It’s 12:30 AM.
I’m sitting in my parent’s living room, typing on a brand new laptop that I’ve named Hubert. Hadeus has breathed its last breath, pretty much. There are a couple of twitches left in it, but I am saving these for the necessary removing of Important Documents, like my father’s recipe for tomato soup and the self-indulgent poetry I wrote for a class in college. Hubert is a good little machine so far, and I’m grateful for it. The keyboard works, and I’m able to listen to music without methodically pressing on parts of the chassis to make the wires connect properly, so I am satisfied.
The last several weeks have been…something. I’m not sure what, yet. Taylor has been gone on a lengthy road trip to the east coast, and the silence in our apartment promotes the kind of introspection that I’m not sure I need right now. Maybe it’s just the school year starting without me, for the first time in my memory, but I feel…something.
How eloquent I am at 12:35 AM.
Here is my position: recently graduated college with a degree in creative writing. Yes, I probably should have gone for a degree in something more useful, like education or business or Chinese, but the fact was that I didn’t think I could graduate in anything besides writing. I didn’t have the tenacity or the patience to endure something that I didn’t already like. And what would that have led to, anyway? A career in education or business or China, none of which appeal to my basic nature.
It remains, though. I graduated with a degree in writing because I was already somewhat of a writer and I needed a degree in something.
So here I am with a degree in creative writing, and a job. The job is something I haven’t discussed here at great length, mostly out of a desire to keep it. It really is an interesting job full of diverse people and unusual situations, and as the secretary I sit in the center of it all, pulling the strings that cause tremors in far corners of the office. And why am I that secretary?
Because I needed a job somewhere and I knew I could do it.
The point I’m getting at here is that my life has, thus far, been a life of little risk. I have my narrow range of talents, and I have outlined my future to exist within that range. Most of the things I do, I do within my range of pre-established success. I dress in red because it doesn’t wash me out. I wear my hair cut to about my jawline because I know how it’ll look in photographs. I do my dancing in the bedroom, because I know nobody’s in it, and I cook chicken with seasoning salt and oregano on it, because it’ll taste like chicken with seasoning salt and oregano when I finish.
These revelations, having come in my empty, still apartment filled me with a sort of frantic adrenaline that sent me to my parent’s house for the weekend, where I promptly cut off all my hair. I now look a bit like a saucy sailor boy, but I am still a saucy sailor boy in a life of little accomplishment and less ambition.
Something has to change. Something has to happen. I need to enact one of my Wile E. Coyote style hare-brained schemes, and I need to see it through to the end. I need a project to complete, with a deadline, and at the end of it all, I need to feel…something new.
I suddenly find myself with a drive to grow and change and complete something that might fail miserably.
The question now, is what?