Happy Hauntings

Have I really only submitted one lousy blog for the entire month of September?? And none at all for this month? Well this is surely hardly done. And given the fact that today is a glorious holiday, it gives me just the right amount of fuel for a quick check in.

Happy Halloween.

I have, sadly, crushed my way (all too easily) through the latest Lore episodes, attended an incredible Halloween party, hosted two very entertaining spooky story-telling events at the bar my sister manages and even seen the haunting remake of Stephen King's IT. So what is there left to do? Today marks the last day of "Shocktober", an event invented by B, designed to go on throughout the spookiest month. An event where a scary movie has been designated to be played each and every day (by him and yours truly). Today we have landed on Tom Hanks' the Burbs. An undeniable classic, for sure!

There are many other things to be written about and updated on since September, but I will leave that for another entry, possibly for another day entirely. Now? It's time to get good and creepy.

Stalemate

I drew The Empress, inverted.

I’m referring, of course, to the Tarot. Admittedly, I know very little about it, and it could be argued that perhaps I shouldn’t be messing with something so mystical and mysterious if it is, in fact, so foreign to me. However! I believe in my mother, my sister and witches of the like who subscribe to the Tarot. And I do hold some kind of guiding merit in it, so the way I see it, as long as I don’t push it on anyone else, selling it as something I am well-versed in as I do, I do not suspect much harm will come from it.

Now, allow me to explain, for those of you who are on my level of understanding; The Empress card essentially stands for creation, abundance and other mother-earth-like properties. When any card you draw is inverted, it stands for the opposite properties that it normally would represent when upright. And so, allegedly, I drew the news that I had reached a stalemate in my creativity. Naturally, being a self-proclaimed writer, I am no stranger to the ceasing of creative flow, the inability to end a piece; writer’s block. However it also, evidently represents dependance on others. Which I don’t like.

I have lived depending on others and not and I certainly prefer the latter. It is nice to know you have people you can count on, but making a habit of relying so heavily on them? I would really rather not. Perhaps this means that I am getting too comfortable in depending on B, my live-in love, due to the fact that he is so lovely and certainly makes it easy to ask for favors. I hope this was my opportunity to catch my faux-pas before it became a legitimate problem, because of all my relationships, there are three that I consider far too important to put stress on. My relationship with him is certainly one of them.

I will say, additionally, that drawing this card has given me the kick in the pants to get going on my writing project again (and finish it! *fist pump*). It is as if this card was some otherworldly witch energy calling me out on being a schlub and allowing my creative duties and accomplishments to wither. Leaving me to retort with an “Oh yeah??” of finishing my piece.

Thank you, Tarot!

In other news, I have since drawn another card, leading me to believe the actual creative block the original card was alluding to was that of the occupational. You see, the season is almost over and, as such, I am in a very interesting spot that I have never before been in. I am not quite out of this job, but am not quite within the two-weeks-notice realm. There is too much time left at this job to hand my resume into another, and yet before I know it, I will have no source of income. A thought, naturally, that scares the bejeezus out of me. So! I have been applying much more lazily and casually than I normally would and, as such, it appears I have made a lapse in creative judgement.

Something will work out (it has to). There must just be a job that I am not thinking of, for some reason or another, that I would be able to do and/or just love. Hopefully both.

Mill Town

This town I live in is what they call a “mill town”. It is a town filled with old mills of yesteryear. I think this might be the reason.

When I first was scouting out places for rent in the areas surrounding my new job, I hadn’t quite fallen in love with any area like I had this one (and I get to live here, now! Lucky, eh?). Being reminiscent of the Goldilocks story, one town was too touristy and bustling, but in all the ways I prefer not to bustle. Another appeared to be virtually untouched by tourists… or much of anyone, like something out of a Stephen King book, really. Which! Would have been perfect to plummet and fully immerse into the madness I love most - writing - however, not ideal for keeping sane at a customer service job anywhere outside of my house.

