Happy Friday from Wednesday

So, hey, it's been a while.

Let me just get that out there. After my several empty attempts at creating a writing schedule so I could stay consistent I, well, pretty much fell off the face of the earth.

Some of you may have been wondering if I reactivated my OK Cupid account and somehow fell victim to the pixelated charms of Sasquatch (you know, it's the classic Beauty and the Beast love story), leading to my doomed fate of dying alone in the forest at night with only the dim glow of Sasquatch's Nokia flip phone from 2003 illuminating my tragic surroundings as he takes a selfie, then filters it through Instagram with the hashtag #lovekills.

Thankfully, that didn't happen.

What has happened is I have a new job as a marketing coordinator (side note: when I first got this job, that's basically how I wanted to introduce myself until someone punched me in the face. Like, "Hi, my name is Amanda and I'm a marketing coordinator. Yes, I'll have a tall iced coffee, please.") and a new boyfriend who does not live in the forest or take unrecognizable selfies with an antiquated mobile device.

Shit's kind of together at the moment, which is weird for me. And this is why I feel like I haven't had much fuel for writing. As you know, most of my anecdotes are based on embarrassing social tragedies or how depressed I am at work. Not that the social tragedy thing doesn't happen any more (believe me, on the daily) but I'm sort of content.

And it's sad that I can't write when I'm happy. Yet another reason I believe I am truly like Wednesday Addams. I mean, right now I'm happy in life, but sad that I can't write when I'm happy. So technically, what's making me write even now is sadness.

What's wrong with me?

The point is, I was shopping on ModCloth. I know, you totally saw that sentence coming because it makes so much sense in the context of this post.

But seriously, that's what happened. I was shopping on ModCloth and I saw this book titled, "Do Something Every Day That Scares You." Of course at first I thought, pfft, ridiculous. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I am terrified of pretty much everything, so to do this wouldn't necessarily require me jumping out of airplanes or sword swallowing. I could, I don't know, go to a sit-down restaurant alone. Enroll in a class at the museum. Wear harem pants.

And then I realized I hadn't blogged in quite sometime. It was in this moment that a little wisp of sadness made its way from my heart and to my keyboard. I could write about doing something that scares me every day. (Okay, maybe not every day, but you get the point.)

So, that's where I'm at. I'm going to wear harem pants. And be really scared and sad. And then write about it.

Friday Night Writes & Other Things At 3 AM

So, it's 3 AM and yes, I realize I just started this blog post by unintentionally quoting a Matchbox Twenty song.

I've had issues sleeping pretty much all week, which is a terrible affliction to be plagued with when your job requires you to be awake for eight consecutive hours. Last night, for example, I had a nightmare that all my close friends finally got their dream occupations and I was still the one wandering around blindly, nurturing my sanity by doodling nonsensical things at my desk and filtering photos of my coffee through Instagram. Even mid-nightmare, I was in emotional duress because I wanted to be happy for my friends but at the same time, I wanted them to be unhappy with me.

It was horrifying. (And man was I glad when I woke up to realize we were all still miserable.)

It doesn't help that I've already failed to blog at least twice a month. I really wanted to use this platform as some sort of representation of what I'm capable of to potential employers, but, I mean, stream-of-conscious writing at 3 AM isn't too impressive.

So, I'm thinking about creating a writing schedule (this also has the potential to serve as a convenient excuse for getting out of social interactions I have no interest being a part of--sorry, it's "Friday Night Writes!" Gotta go home and write stuff by myself without you there!) Right now may be the prime time to do this because I seem to be creating more structure in my life. Like, I have that My Fitness Pal app and a workout schedule AND I purposely went up and down the stairs at work 10 times on my break (and it was only on the 10th time down that I encountered someone in the stairwell and really wanted to explain that I wasn't severely out of breath from only walking down two flights of stairs, but rather my inability to breathe and sweaty appearance was because I had been working out hard core on levels they wouldn't understand.)

We'll see. I have a planner and a calendar and a pen to write stuff on the pages. But, I also have a Pinterest account and apparently, insomnia. And on that note, here's a photo I found that made me laugh way too hard.

P.S. It's now 4 AM. Cool.

It's 2014 and I Need a Little Help from my Friends

Love this drawing. "Smart Girl" by Samantha Hahn

Each new year, I shoo away the idea of resolutions like I would the persistent nagging of a housefly that won’t stop buzzing in my ear. While there’s a part of me secretly feeling that same sense of renewal experienced by the masses when confetti pops at 12, there’s a larger, less whimsical part of me that thinks, “Well, every day is technically a new year--it’s exactly a year from this date last year” and suddenly the glitter of the confetti dulls and I’m back to shrugging my shoulders, drinking champagne because it’s Wednesday.

Which admittedly, is weird. I am a very whimsical girl who enjoys holidays and planning and list-making--but for some reason, New Year’s has never been something I looked at with a celebratory eye.

