I feel like I’ve been in a writing funk for the last few months. I never know what to write about, and when I sit down to write, I can never think of a theme that doesn’t run out of steam after the first few paragraphs. I don’t even know what the theme of this article is yet, but I’m just going to roll with it.
I’m starting to really feel the monotony of working a 40-ish hour a week job in customer service. My hours are generally 1030 am-5 pm, 5 days a week, then I go to a meeting, then I usually go home and waste time until midnight. I just quit my job at the pizza place to become a manager at the salad place full time, but I’m not training nearly quickly enough, and I can’t survive on this $10.50 an hour salary for long. I wrote this morning on Facebook that my current mood was Geena Davis euthanizing a transformed Jeff Goldblum at the end of the movie “The Fly”, mostly because I didn’t feel like going into work today.
On the bright side, I just hit one year sober, which was nice. I’m beginning to feel like more of an adult, moving up in my job and getting my life together. Still, I yearn for the ignorance of the past. All those days spent getting wasted, only thinking about how to put in the least amount of effort in order to pass my classes- they call to me with the nostalgia of a time gone by. I mean, it wasn’t as glamorous as I make it sound, mostly because it was spent drinking alone and sobbing. I think the worst part is I have all these old videos of myself on my phone that I would record of me doing impressions drunk, and they’re not very pretty.
Sometimes I wish I at least had the horse blinders of school, where the furthest I could see was the end of the semester. But I’m realizing that now that I’m here, in Los Angeles, working full time, I could descend into a repetition of mundane existence. And that terrifies me. All I want is for time to pass, yet the idea of being older and having done nothing with my life is anathema to me. Oh God, I just used “anathema” in a sentence, I’m so pretentious.
I’ve been debating recently whether I prefer acting or writing. In my head, I’ve always thought I preferred acting, because it seemed more glamorous and direct. I’m realizing now, however, that telling the stories other people have written is not where my heart lies, but rather telling my own, and the stories I hear. They say to write what you know, but for some reason I just want to write about old lesbians and serial killers. I wrote a short horror story about a man who’s made to dig his own grave, and I told my friend Jon about it. I said that it started with the narrator cruising for dick in the park, to which Jon said, “Oh, so it’s autobiographical?” Bitch.
I love horror. I don’t know what it is about me, but something about the macabre and maudlin speaks to me. My dad thinks it’s strange, but my mother will often watch tv shows about serial killers with me. There’s something about horror that I find comforting. I think it’s the idea of fear in a confined space- I spend so much of my time afraid without knowing the reason why, and watching or reading something scary gives me something to pin that fear on. When I watch a horror movie, I know exactly what I’m afraid of, and once you know the fear it’s not frightening anymore. Plus for some reason everything’s funnier when you’re afraid- I think because the stakes are so high.
I just got through my sex inventory for my program of sobriety, and let me tell you, it was underwhelming. I still to this day don’t really understand why I’ve maintained that “Catholic Schoolgirl” semblance of virginity, but darn it if I haven’t stuck to it. Part of me just wants to go out and get the rest of it over with, just go all the way with the next guy who tells me I’m pretty- but then I think that I’ve made it to 22, so I might as well just die a virgin. Or whatever kind of virgin I am. I downloaded Tinder again, trying this time to approach it from more of a “I want to meet new people and explore the dating scene in a healthy way” stance rather than “I want to feel validated” stance. Unsurprisingly, validation has been the key motivator in every sexual encounter I’ve ever had. Isaac Oliver has this great line in his book “Intimacy Idiot” where he says that he had to get his parking validated, which was strange because he thought “validation was only something that could be done for you by men whose names you didn’t know”. Yep.
I’m sitting here listening to “Toy Soldiers” by Martika on repeat, and thinking about what the title of this article should be. I usually try and give my articles an annoying click-bait title, because I think that the best part of an article is always the title. Today, however, I think I’ll go with something a little deeper. “Waxing poetic” comes to mind. Yeah, that’s a good line Joe. But waxing poetic what? A Gay Waxes Poetic? No, I think if I title one more article “A Gay…” my head will explode. How about “I Used To Let My Words Wax Poetic”. That’s a great line from the song “Hercules” by Sara Bareilles. Yep, I’m going with that. (This is what my thought process looks like).