And then, there was Mill Town. Mill Town was juuusst right. It reminded me of a slightly larger version of the place I called home (also a mill town) and felt as if it had just enough livable/explorable space and was safe enough with just enough of an edge. I returned to Mill Town quite a few times before I landed, scouring the area for anything; a one-bedroom, studio, even a rentable room with common areas. However, once I got here, this darker side fell upon me. Suddenly it didn’t feel livable or explorable or safe. It simply felt strange and dangerous and I quickly wondered what I had done. Where was the fun and excitement and comfort that drew me here? That kicked me into such a high gear to buckle down and get here? Then I realized the problem.

I wasn’t really seeing daylight.

Literally - the job I had entered threw me into a different, sloppy sleep-pattern where I would sleep whenever I possibly could and rise only for work. At night. And return home even later at night. Any days I had fully off were spent hitting the highway and returning for a home visit to spend time with my mother, sister and boyfriend. Of course no place is going to feel great so late at night, and of course it’s going to feel a bit more dangerous; it’s unexplored territory! Unknown lands and people, and there I was alone and afraid of the dark! Once I realized this, I made more of a conscious effort to be awake and stay in town - no matter how it pained me - more often when I didn’t have to work. A little earlier on days that I did.

Since then I have grown to fully appreciate exactly what Mill Town has to offer me; another form of freedom. Being able to get up, get dressed, go downstairs and venture in a new place. Walking here and there, attending new restaurants and returning to my new favorite spots.

A place may suddenly seem dark and horrible, but often you can still find the light.

The Smoking Vegan

And to think, it all started with my refrigerator going.

When I moved to the apartment in my new mill town that I currently reside in, I moved in by myself, anxiously awaiting my boyfriend, B, to join me in three months time. Sure, there were a few quirks (i.e. the knobs on my new stove being installed backward, making every meal an adventure), but nothing too terribly detrimental. Nothing I couldn’t handle, and certainly nothing that bothered me enough to be considered a problem, or much more than something to laugh at. However, that all changed when I opened my refrigerator door to find the contents to be only slightly cooler than room temp. A discovery that was especially disconcerting considering the already sauna-level heat of June filling my rooms. I called my landlord, she had it fixed and simply said the freezer portion of cooling air that is designed to cool the fridge had been blocked due to over-freezing/freezer burn/ice chunks blocking the airway southward.

Long story short, the gentleman that came to remedy the situation came equipped with a hair dryer and plenty of free time to melt said ice chunks. This, of course resulted in me doing just the same in the weeks to follow. Anyway.

After expunging the moldy, melty, putrid foods that occupied my quirky appliance, it was clear a big shopping expedition was in my future. I remember that day I had been talking to and thinking a lot about my older sister, N, and her husband, C, who are both very beautifully devoted vegans. I thought of how lovely it was as an idea, how I always loved the food they shared with me and how their food never filled me with the bloating, sweaty regret of other types of foods. (Foods like meaty stews, mac n cheese, fish n chips, cheesy pizzas, burgers etc…)

That’s when it hit me; now was the perfect time to attempt the lifestyle.

I was out living on my own, so I had complete control over the foods in my cabinets, over the foods I made for myself. My mother wasn’t living with me, creating temptation with the old lifestyle we shared of convenience and boxed/instant foods, and if I failed there was no one living with me to see/judge the rise and fall of my attempts. I remember thinking of how the restaurant I worked at may tempt me, but in reality, they made mostly rich, large seafood plates that weren’t particularly up my alley as it was. Naturally, I could still have french fries.

Not to mention, my refrigerator had just been reborn. And that was decidedly that.

Sure, it hasn’t exactly been five years or any amount of time that is close to being impressive on the general scale. And sure I have made the mistake of accidentally ingesting things like worcestershire sauce (anchovies, who knew), or the occasional canned soup (why do they ruin a good veggie minestrone with parmesan? Such a waste), but the important thing is that I try my best. And God forbid I fail at all/any of this and fall off the wagon (recently had such a nightmare and woke up sweaty and guilty), I believe that any amount of animal product I deny now will have been worth the effort. And feeling so good in the interim from better eating is certainly worth trying again.