This year, however, I actually felt like maybe I could have a real, true, meaningful resolution. No, it’s not to renew my OK Cupid profile and be courted by that one guy who has the Nokia flip-phone and likely unreliable internet access in the murderous woods he resides--it was to blog at least twice a month. Or specifically, to create a blogging schedule.

The thing that you readers may or may not have noticed about my writing style is that, well, I have little-to-no direction. I write when I feel like it about what I feel like.

For example: this post came dangerously close to being a dramatic narrative of how I sprained my ankle this weekend on an acorn.

I have lots of interests, though. I obsess over record collecting, piecing together outfits and decorating my tiny apartment with thrift store finds. I’d like to avoid being pigeon-holed into a theme, but part of me wonders if I’d be more diligent with my writing if I had a clear direction each time I sat down.

I know a lot of you do enjoy my little amusing stories about the misfortunes I come across during day-to-day living, breathing, walking, dating--but what else would you like to see from me? Decorating? Style? Cooking? Knife Throwing?

What’s the other blog post going to be about each month?

Ribbons & Glitter & Writing Through Insecurities

Such a relief, right?

After wrapping three gifts and feeling completely exhausted with the Christmas spirit, I decided to take a break and do something I haven’t done for some time—write a blog post.

So while my tiny living room sits littered with glittery ribbons and wrapping paper pieces that will inevitably drift under my couch, not to be discovered until I get that random excess of energy to actually move the couch when cleaning, I lie on the floor of my apartment, staring at a blinking cursor, thinking about how I could have done 30 minutes of cardio by now. I know—the scene is so literary that I’m basically Jane Austen.

It’s strange because unlike this time last year, when I was blogging the most, a lot has happened within the last few months that I could have written pages about. The problem is, I’ve struggled with how candid I want to be on here.

For example, should I talk about that guy I went out with who blew my phone up and seemed really into me and then oddly disappeared? This clearly vulnerable moment is easy (alright, not really easy, but tolerably okay) for me to laugh about now, but right after I realized he didn’t like me (which was basically an hour after he didn’t respond to my text. I refuse to be that delusional girl making excuses for why a guy won’t text her back. Seriously girls, I know it sucks, but let’s be honest with ourselves—he has service, he isn’t busy, and he didn’t go on a camping trip where he fumbled his phone into the river) I went through that awful checklist that we all neurotically analyze following rejection: Everything That’s Wrong With Me That Guys See And Hate (this was also what I planned on titling my memoir in my darkest moments.)

I mean, some of these dating experiences would probably be humorous and healing to write through, but at the same time, it’s my life. Which is, you know, my actual life and not the plot the heroine in a romantic comedy is seeing to fruition. I am also one of those girls who, despite the incredible pace of my mind, will meet any guy’s flippancy or aloofness with an equal amount of indifference. Yet another reason I can’t risk blogging an experience that I’m trying to give the impression I care nothing about.

So, even though I probably won’t be blogging about my unfortunate dates or guys who move way too fast and cause me nightmares about being tricked into marrying them (this nightmare did happen), I’m going to make a habit of blogging again.

Not sure if anyone’s interested in my little voice on this little platform, but I’m here to Live, Cry, Laugh, Cry, Love, Cry, Laugh-So-Hard-You-Cry**, with you.

**I wish home interior signs or “about me” sections just told the truth. Let’s face it—there’s a lot of crying in life and during sentimental holiday commercials.

Online Dating, Jerky Guys & Me

Alright.

So tonight, following a vulnerable afternoon and a vow to never allow myself to be attracted to jerky guys who toy with my emotions ever again (as if that’s something I can truly control without, I don’t know, therapy) I decided to entertain the idea of online dating.

This lasted about five minutes.

My fear of online dating has a lot to do with the fact I’m afraid of everything. I’m wildly insecure (while simultaneously thinking I’m better than everyone else—cute, right?) and basically assume strangers are all psychopaths hell-bent on murdering me. This paranoia is courtesy of my mother, who has consistently reinforced her personal theory that strangers are all psychopaths hell-bent on murdering me. So, it should be no surprise that the idea of meeting someone off a website is terrifying.

During dinner with my dear friend, Kacie, she tempted me to sign up for OK Cupid with the one thing she knew I’d fall for—a personality quiz a la Seventeen magazine.

Uh, duh. I have to know if I’m the “Girl Next Door” or the “Classic Romantic.” These things are important.

Whether this suggestion was a result of me ranting about jerky guys and their emotionally confusing signs for the millionth time or if it had more to do with my admission of becoming teary-eyed during that “Every Dog’s A Champion” commercial for Pedigree dog food (I’m sure as a friend, this concerned her), I still took it to heart considering my other dear friend, Jen, had just suggested the same dating alternative earlier.

It was a sign.

So once I got home, I hit the site up.

It was somewhat smooth sailing until I was almost done with the quiz and OK Cupid decided to show me a possible 90% love connection in my area.

