Apparently blogs don’t have homepages. The blog is home. But I don’t like that.
Say you’re wandering around the internet and end up at my blog. (I’d optimistically assume you landed there on purpose, but that defeats the purpose of this anecdote, so of course, you have ended up there accidentally.) While this is GREAT, because it means one more rando is reading my writing, it’s not so great because more likely than not, you’re like “what the fuck is the place?” You might
read skim my most recent post, which currently contains a lot about crying and the new president, which would more than likely make you scram ASAP.
HI HELLO I’M HERE I’M ALIVE.
WordPress forgot me after all these months away. It was bound to happen, given the amount of logins and passwords I have for the platform–for about twenty other websites that are not mine. That I maintain for clients. Sort of. They are clients! Do I maintain their websites? Sort of. I probably could, I think. It’s WordPress, not rocket science, but as much as I like to think that I can handle web development, developer I am not.
All it took was a lot (or should I say a latte) of caffeine and I’m back! My creative excitement is pinging around inside of me and I want to sustain the feeling infinitely, but this always goes the same way…
Aaand it’s gone.
Listen. I’ve been dating someone for almost a year, okay? Except that’s not true at all and if he were anyone else I would feel just so completely ridiculous writing that, because we actually only dated for a month at the most. (more…)
I’ve been consistently taking Adderall for almost a year now! Crazy how time flies. My usual psychiatrist is very wary of treating his patients with stimulants, which I think is reasonable, given that I’ve been abusing* them off and on for five years. Surprise!
On Wednesday, November ninth, I woke up at six a.m. and in the dim light, swiped through my phone to Facebook. News from the night before had not changed. I thought it would have changed.
I walked the few feet from my bed to my bathroom and peed while the fog of my dreams lifted. I stood up to brush my teeth and wondered what I’ll do if I ever need an abortion. Instead of reaching for my toothbrush, I gripped the counter and crumpled to a squat, crushed by the force of my sobs.
Eventually, I brushed my teeth. The sight of my puffy eyes and red face in the mirror threatened to propel me to further ugly crying. I didn’t look at myself again.
It’s been a while.
Last week, one of my friends said I was like “a real adult.” I told her that I’m just good at pretending. Would a real adult get an email notification from her bank that her account balance fell below $25? Twice? In one day? If the answer is yes, then you could say that yes, I am very much a real adult.