...Plus I still smoke cigarettes, so I'll take any health I can get.

August 13th

Today is my father’s birthday.

My father and I used to be thick as thieves; laughing at the same punchlines in any given Mike Myers’ comedy, filling our ears with the same nonsense from David Byrne, or the B52’s, he even took me to my first concert and my first stand-up comedy show. We had the same favorite comedian at the time. Which was convenient.

After the divorce we still stuck together. And after that some hard, strange times befell us all as anxiety reared its ugly head. Long story short, my father became less of the man I looked up to and more the thing that I ran from. But I couldn’t run; I was trapped because I was under a certain age and my mother was panic-stricken and finding - it seemed - all the wrong ways to rescue me. And, of course, my sister was not old enough to claim me as her own and was going through some similar, and surely some differing, difficulties of her own.

I will never forget how fucked it seemed to be occupying such a large, beautifully white, museum-like house in the cul de sac, alone, lonely and cold. A place where I was not so much “welcomed” as I was to “not touch anything”, or “locked out of most rooms”. A place where none of my things - including, but not limited to, my heart - were. When I remembered it as the warm, charming house of my childhood and early adolescence. And my mother used to be here, and my sister, and my father and all of us were welcome and happy and my sister and I would have nothing more to worry about than our grades. I wasn’t upset about the divorce. Plenty of people get divorces. I was upset about being trapped. In a place that used to be home and was now the fifth ring of hell. Complete with a cold, uncaring creature who bared an astounding resemblance to my father.

I scuttled between classes in my sophomore year with a hobo-like bag strapped to my back. I didn’t know whether I really was staying at Dad’s, or if I would be lucky enough to get a “forget it, you can stay at your mother’s” text from him once school let out. I never strayed from being hopeful of the latter. Most of the days that year I was not so lucky.

I would leave school, essentials on my back, ride the bus to my father’s, get into his house, leave my coat on, so as not to get a chill, and head down to what used to be my bedroom. Where, merely a year before, I received my dream bed set comforter etc… for my 14th birthday. Where, then, the walls were bare and even my breath echoed. I would lay low, pretending not to exist until he got home, when I really pretended not to. All we did once he recognized my being was fake and fight. He would fake that he really still cared about me, showcasing his ability for dramatics and I would fight him on his false congeniality. I said my first “I hate you” to him in that scenario. Once I had been brought to it, of course. On my best nights there, I would be ignored.

On my sixteenth birthday, I retired to this place after school, he and his fake fuck of a wife were there with their facades of caring parents - complete with homemade cake. Who were they doing this for? Were they trying to convince themselves that they were good people? Attempting to grasp at some kind - any kind - of victory from my mother in this? I surely will never know.

After fighting about how clearly awful I was as a child and me shooting back with how my father may not actually be my real father, the night eventually ended as it typically did then; with me crying so hard I could already feel the headache and physical hangover of it, and finally heading to “my room”, exhausted and very much alone. The next day as my father dropped me off at school, bright morning sun stinging my swollen, shining eyes as it often did then, my father said the words I will never forget;

“I think you should stay at your mother’s tonight.”

And me, being the oh, so clever, freshly sixteen-year-old that I was, came back with a “Gee, ya think?” And I slammed the door of his expensive company car. Didn’t look back. And I did stay the night at my mother’s that night. And when he didn’t attempt to communicate with me, I stayed the next night. And the next. Until I finally realized that I may just be out of the woods and in fact I was. To be melodramatic, my father (ex-hero, ex-buddy, ex-parent) had abandoned me on the day after my sixteenth birthday. But to be more realistic, that is not at all what I am sure he had meant to do. I’m sure he was just tired. Lord knows I was, and I was much younger than he. For a while I had been afraid that it was all too good to be true and that he would surely come back to my mother’s with the police again to claim me, but he didn’t. And I was glad. And I wasn’t hurt. And it was all just as well because I had already began to research how to emancipate myself.

