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20-Something, Hipstercrite Life

All the Tiny Sounds: An Exercise in the Forgotten Art of Journal Writing

This past week, my writing work has picked up to the point where my mind is left strained, incapable of producing intelligible words after a certain point. Though I’m beyond thrilled and appreciative to have the work, it leaves  me with leftover brain mush to spew out onto my blog. My blog is a big part of my life and I made a promise to myself to write every day (a promise I haven’t kept), but on days when my mental and emotional states are taxed, I want nothing more than to write “BLARGHHHHHSMAPPPPPPP!”  over and over in this empty white space.

But last night at 2AM, I forced myself to upchuck thoughts onto paper with pen, something I hadn’t done in awhile and something that ended up looking like a child wrote it. It was difficult and often ugly, but a good exercise in knowing that I could still partake in the art of journal-scribbling.

My life has gotten very regimented. I go to bed around 12AM-1AM, wake up between 8:30AM-9:30AM and write and interact on the web until the Continue Reading

20-Something, Hipstercrite Life

Keep Your Feelings to Yourself

As of late, I present a lighter fare to nosh on.

I’ve drifted further and further away from any complex or adverse feelings due to wanting to keep the site a happy playground full of Jeff Goldblum photos, poop jokes and jointly Jeff Goldblum photos containing poop jokes.

This need to check rain clouds at the gate coincides with my own personal progression of keeping my emotions to myself. This isn’t due to any particular person or experience in my life scaring me into not sharing my thoughts (though I have a grandmother who stifles her emotions to the point where they manifest into random outbursts of directionless anger and a former, life-changing boss who often told me I acted too much “like a girl” and that I should stop it), but by the fact that I became sick of hearing myself whine, lament, sob and complain as an early twenty-something and have become increasingly annoyed by others who do the same thing (mostly the whining part). This act of personal defiance is not necessarily Continue Reading

Hipstercrite Life

I Am Simply Not There

Last night I woke up at 4:30AM and could not go back to sleep. I was wide awake, my brain working a mile a minute. When I used to do this earlier in the year, it was because I was afraid masked men were creeping outside my window, ready to break in. I no longer fear this though oddly enough this happened to my friend last week. Now, now I worry about if I made the right choice. If going freelance is something I can handle without going insane.

The money situation is fine. I have enough steady work to pay the bills. I’m a little concerned that I’m not able to set aside for self-employed taxes yet, but considering I paid taxes for most of the year, I don’t think I’ll have too high of an IRS bill. I’m still adjusting to not getting a paycheck every other Friday, but rather one check here, another check three weeks later, a small check a week later etc. The fear of running out of dough has definitely made me a lot stingier- which I don’t necessarily like to be.

I love everyone that Continue Reading

Pop Culture

The Newspaper Said That God Is Dead

The day L arrived home from the war he felt alive for the first time in two years. He was coming home to see his boy, jump back into the family business and do nothing but enjoy life from now on. He was far from the fighting and far from the hospital bed he laid in for nearly 2 months in Vietnam. The surgery to remove the shrapnel from his skull left an intriguing “X” pattern across the left of his forehead that resembled that of a laurel crown. It made L look noble.  He often stopped before a mirror and traced his finger along the jagged scar. The doctors did a good job, he thought. Even his son Jesus thought his scar looked daring. L was happy that he looked like a hero to his son. If only one person appreciated what he did for our country, he hoped it was his child.

Life became normal after the war. At 7AM he’d drop Jesus off to the private school he had saved up for, then head back home to get started on the day’s work. L was in the animal balloon business. The company had been Continue Reading

Hipstercrite Life

Last Night

Sitting across the room from him, writing, listening to the consonance of alt-country, thinking how one day I hoped for a moment like this. How I used to write about the faceless passenger who rode beside Continue Reading

Hipstercrite Life, Music

I Died While Listening to an Arcade Fire Song.

I died while listening to an Arcade Fire song.
It seems apropos, really.
I always secretly wished I’d go out to an epic swell in A minor.
The life soundtrack equivalent to the ending of a Six Feet Under episode.

I wasn’t thinking about anything truly important that moment. The thought that Funeral still remains far superior to any subsequent album released by the band crossed my mind.
Visualizing the dress I was going to be wearing to the dinner on Friday was fighting for the preliminary spot in my brain. I wanted something long and sleek, black…or maybe teal! I was into teal the months leading up to my death.

What I was thinking about foremost was getting home. Home being a relative term, I’m discovering now. What I wanted then was warmth from the cold air. To take off my skirt, put on some sweatpants, and watch that Ryan Reynolds movie sitting in the DVD player. But my actual home will forever exist in the memories of my childhood. The place I grew up. The house my parents put on the market two years ago when they moved down to South Carolina.

I wonder how long it will be until they get the news. I hope no one tells them. I hope within these minutes from now and then, they magically forget they ever had a child, one that was going to be taken away from them. I want this to be a nonexistent blip on the wavelength of their life. That they will keep going and never have known who I was. I wish that for them.

And I wonder if anyone is going to tell him.

Funny thing is, when I wouldn’t hear from him for days, I used to think, “I wonder if anyone would tell me if he died? They don’t even know I exist.” I would find out days later that he was killed in a freak commuter train accident or slick road conditions by obsessively Googling his name for obituary listings.

Now who is going to tell him? Maybe our mutual friend, Jennifer, but she didn’t even know we were seeing each other. In fact, we tried so hard not to bring any awareness to our relationship that we often avoided each other completely at social events. It may have appeared to others that we had generally no interest in one another other than the occasional hello. I’m sure he’ll find out soon enough. When he and his wife are getting dinner with friends tomorrow or maybe, just maybe it will have made the news.

I wonder what he’ll think. Or if he does think, where he can vocalize that thought. The only person he could talk about me with was…me. Maybe the thought of me will die as well, trapped inside his head.

And now I will forever be known as the girl who died too young. My legacy will be that I was deprived of my legacy. A girl who had so much to offer and never got around to finishing it. They’ll talk about me as the good girl. The one who went to college, the one who moved to New York, the one who landed a job at one of the largest national news outlets, the one who loved her family and friends, the one who always look pretty and sweet. They’ll never know that I had never been in love. That I was seeing another woman’s husband. That I was completely and utterly ambivalent towards my career. That I never stood up and fought for somebody else’s rights.

That I kept thinking there had to be something more.

No one would have gathered this from the Facebook profile that outlived me.


I found out last week via Facebook that a high school classmate of mine had passed away. I learned this through profile messages that mutual friends sent to him that appeared on my homepage. Their messages included the words, “can’t believe”, “too soon”, and “shocked”. These trigger words lead me to his profile- one that I maybe never ventured to before that day though we were both Facebook friends- and discovered that he indeed passed away. The whos and the whys, I do not know and I wonder if I even deserve to know. It is just difficult to comprehend when a 28 year-old passes away. It’s these moments that remind a young person of their impending mortality.

(*work of fiction and not based of off personal experiences, but rather thoughts that come to mind when I see in the news that a young person has passed away)