teacher into watching one day in my AP French class.  Actually, that happened a lot.  My French teacher would show us movies that had sometimes only about five minutes of actual footage either in France or about France or related to France like Home Alone, Sabrina, or French Kiss (which is a pretty boring rom-com starring two people I really love: Meg Ryan and Kevin Kline).

We also got to watch Clueless one day just because she loved the movie so much.  Obviously, because of this fact, I passed le Francais avec les felicitations!  As Cher would say, “DUH.”

Olsen Twin and French class tangent aside, I’ve always wanted a passport.  I envy people with passports, because to me, a passport is the most glamorous accessory a person can own.  I’m sure you think a Berkin bag or a Tiffany ring or a sleek yacht you sail in George Clooney’s Lake Como villa is more glamorous, but I assure you, a passport is better.  Passports are very romantic and exciting in an old world kind of way, like traveling by train or the glory days of the Titanic (which was every day but April 14, 1912, by the way).  Having a passport means you’re a world traveler, an explorer like Magellan or maybe an international spy or thief like Carmen Sandiego (is anyone else concerned that ACME still hasn’t been able to pinpoint where in the world Carmen Sandiego is?  I mean, you’d think if we can find Osama, we can surely find Carmen.  All her V.I.L.E. henchmen have the worst pun-ny names.  Come on, people.  Justin Case?  Olive Yermunny?!  REALLY?!).  A stamp in a passport means you’re one step closer to adopting an adorable brood of children from around the world and hooking up with Brad Pitt.

I mean, how does it get any better than that?

And think of the people with MULTIPLE passports!  Okay, so a lot of them are probably criminals, but some are total Jason Bournes.  You know, spies who look like Matt Damon and are battling crippling amnesia all while kicking serious ass across Europe.  Some people just have multiple passports because they filled up all the space in old passports.  How fantastic is that?  To travel so much you have a stack of old passports in a room in your house.  I can just imagine Meryl Streep keeps all her old passports right next to the 50 billion Oscars she has just to show that not only is she more talented than you, she’s more well-traveled.

I want to travel; see the world.  Sometimes I think I should just gather up all my money and belongings and go laze around Europe for a few months like trust-fund Ivy League kids do after they graduate college.  Not that trust-fund Ivy Leaguers really have to gather up their money.  They just use American Express Platinum Cards like all sensible rich people.  Note to future, richer self: be an AmEx Platinum Card-holder.  Also make friends with George Clooney for access to Lake Como, Italy compound.

Getting back on subject, I also need a passport for career reasons.  As an actor, having a current passport would open me up for touring and performance jobs outside of the United States.  It’s a way of being prepared for any circumstance.  It’s also a way to meet my future attractive British husband in London, because I wouldn’t be able to go to England and be the new Kate or Pippa Middleton without it.

All this passport talk reminds me of Sandra Bullock’s character from one of my favorite rom-coms of all time, While You Were Sleeping.  Her character Lucy just wants a stamp in her passport (and love.  DUH.).  At the end of the movie, Bill Pullman’s character not only marries her, but takes her to Florence, Italy for their honeymoon.  She says, “he gave me the world.”  Awwww.

That’s what I want: the world.  Not in a Dr. Evil-taking-the-world-hostage-for-$1 million way, but to see parts of the world I’ve never seen before.  I want to go to London and Paris and Prague and Rome and Berlin and St. Petersburg and Africa and New Zealand and a million other places.  I want a stamp collection to rival that of any goody-goody 1950s boy (even though the stamps he collected are mail stamps.  Unimportant detail.).  I want the glamorous life of international travel.

I may not get out of the country this year (though I hope I do), but getting my passport would be a start.  At least, I’d be a twin and a 90s floral hat away from being an Olsen.  Passport to Paris, here I come!

HAPPY new year

I’ve made it through nearly four months of living in New York.  It feels like four years.  Real life doesn’t feel more real than it does here.  The highs are higher and the lows are devastatingly lower.  After a relaxing trip home for the holidays, I returned with mixed feelings.  I missed my friends, sure, but I love the simplicity of being home with my parents, especially not having to worry so much on a daily basis about my newest arch nemesis, money.  However, I like the independence and being able to do absolutely anything I want to.

It’s all very confusing, really.  Like many things in my life.  For seventeen years, I had a direction, a clear path to follow; school was a map.  The map is gone now, and I’m just hoping to not fall off a cliff.  It’s pretty scary a lot of the times, but also exciting.  I feel strong after just four months, and I should.  I’ve already made it through a lot of personal crises in a short span of time.

I can’t lie; I haven’t always been the happiest person the last few months.  I’ve had some moments of great joy, but they are sometimes clouded by the hard parts.  I have never been a depressed person, but I can sympathize with people who have struggled with it.  I can understand that feeling where you feel low and don’t know how to climb back up from it; wallowing in the feelings of personal failure.  I read somewhere a quip about most New Yorkers living and functioning each day in a low-grade depression, and I can feel that now; it’s definitely worse in the colder months when the weather is miserable, because so are the people.

I don’t think I’m a failure.  I’m not ready to give up.  But it is hard, and no matter how I try to communicate that to people who don’t live here and aren’t doing what I’m doing, they don’t get it.  Being an artist is hard; it’s a lot of swimming upstream, hoping you have the stamina to keep your head above water until you reach your destination.  For me what is hardest is getting someone, anyone, to take a chance on me and let me prove myself professionally.  I just want to act.  I want to tell stories.  I know this is what I’m supposed to do.

I hate resolutions, so I won’t call them that.  I’m going to to strive to be HAPPY in this new year.  To find and live in those moments of joy and hold onto them.  To use them as a light in dark times.  I’ve spent too much time recently letting myself wallow in my worries and unhappiness instead of fully living in the moment and letting myself be free to experience fun and laughter and adventures with my friends.  Having a HAPPY new year is the goal.  It’s not always going to be fucking sunshine and lollypops, I know that, but I will do my best to smile more, laugh more, BE more.

So have a HAPPY new year, and I will strive to do the same (and post a little more).