He made a feeble attempt once to reconnect after a year or so, but I worked hard to keep him out of my life and said attempt was crushed, killed and destroyed quickly, and for good. And I know it was for good because he never tried to reconnect with me or my sister.

It wasn’t until after I had graduated (I believe? It’s all a blur now) that I heard any news of him at all. It was through my sister and it was that he had suffered a major and minor stroke. My sister and I visited him in the hospital and it was strange, to say the very least. I saw yet another form of my father (the third, at least, if you’re keeping track). This one was much less powerful, less sinister, but just as scary. He couldn’t walk, really, couldn’t talk, really. As I understand he even had trouble seeing, but who knows, since he couldn’t convey a thought himself.

The years to follow were filled with my sister accidentally showcasing just how strong of a human she was and is, and certainly what a coward I had grown into. His birthday - and special occasions of the like - serving as a cheap excuse to think about him, to see him, lest I be filled with guilt. Bring him some shit gift he didn’t need or even want. He didn’t want things; he wanted my sister and I around more. Or at least I think that’s what he wanted. For all I know he didn’t remember us in the least and just got happy to see smiling faces, not knowing he created and raised them. Many people have the unfortunate event of death to deal with. I hadn’t even been dealt that hand, and yet I still lacked the strength and courage to physically see my father or even go near that beautiful white house he had gotten in the divorce. The house had hit its third form as well, technically speaking, but I would always remember it as a metaphor of my un-freedom. I wasn’t there for my father.

I saw my father one more time, semi-recently, this time with my mother in my sister’s stead. It was his fourth official shape. He seemed infinitely smaller, to match his shrinking voice. He was grayer, thinner and boasted a jean jacket, a cane and a knit cap in the thick of winter. At a glance, he was adorable. Just another strange, sweet old man about town.

Many things have transpired since then, and certainly too much to handle in this one entry, as it is already a gun, locked and loaded. Long story short (too late), I haven’t seen my father in a while. And I honestly don’t feel as though it would be realistic to say that I would again. Word on the street is he has dementia, but is refusing to take his pills, as they are affiliated with the Devil.

Many people have had it worse. And if you think I have it bad, think about my sister. About his wife, my mother, who chose him out of everyone she knew, at one point, to live with and grow with and love. To have so many firsts with, at the young age of seventeen. Think of my father, for fuck’s sake, who thought he was doing right by simply living by what he had read in the Bible. I still don’t know how to feel about any of it. So far I have been choosing to miss and cherish the first form of my father, romanticizing my past, as one often does. Being entirely bitter at the second form of him, what he had put me through and remembering to, everyday, be more than grateful that I am no longer in that position. To be grateful for my freedoms. And a healthy mixture of self-pity, self-loathing and such a deep, deep sadness for what we both have finally become and currently are. Some days I don’t think about it. Some days I cry about it. Some days I miss him and some days I don’t. Some days I choose to be what I have assured myself is strong and choose to live guilt-free about the whole debacle.

Today I am allowing myself to be sad.

Inspiration

If it wasn’t evident enough by the fact that I have taken to a blog that near to nobody reads; I love writing.

Writing is air. Writing is feeling my best self. Writing is the thing that I wish I was doing when I was working, regardless of the job. I also paint, and people assume this is surely my passion, but it is merely a light hobby in comparison.

For so many reasons I am grateful for picking up and moving. One very heavy one is the fact that in the short time that I have had alone in this new spot, I have had what seems to be an enormous amount of events that have inspired me in my writings. My favorite thing to write as of late? Creepy, odd or strange short stories. Thanks to my sister, who hosts a local paper by the name of “the Curious Post”, I have had - and been able to keep - a reason for writing such things. And thanks to my new living arrangement I have received the necessary material to do so.

I work at a beach club that well-to-do guests find beautiful, charming, basically the perfect spot to spend their vacations at. Even just for a day, a night, a meal. In my eyes? It is an ancient, immense beach house, long dilapidated since its glory days of perfection. And on cloudy days it offers just enough gloom to truly propel me into my favorite kind of madness; being an author.

