Writing that inspires writing

Bae and I are in a fight, which means I have ample free time as it is the weekend and he is not entertaining me. So I have been gorging on media. Which is ironic, because one of the things I gorged on was The End of the Tour, which is about David Foster Wallace who warned about media addictions. But also, how sad is it that he was not around for the Kardashians? I like to think he would have loved them as much as I do. Speaking of which, how fascinating is Mr. Kanye West Kardashian’s tweet storm? Anyhow, so after a segue into that, I read some negative review about how Segel did not at all portray Wallace well enough. (By a still-grieving friend who literally said “it hasn’t even been ten years yet.” …it had been nine when the movie was released, I believe. Would that one year have made the difference?) And that linked me to an article by Wallace’s other friend Jonathon Franzen about how he went to try out the whole Robinson Crusoe thing on the literal island it’s based on. And my first reaction was, “Damn, it would be nice to have editors who would pay for such a trip.” Which is of course an assumption by me, but Eat, Pray, Love made it clear to me that editors will finance some very expensive things for the sake of profitable writing.

Guess how many tabs I have open? The Internet is endless once you get into the right current. Or perhaps it’s because I’m hungover and I swear to you, I Googled it, and it is Internet-verified that it’s normal to be way more mentally alive during a hangover. I can stare at the Internet sans hangover and feel nothing tug me anywhere, but give me a hangover and I’m all over the place with excitement!

I was going somewhere with this… oh yes. The article. I love it because Franzen is way easier for me to read than Wallace ever was. (Although “This is Water” was so cute.) But throughout the articles and the movies and even the pop culture, I feel that all of it is meant to make us less alone.  And that’s something Franzen says that Wallace believed. So of course, shared belief, less alone, let’s all be writers and make everyone feel less alone! (Obviously I can’t be a writer beyond quasi-anonymous blogging. That would require a dedication and confidence that I could never cultivate. Plus the idea of fame is revolting. I literally just want the money that fame affords, but zero of the self-promoting it requires. Are there still famous anonymous writers anywhere? I wish.)

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Nothing left to use

I have a friend who once described me as a sponge. “Because you just soak up all kinds of knowledge,” she explained. And it was the most apt kitchen-related description of me that I’d ever heard. Soaking up information is my favorite hobby. I’m not talking about trivia information, necessarily. (I literally can’t remember the years of anything; I have looked up the years of World War II more times than seems possible.) But when I watch shows or read articles or books or whatever, I love to capture random tidbits of information and retain them and spew them out randomly. (I recently shared some IVF/egg freezing information that had been gathered from watching Keeping Up With the Kardashians, for example. I especially enjoyed that sponge-moment because people judge me far too harshly for that guilty pleasure, heh.)

But recently… I’ve been disappointed. See, I’ve been trying to get back into blogging, which starts with finding new and interesting blogs to read! But I keep being disappointed. People keep saying the same things. Everyone wants to be a minimalist. And they also want you to listen to their podcast. And they can’t wait to share their bullet journal with you. But there’s no interesting way to say the key to financial success is to earn more, spend less. And nobody wants a s’more dip when you can just eat a s’more itself. And where have all the interesting personal blogs with hilarious retellings of life’s daily struggles gone? And holy hell, if I click on anymore clickbait shit that leads to paid subscriptions or buy my book or twenty popups before an article… I’ll cry. Just literally cry.

Basically, there is nothing to soak up anymore in the blog world, it seems. But I feel as though my life is becoming consumed by watching tv series in my free time, which can’t be healthy. So if you have any suggestions about blogs that have interesting things to share (and haven’t made their monetization overt and debilitating), please let me know so that I can be a sponge on the Internet again. I miss those days.

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Dust settles

After all the melodrama of yore, things have settled. My husband and I are together again, and happy, but not officially living together because that would be conventional and we’re anything but. I’m working again, at the school that once fired me, then rehired me, and has now rehired me again. Thus, my finances are settling back to stable, which is probably the most calming thing to happen in a person’s life. Once finances settle, everything else falls into place too, in its ways. There was some residual radiation from the drama as my friends reacted to the idea of me and my husband being back together. But they got over it.

Basically my life is returning to how it was before I left for Cyprus, more or less. There are of course, some changes, but I find them nominal.

I’m getting back to that place in my life where I can make self-improvement plans and pretend I’m going to exercise regularly and practice language skills and shit like that… It’s pleasant and idealistic and naive. After coming off months of intense depression and anger and all things negative, it’s cute to be so optimistic about controlling my life. But it also feels unreal and I am highly suspicious of it. The idea that I exert any influence over the events of my life is still a laughable one. Shit just happens and we have to roll with it the best we can. And eventually there’s a time of calm, like now, but it could just be the center of a hurricane and I’m not ready to stop bracing to hit the eyewall. Not yet. Hopefully soon.

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If you can’t make it better, you can laugh at it

The past few months whenever I pass a mirror, I am horrified to see that I still look human. It’s like my insides are rotting away, and yet on the outside, somehow, I’m still completely presentable. There are no visible signs of my tumultuous emotions. It’s insanity.

I also might be insane.

Last night I saw my exboyfriend of yore, the one who loved me so much he stalked me. He grabbed my arm to get my attention and I turned and it was him and I was so completely shocked. I haven’t seen him in literally years. I haven’t spoken to him since before I was married, and he stopped contacting me after I told him I was getting married. He asked how married life was and I told him I was divorced. “Shit happens,” I explained with a shrug, and then I ran away, only to run into my exhusband’s best friend. And I was so happy to see him and he seemed entirely confused by my presence and probably my happiness. But I’d been secretly dating his best friend, so I had only positive associations with him.

Then I went back to my place to find my exhusband waiting angrily to break up with me for the millionth time. He was furious and mean and irrational as always, and took my phone to block himself and his family and his friends, so that I would have zero means of contacting him. (As if. I’ve already brainstormed a thousand ways to contact him today. I have yet to do them though, so please congratulate me in the form of food deliveries because I’m way lazy when it comes to feeding myself when I’m in a pit of depression.)

So that’s that. Last night was just a parade of all the shit choices from my love life. And if I had any brain cells, I would run the fuck away and not look back until it stops being painful. I had a ticket booked for the day after the divorce, but then I got a job. And because I’m too old to beg money from my mother anymore, I have to stay here and work until I replenish the funds that I depleted trying to save my marriage.

So I’m stuck here. And I will probably do it all over again. Because I am the very definition of insanity, as last night tried to slap me in the face and say. But I can’t hear it! Because I’m a crazy person! Now, please excuse me while I call up my exboyfriend for stalking tips.

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If a tree falls…

Holy shit, it’s been five months since I last posted. I don’t even know if people read this anymore. Perhaps that could be better. Just a voice musing out into the 1s and 0s of nobody’s computers. Except then I could just write in my journal and use names and be specific as hell.

Let’s be real, there’s zero point in publishing to a blog with no audience.

So, in the hopes of building up the crowds, here’s a cryptic recap of the past five months: broken promises, loneliness, financial precariousness, silence, moving out, uncertainty, police, jealousy, a broken door, a divorce declaration, depression, alcoholism, anticlimactic courtrooms, unemployment, plans to flee, more depression, more alcoholism, unfulfilling rebounds, a failed job interview, so much loneliness, a new job, a canceled escape plan, a judge, discussions of menstrual cycles, reconciliation, technicalities of sharia, secrets, tension, moving again, being too lazy to unpack my journal, and here we arrive at the blog today…

Enticing isn’t it?

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