Tim Kreider, “The Summer That Never Was”

I suspect that the way I feel now, at summer’s end, is about how I’ll feel at the end of my life, assuming I have time and mind enough to reflect: bewildered by how unexpectedly everything turned out, regretful about all the things I didn’t get around to, clutching the handful of friends and funny stories I’ve amassed, and wondering where it all went. And I’ll probably still be evading the same truth I’m evading now: that the life I ended up with, much as I complain about it, was pretty much the one I chose. And my dissatisfactions with it are really with my own character, with my hesitation and timidity.

My favorite cartoonist is also one of my favorite essayists. I’m glad I don’t identify with him too much here. But maybe stories like his will help me be ready when the time comes. And it will come.

Dear Diary – 5/2/14

Just went on a dumpster dive for the first-ever time (surprising, no?) to retrieve my driver’s side car mat, as someone tossed it in there. The dumpster was too big and hot to climb into and I couldn’t reach the mat at the bottom with my stupid arms so I grabbed a broom and scooped it up. It appeared to be trash because I had left it out to dry in my back alley this morning after getting into my car to begin my work day, starting the engine, and puking a lot of water all over myself. Everything is proceeding according to plan.

I am loved.

By so many people.

I have so many people thinking about me, in my corner. Wishing for my success.

I’m so goddamned lucky.

I can’t go wrong.

I can’t go wrong.

I’m exactly where I need to be, I’m exactly where I want to be, which is alive and in my skin, and I’m looking at beautiful art all around me, the art in the music video I’m looping in the other half of my computer monitor, the art in every face of every person close to me as I picture them in my thoughts one moment to the next, or the way I look out my window and I know there are people bustling in between the blinds of the apartment across from me. We’re all here, guys.

I take the steps myself, I walk toward each continued moment for the rest of my life, and I can be within them, within a bubble of accidental laughter and breaths that twitch my chest cavity whether I want it to or not.

I am very loved, and I could only ever hope for even one person and I have multitudes and multitudes.

And even if my home here is four white walls and those walls have no bends or curves or anything traditionally interesting, it’s so wild how I can feel things, I can’t get over it, I can’t get over how mundane my life looks and at the same time I can just choose to let every single tiny infinite aspect of sensation flow into me and wash away my self and make me FEEL in spite of so much objective nothingness in everything that’s within physical sight and reach.

It’s not a way to function.

It’s a treat.

It’s something that cannot be taken away, even if I end up under the Santa Monica Pier blowing criminals for an unpaid internship as a crack addict’s punching bag, they can punch me in the dick with their own dicks for the rest of my life in some sort of badass postmodern Dante wet dream. I’m the loved one who can love.

I’ve always got it. I’ve always got it. I’ll never stop having it. I’ve always got it.

Okay, time to pick up the phone and call in for this job interview.

Epilogue, written an hour later:
I wrote this in a notepad file in size 20 font to keep myself calm. I shared it for the sake of honesty. It was a successful interview. Nothing I wrote about changed since.

As of now I have 36 posts queued up, posting at 5pm for the next 36 days, and I hope to add a few more soon. I’m trying to funnel my writing efforts into certain specific projects rather than spreading myself thin. I’ll still be posting the stuff I like, but less long rambles & rants. Basically I would like to stop spending 2-3 hours on a tumblr post every other day. I know, I know:

sketchballbrigade:

Had a long and slightly frustrating talk with my donor representative on the drive home from Nancy’s, dropped my stuff at home and fed the girl, took that makeup improv class (despite ending up in a group with three people from my 101 I wasn’t fond of the teacher or pretty much anyone else), went grocery shopping for me and then for the kitten, then returned to the house and cleaned a bit. Such excite.

I finished the last line, and saw below it “49,338 notes” and I thought to myself “Hm, I guess it was excite!”

And then I thought to myself “Wow, that’s a classic no-pants watergirl!”

status Update

Dear The two girls dressed in animal jumpsuits doing a bungee off the bridge at the end of our hike,
You Gals lookde real cool… But we understtand that our raucous gigglefests and loud fake accents may hav seemed like to much fun to handle, but we can just get your # now n e way. Thank you for ur time and good smiles

Luv
Brian n and Micael… xo