Of course my place of business only accounts for a slice of my time. The other bits have been spent resting my head at an equally old, creepy apartment building that plays host to three floors full of locals, along with surely enough asbestos to gag a mule. And if that weren’t enough, there are plenty a strange happening to occur inside and even nearby. Think about it; there are strange enough things that happen to any one soul throughout the duration of any given lifetime to fuel a decent chilling story. Now take that consideration and multiply it by three floors full of individuals, added by the intense setting of an old mill town, full of those struggling to survive paycheck to paycheck.

Some strange things happen to a person. Even stranger when that person is left to rely on their creativity - as opposed to money - to occupy their time.

Does this place feel dangerous? Of course. But every place does. The human race may be made up of statistics, but the individuals who the race is made of? Completely unpredictable and, in many cases, irrational. I’ll gladly live with the edge this town provides, provided it allows me a few more stories to write.

April 11, 2017

April was an incredibly hectic and wonderful crazy time, and I have just stumbled across an old entry I had been unable to publish. Here it is.

Sometimes the friend you need is a laptop.

In light of recent events (the new job coming next month, the search for a new apartment, and as such the all-around change of lifestyle), I can’t help but reminisce about the latest few moves. I remember how immensely shitty it was being in North Conway with quickly-dwindling funds, only left over from my tax returns, being held captive in such a tiny motel room. The worst part? No doubt, hands down, the loneliness. My mother was with me at the time, and looking back now, we allow ourselves to romanticize the situation and downplay the misery, but at the end of the day, I can’t help but remember how painful it was being so far away from my friends and loved ones.

Not to mention, I had been in a managerial position so I was forbidden to make friends at work, and it was North Conway, New Hampshire, so if I were to somehow luck out and meet someone somewhere else, chances were? They were just visiting. Maybe even spoke a language I didn’t understand.

Clearly there are differences here.

For starters I will be moving to Biddeford (fingers crossed, anyway) by myself. And as strange as it may sound, being lonely by yourself is much more reasonable, even expected, as opposed to experiencing loneliness whilst in the company of other(s). In addition, I will only really be alone until August or so, a mere few months instead of a year. At this point B will be taking the plunge and moving in with me. I will certainly not be in any way management here at the new job, so there goes the whole alienation from co-workers process, and of course, let’s not forget the fact that my new boss will be one of my oldest and dearest friends and confidants, K. She is magnificent and her husband is a well-matched partner in crime, so if I really do get in a lonely fix, I will at least be able to schedule a coffee or local draught with them every once in awhile. I do have a car, as well, so, provided Pip doesn’t “shit the bed”, I will, in desperation, have the option of driving up to Lewiston to, say, my incredible sister and her wonderful husband. (The infinite cure-all; my sister and brother-in-law.)

And although I will be shaking money out of my tax returns once again for this move (happens every year), I shall not be in such harsh financial territory. With only a 17-20 minute drive separating me from T (the new jobby), and most other things quite within walking distance, I do believe I should be able to pull myself up and out of whatever financial terrors that are sure to follow the move.

I think that perhaps, as long as I bring my laptop, phone, my books, some paper and pens I should be able to keep myself from becoming entirely lonesome throughout the duration. And as long as I bring only enough things and not too many, I should be able to busy myself by arranging and rearranging said things in a new spot (this always seems to work, I am not completely certain why). I will simply have to focus on being calm, quiet and safe whilst in this new spot (physically, emotionally, mentally). And hopefully I will recognize the need for companionship and make a phone call before I find myself crying into my cup at the local coffee shop.

And Suddenly, I Was There

I have officially been at my new job (T) for 2 months, my new apartment for 1.5 (moved on Mother's Day again...) and I just bought my new whip! He is a black Fiat 500 whose name is either Jack or Jasper. Can't quite decide. Not to mention he is only my second car ever and my first that I have bought through a dealership, which has been an exciting heart attack in and of itself.