This would have been great and totally normal for a dating site had my match been maybe, I don't know, a normal photo of a normal looking guy and not what can only be described as a blurry action shot of Sasquatch in the woods taken on someone’s Nokia flip-phone in 2004.

I mean, what? Come on, Ok Cupid.

It’s great that my match is showing me where he’ll drag me when I get murdered, but the pixilation and weird dimness is really getting in the way of identifying him to police.

So, in world-record time I’m sure, I disabled my Ok Cupid account. And when asked for a reason by the site, I selected, “Met someone!”

I mean, I will eventually, right?

**And I think the fact I didn’t delete the account (deleting is permanent, so says OK Cupid) is a step toward “getting myself out there.” So, if it doesn’t work out with this guy I told OK Cupid I was leaving them for, I can come back any time and pick things back up with Sasquatch. 

When Life Gives You Lemons, Sometimes You Cry in the Lemonade While You're Making It

So, today sucked.

There’s really no other way to adequately articulate that. I woke up at 5 a.m. with a splitting headache that I’ve battled all day, I was given some disappointing professional news and the maintenance guy in my building saw me crying on the elevator.

And I really didn’t want to establish such an intimate relationship with the maintenance guy.

After burying myself under piles of blankets and self-pity for the majority of the morning, I waded through my migraine and eventually pulled myself to an upright position.

I know before long this disappointing day will just be a blip on my timeline, but it’s always difficult dealing with disappointment—and I always seem to struggle with how to react.

This harkens back to the fact I’m severely self-aware, so it’s no surprise I’m always afraid that if I show my true blue, pouting sadness to the outside world, I’ll be quickly discredited as an emotionally immature brat who can’t handle adulthood.

So that’s why I retreat and internalize things for fear of coming off as petty and juvenile. Or I laugh away the sincerity of my hurt because I know there are way bigger issues out there than what I’m dealing with today.

But the truth is, it sucks when things don’t work out the way you thought they would. Whether it’s job promotions, relationships, or realizing a day too late that your Kohl’s cash has expired, disappointment is disappointment—I don’t think it’s awful to admit that you’re momentarily overcome with pout face.

I think what does matter is how you recoup, though. I mean, as temporarily healing as it may be to eat Nutella straight out of the jar while watching reruns of Bridezillas, it’s likely not the best first step to pulling yourself together.

I instead opted for my tried and true method of revealing too much about my emotional complicacies on my blog. And I’m already feeling a little better.

Stories from the Self-Aware

Being self-aware means you live your life as both an active and inactive participant. Like, you could be sitting with a group of people trying to engage or connect in any way you can, while there’s another part of you sitting at another table alone, watching how uncomfortable you look--cringing at how many times you shift awkwardly in your seat just so you have something to do other than vacantly staring off into space.
 

It’s weird.
 

And as a result, most self-aware people are pretty weird, too.
 

Sometimes I like being self-aware because I’m the first one to admit when I’m being awkward. Listen, I know it. But another part of me wishes I could just relax and embrace my awkwardness and make it endearing like in rom-coms starring Reese Witherspoon.
 

But then I remember my life is not a romantic comedy and scripted awkwardness is way cuter than my reality. So I'm back to fidgeting with my hair and scanning the room for the 100th time as though I'm conducting a thorough inventory of every wall ornament in the place.
 

This is mostly why I refrain from social situations that don’t involve people I’ve known for a minimum of 10 years. I feel like my entire tone is somewhat apologetic while I’m out. Like, “Sorry guys, I don’t know how to behave when I’m around people! Sorry I can’t participate in this conversation because I’m sheltered and have no idea what you’re talking about! Sorry I keep bringing up how awkward I seem because I need everyone to know that I’m aware of it, too! Sorry I just did that weird thing with my arms that was supposed to be dancing!”
 

See, to most people, none of this ever even crosses their minds. At all. And if it did, they’d likely not admit it for fear of seeming neurotic or socially inept. But, I’m a writer. While all this is happening, I’m thinking of ways to translate it to paper so I can in some way transform my social tragedies into something productive.
 

And in that, is the good thing about being self-aware; you're also hyper aware of those around you. I feel like I have a really good sense of people that developed from years of being the wallflower. It’s probably why I’ve been writing stories since I learned how to write my name—my characterizations are based on what I observe from people around me.
 

So, I pretty much know when someone else feels awkward, too. Or when they’re trying too hard. Or when they’re bullshitting me.
 

The thing is, I never call them out on it. (I mean, why would I? That would be awful.) So, I write about myself. And I take these attributions I observe in others and assign them to various characters in various novels I write at various times of the night when I can’t sleep.
 

I’m sure I'm probably way too candid about these things on my blog, but it’s all in hopes that maybe someone, somewhere can silently relate in some way.
 

And if not, well, then I guess this is all really embarrassing and a complete waste of time and made everyone who I know in real life kind of uncomfortable.
 

At least I’m aware enough to realize it though, right?