“Can I ask you an awkward question?” he asked me in his drunken stupor, via Snapchat messages. “I’m going to do it anyway. Have you done porn, and if so, where is it?”
“What did I do to ruin our friendship? What happened to us?” I asked, three years since the last time we had spoken.
“We just lost touch,” she said.
No, we didn’t lose touch. I tried to hit you up so many times over the past three years and this is the first time you responded. <– That’s what I should have said, but instead I said, “okay.” Continue reading
Lately, I’ve been sauntering through life trying to figure out my next move . . . and it’s HARD. Leaving the film industry (even if temporarily) was so freeing, but I still want to take this creativity and put it towards something productive. On top of that, I need to find a
stable career that I find both fulfilling and healthy. If I cannot have time to myself to devote to stress relief, cooking, hiking, and writing (I used to work 12hr days 6 days a week), I know I won’t be happy or successful in whatever I choose. Now, that can mean a regular 9-5 or some strange freelance travel-writing position, but it can’t mean another job that requires 70+ hours of my week at something I don’t care about. That is just insane.
So here’s what I’ve been pondering in that time: “What determines happiness?”
A few months ago (and I’m still not really sure how this whole Mystery Illness is going to turn out), I admit it, I thought I was going to straight up die. I thought I was going to die slowly, in a hospital somewhere, with no diagnosis, probably alone in Los Angeles. I never really thought enough about dying alone to be afraid of it. It didn’t make much sense to me. Who cares? No one really knows what dying is like anyway – what’s the difference if you’re with someone or alone? Feeling deep inside that you may be dying brings about certain truths
This is for the terrible beautiful confused people who didn’t know how to tell me they were sorry when they ripped my heart into shreds. This is for the dog we found in my cousin’s backyard, fell in love with, and named Friday after the day we found him. This is for the man I gave my virginity to who proclaimed his love to me in six stanzas while I held tears back looking up at the stars on a porch swing to the scent of pecans. Continue reading