Turns out no matter how good your credit is, you are still entirely a no-good scamp if your job is not at least 90 days old. No matter! It all worked out and I will do my best to prove that they have not made an enormous mistake.

Once I get over the 90 day hump and pay off a bit more of my car, I'm certain things will really start looking up, credit-wise. I would like to keep the security of optional loans open to my future self. Pip, my old car, is still so very dear to my heart and in great driving condition, so I offered her to my sister and husband as a secondary ride, to which she said "perhaps you should sell it". Turns out there are plenty of people who are in the market for a little monster (Pip's a big Gaga fan) for their first car. The first day I bought Jasper I heard tell of a young man in my home town who may have interest, and the second day - today - I heard of more people at work! I'm glad people are interested, and it would feel really great to help someone get their first car, but I will certainly miss her. I bonded with her for three years. That's longer than any of my relationships. Cars and sentiment of them aside!

This whole living-in-a-new-city thing is not at all what I had pictured; I had forgotten to take into account the hours I would be working while living down here. Other than this current week, my day off per week average has been two while my daily hours clock in around 10 (2-12). That's fifty hours a week. Which, I'm sure, plenty of people do, however I was not at all ready. I had become accustomed to an average of four days a week, each swimming gracefully around 6 hours. Yes, of course, there are pluses and minuses to both scenarios, and as this current job is seasonal I should certainly be soaking up all the hours and shifts my body can possibly take (I love saving money)! However, my body simply cannot take so much abuse as I would like it to, as I get sick without the recommended amount of sleep. As was evidenced by the fever I was so fortunate to experience one of my first weeks down here. I had pushed myself too far. Perhaps not too far for everyone, or even most people. But too far for me and my old, anemic, hypoglycemic body. 

This is turning out to be the longest and least entertaining blog thus far. Perhaps ever. Bear with me, imaginary audience, as filling this page with excruciatingly boring details of my life is sure to be quite therapeutic for me. And I need therapeutic, after physically shocking my body (at a late-ish age), and mentally; going from living with someone you talk to all the time about everything (my mother) and filling even your short work days with friends you have known long enough for them to love you and being within reasonable driving distance from your big sis to living in an apartment all by yourself, in which you try your best to not exist or make a mark as you arrive there so late, and the only people you know/love/care about are either at work - the exhaustion station - or what feels like forever away. No regrets, but geez Louise. If there ever was a time to give me a break? It's now. Not that I'm asking for special favors and/or attention; I've done this to myself and I have had it pretty good so far. The point of this paragraph is that I'm not exactly adventuring this new city I've been blessed with as I thought I would, so I'm slowly attempting to make up for lost time. 

This place is much more fun for me in the day time. It loses its sense of city and danger and trades it for that of a friendlier, fun atmosphere - albeit, still not without it's cool edge. Ergo, whenever I have had to wake up early (car appointments, phone calls, generally taking care of business) I have made it a point to enjoy something solo. So far I have hit up a sick cafe and an adorable donut shop. Which, having typed it out, hopefully isn't the highlight of this entry, but most likely will be. 

I have also started writing again. Which is doubtlessly the MOST thrilling thing that I have done for myself since undertaking this fascinating transformation. Whether it's blogging, writing in my journal about my day or creating a new spooky short story for my sister's local paper (which naturally is the most rewarding, as it involves my sis). I really would love to get all of my paintings somewhere else to clear my creative head space and just focus on this writing thing for a while... We'll see.

Caution be Damned!

My caution has successfully been thrown to the wind!

There is a change in my future. I am taking the job at T for K, moving to somewhere an hour away from where I currently reside and I could not be more excited! All it took was a conversation with K. Suddenly everything feels a little less heavy. I feel as though I could do some good work for someone I so immensely care about. I have applied today to two different housing locations (rental property) and may even have a back up plan at said restaurant, my tax returns have been returned and my car will have a brandy-new inspection sticker on her as of next month.

