Diary of a City Slicker*

Sometimes I can't help but wonder, "Why am I here?"

Not in a I-am-not-worthy-of-life-I-was-probably-a-mistake-or-maybe-Fate's-cruel-joke-Oh-God!-*sob* way (haven't reached that level of paranoid depression in a while), but quite literally why am I here as opposed to there.

Like Journey, I haven't stopped believin', and I've held on to that feelin' that there must be other people in the world like me. Don't get me wrong, I have friends ("A lie keeps growing and growing until it's as plain as the nose on your face."), one of whom I have such a soul power! connection to we all but finish each other's sentences. I guess what I'm trying to say is, please tell me I'm not going to have to go through the rest of my life with a desperately limited circle of friends spending my days avoiding contact with my peers so I don't get looked at like I have a wart in the shape of Florida on my forehead and reading British news publications from small country towns or I SWEAR I WILL SHANK YOU -- I WILL MURDER YOU AND THEY WILL FIND YOUR BODY IN A DITCH FIFTY MILES FROM THE NEAREST CITY, SO GIVE ME THE MONEY! I NEED MY FIX, I NEED THE MONEY, JOEY!

Whoa, sorry, that went to a weird place.

I think my problem -- summed up as succinctly as possible -- is that I'm a city girl living in the suburbs. I have this lunatic hummingbird of an idea slamming around in my mind that if I could just burst free of this vapid, careless, overly-tanned bubble of society and into a place that thrums with lust for life and success I'd suddenly be gifted with the drive and initiative to jump headfirst into the world and have one of those "this is the first day of the rest of your life" moments where everything falls into place and I can finally make something of myself and shape myself into my perfect me.

Of course, I know I can just as easily do that with the treadmill in the next room over and God's gift of word processing, but I'd prefer to believe the only reason I haven't gotten there is because I'm here, and as soon as I get there, I will have arrived into the here and now -- humor me, it staves off the guilty self-loathing.

I'm going to make up a famous movie quote that says: "I've acted in a million films, dated a million women, drunk a million martinis, but never felt like a million bucks, because I've never had a million moments with you." That's basically how I'm feeling right now -- minus the overtones of fame and hedonism.

I know I must be drawing you in like crazy, so I feel that now is a good time to say I have no idea where I'm going with this.

*I will so write this book/create this show one day: it's an episodic commentary of an anonymous first-person narrator who lives among New York's haughty and affluent and spends his nights hitting and participating in iconic subsets of NY culture. You may not find it interesting, but I would pay to see the dry humor and sly observations into human nature that this setup is ripe for. It's sort of like the test-tube lovechild of Invisible Man, Gossip Girl, the "Poker Face" music video, and any PSA on violence and drug use in impoverished neighborhoods.

We All Need Something to Define Ourselves

When people ask me what I am, I tell them I'm a writer. I consider this a perfectly legitimate response because a) I have a "creative writing" folder on my desktop (that hasn't been touched in about eleventy-two months), b) I've won awards (tiny, no cash prizes, no publications, but my Mommy is proud), c) and my history professor read my essay aloud to the class (and while it was technically required and technically not at all creative but instead on the similarities and differences between the early American colonies while remaining utterly chock full of art and emotion that I deserved it so just SHUT UP, I love you).

I dream that someday I will be sitting over lattes with an avid and cunning young interviewer, describing my newest bestseller with drawling prose and languid hand gestures. At one point, gently egging me towards the contemptuous fit of a narcissistic artiste, the young woman coyly mentions critical reviews questioning the artistic integrity of the book whose writing I ostensibly attributed to the school of decadent writing. I'll chuckle and shake my head, looking across the street to where the glossy cover of my novel winks at me through the front window of Barnes & Noble. "Oh, honey," I'll murmur, "I hardly intended for it to be the next War and Peace. I've always held that a major role of fiction is escapism, and I think I've managed to craft something which both provides a light and compelling break from life without being insulting to the reader's intelligence." I'll cock a brow and mischievously add, "Surely no coffee house Pulitzer will deny that?" before taking a satisfying sip of my beverage.

(In case you were wondering, this is usually the part in my daydream when Freddie Mercury picks me up so we can go leotard shopping and I'm fed Rainbow Goldfish by Margo Channing.)

The cool, elitist self confidence and best seller are equally out of my reach for the present, however. This has more to do with the fact that I'd actually have to, ya know, spend time writing rather than any real lack of talent on my part (I hope. I lie.). It doesn't matter how often I put a pen to paper, I am a writer simply because I want to be. I use school hours to jot down impossible scenarios in my notebook when the lecture gets boring, I've stayed up into the wee hours of the morning chasing down a plot bunny that trails off into oblivion, I draw from my experiences to mold something new and wonderful to share with others -- so give me my BA in Writing and put up some dough to back my youthful caprices!

And if anyone asks for a sample, I'll brush up whatever that thing was I did two years ago.