Bad Habits, Wack Priorities, Etc. Etc. Etc.
By Badass Laura Callaghan: Check out her reaction to how brands use social media to market our own lives back to us here. The series is called Aspirational, and it combines two of my greatest loves -- pop illustrations of sassy ladies and a general inclination to take down The Man.
Also, it loosely inspired this blog post, which is about bullshit.
Oh, hi there. I'm checking in to discuss a gnawing fear that has, by now, left distinct lateral incisor marks on my amygdala (the part of the brain that interprets anxiety and tells the rest of your bod how to deal), and that fear is this: I am full of shit.
On a surface level, I've had a tumultuous go of it for a minute: the dramatic end to one job and the abrupt start of another; lots and lots of unwise decisions in love (but I love love so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯); lots and lots of unwise decisions in money (And I hate money. So. Money hates me back.); the passing of my incredible grandma, G$, and two other members of her fly old lady gang; a move into my very own space... and then travel and friends and side hustles and the standard mix of fomo, hiding, and genuine enjoyment that a packed Chicago summer brings when you're an extroverted introvert.
On a simultaneously cosmic/gut level, though, I've been on that Return of Saturn shit, a la Gwen Stefani circa 2000. Even if you don't believe that we're made of star stuff (which is both #science and a Carl Sagan quote so... you're wrong.), psychologically speaking, the purportedly self aware among us generally deal with our shit between the ages of 27 and 29. I'm 28, and to say that its been an emotional shit storm this past year is the understatement of the morning. There's been dad stuff. There's been confidence + power + self worth stuff, lined with my usual apprehensions x 100000... am I being used for my body or my enthusiasm or my connections or my joie de vivre by someone who's lost or sad or lustful? Should I just hole myself up in my new apartment and build a moat, or hire a bouncer who keeps a short list of buds who are permitted to visit me if they are bearing rosé and cookies? Probs.
Anyway, here's where my fear of being full of shit comes in (and I do realize this blog post reads like an example of how to use the word "shit" ten times in one piece of writing, but... shrugging emoticon guy): I'm not writing enough. Potentially the most important thing I've learned in my 20's is that I'm a person who processes her emotions by writing about them, and I've just been kind of floating on top of them... like plankton, or a vapid babe in an inflatable pineapple-shaped inner tube... you know? I've been using all of the aforementioned surface happenings -- transition and love and death, the things everyone knows about -- as an excuse to not write. Which doesn't make any sense.
And the senselessness continues: whenever I have a new opportunity... a new gig that will take up so many hours a week, a new dude I'm into... my first instinct is to panic that this new life addition will steal my much needed writing time. How am I supposed to carve out any kind of writing ritual when there's money to be made and cuties to make out with?!?! I mean, how?!
I try to remind myself that life ebbs and life flows and I've had years of incredible self discipline and creative output... and I've had years spent on a theoretical pineapple shaped inner tube. It's all part of it. But just so you guys know, this kind of internal outpouring is v. v. v. essential to my wellbeing and personal identity, so I'm going to try to suck at it a little less. And I'm going to keep The Internet abreast of progress on my book project for A. transparency, B. solidarity, and C. the purpose of finding/being found by a publisher. Hi. Call me.
Happy Sunday! Love and angst,
Rose