The job starts in early May, so this will give me a proper month to get my ducks in a row, head out of my current job spot (let's call it "M") and housing situation and into the new ones. My last day at M will be on my birthday, the 27th of April. This will be choice as it will give me the last bits of April and the beginning bits of May to finalize anything that I would not have been able to without the time off. There is so much that can be done throughout the duration of a work week; packing/selling/cleaning etc... However, as with TAXES (see blog: "TAXES 2017" for reference), there always seems to be that one bloody last thing that you just can't seem to accomplish unless you have a complete day - or two - free of work. And those days off had better not fall on a Saturday, Sunday, or holiday weekend or you may as well not even have them.

K has been my main source of support through this specifically, of course, but my incredible sister who, somehow, is in a state of continual pride of whatever I am doing, stays behind me the entire way. My mother was wonderfully understanding of me moving out/leaving her to nest-tending and my boyfriend has been nothing short of terrific. L, yet another killer friend of mine (at least a triple-threat) has recently moved south as well, and as such will be about 20-30 minutes away from the new rental property, should I score it.

This is more support than I think I have ever gotten for one specific move. I can't help but feel a little optimistic.

March 2017

An opportunity has fallen into my lap.

I really have never had something come to me so easily. This is the sort of thing you only see in the films and read in the books. Everything has been going swimmingly and normally, I must confess, I have found myself to be the one to not rock the boat. (If it ain't broke...) However! This seems nearly too good to be true. There is something new I could be learning in the job front, a new place I could be living with my wonderful beau, chances I haven't had in the recent past to make a little more money, and as such go travelling, perhaps. And I would be getting the winter all to myself to either piss away whatever savings I had disciplined myself to throughout the warmer months, or pick up a little seasonal work at some retail establishment.

One of my absolute dearest friends has just become the manager of a very prestigious seasonal restaurant. Her name is K, the restaurant's is T. T is about an hour's haul away from my current place of business, which, in turn, is about 20 minutes from my home.

The only reason why I am writing this instead of immediately packing my bags is that I find myself nearly paralyzed with fear. New things don't scare me as much as I feel they should, being a Taurus, I typically find the good easier than the bad in the big picture and am in a constant state of attempting to better my ability to adapt (constant vs. adapt. Hilarious). No, it's not change that I find myself paralyzed from, but fear of inadequacy. I am an unfortunate-looking man on the first date with a goddess. More specifically, after not being on a date for a string of months.

You see, I am not entirely self-loathing, nor am I completely insecure. I get anxious over things that I most likely shouldn't and I have a temper, but after you factor that in, the rest is pretty minute (I'm not even going to begin to calculate physical misfortunes, as that is every one's burden, and, as such, a given). However, I cannot seem to deny the fact that I have never actually worked for a restaurant quite so prestigious.

This is not a shot at any other place I have ever been employed at as a server/bartender. And even if it was, certainly not a shot at my current place of business, as it is the coolest place I have ever worked. I have never been so excited to clock in, so happy to see any/all of my co-workers (management included), so okay with having a few slow days because, hey, I work here! All I am trying to convey is this;

There is quite clearly a difference between a small, locally-owned restaurant with a staff of six and a seasonal establishment on the water that serves multiple $20 beverages to any given patron on any given Wednesday,

Clearly there is going to be a shift in expectation.

How many wines, champagnes and cocktails will I be expected to not only remember, but speak to? I always try my best and work to excel at my job, but there is, of course, only so much I can do. There is a limit. No matter how much heart, soul and willingness. I don't know that I will be good enough, and I need to not disappoint my incredible friend and make this move to find out I am complete shit at something I want to be so successful at. And, of course, the ever-present fear of "no takesies-backsies" is not making it any easier on me. What will I be able to come back to if I do fail?

But I also cannot be afraid only to stay afraid. That is not healthy for me because it is not who I am. Especially since we are, after all, essentially talking about a change of scenery and not sky-diving. I wouldn't die any easier doing this new thing than I would doing the same thing I have been doing. And I am ever-curious. Regardless of the outcome, this experience will be an experience and I will learn something, grow in a way, and better myself somehow.

I already know how to do what I've been doing. Perhaps it's time I try something new.

This Day

Just when you thought you had sorrowfully graduated to adulthood. Just when you thought you had grown out of simple pleasures. Just when you thought your glory days were behind you.

You have a day like this.

Your eyes lazily, yet soberly open to sunshine streaming in from the window. The light isn't aggressive, just calmly hanging there, awaiting your rise and that sweet, faint smell is recognizable, but not tired, just beautifully familiar. No work; the morning and the day is yours - a factor which, although not necessary, I find to be quite conducive to the art of appreciation. A day where everything's there, and even if it isn't, you have somehow been given the tools to make it so.

You're inside, you're outside, what difference does it make? Just knowing that the weather's getting better is enough to make you feel as though you've gotten a serotonin shot straight the face.

Food tastes better; fuller, music has an added dimension, you run into a friend and feel like squeezing them in a hug so tight they may find it difficult to breathe. Whatever you do or do not accomplish on this day, by the end of it you'll still find yourself glad you had it.

This day is a feeling. And it has revived me.

Blogging

'So this is how one starts a blog of their own,' I thought, as I pasted and published one old document of random personal thought and one more recent on a subject more accessible.

I have always wondered how people could do this to themselves. The ongoing joke of "that friend you know who blogs" would certainly be enough to deter the average Joe from doing so/being that guy. Unfortunately, as everyday as my days seem, I am not as strong or clever as the average Joe.

Enter my first blog, and with it, my first few entries.

Day one of doing this and already I've racked the number up to three. My third post. Why have I started this? Do I hope someone will read it? I'm not even sure how that would happen. I, for one, have never found myself in the mood to search - local or otherwise - websites for random blog entries. I suppose this is why that friend we know who blogs won't shut up about it. Because they can't! They couldn't afford to. No one would read it if they ceased bringing it up at dinner parties/ coffee dates/ doctor's appointments.

Of course, that's not to say that once mentioned, we will read the damned thing. I know I can't recall the last one I set eyes on. Perhaps this is an ancient form of entertainment already. Have I missed the bus? Am I becoming part of some anonymous time capsule? One that was buried in the backyard and marked only to be forgotten about once the family picks up and moves to North Dakota for that job promotion? I suppose there's only one way to find out. I could ask Google, but I assume all I would find are old opinions on old anonymous blogs by bloggers I would never give a flying hoot about. Let alone be interested enough in said old opinions to sift through the lengthy introductions and forced humor for them.

Or is it my ego? Is everyone I care about doing this and I just haven't been asking the right questions? Instead of "How're you?" I should be asking "How many entries have you published today?" (Ooh, that many, eh? Here, let me log on and read them as you sit in silence so that I can really know what's going on in your life.) Maybe that's it; Just more of technology pushing us away from the people in the same room. People hadn't blogged for the longest time and seemed to do alright, but then again that was back when people spoke face to face and actually listened to each other, I suppose. Ah, a different time, indeed.

At any rate, I am nothing if not an opportunist and nearly always up for a personal experiment. Maybe this will be good for me.

Suckfest 2016

2016 had struck again. 

What I can only describe as the sudden landslide that was my bad luck had reared its ugly head once more and with an almighty swing it had decimated one of my three jobs. The one that was not necessarily my favorite, but certainly the one that I considered to be my "career opportunity" job. And with the first year of my 30s creeping in (in what felt like a deathly, deft sprint, at the unsure age of 27-and-three-quarters), "career-opportunity" was something that seemed to "really matter" to me. 

How did it happen? The same way it had began; via a friendly text message from my boss. Sure, he had the courtesy to blame the final decision on financial instabilities in the still-young company, but I knew immediately. It was me. I had failed. Again.

How does this happen to a person? And just what exactly was I supposed to do with all this free time? Scrolling the bottomless pit that is Instagram only goes so far, and Facebook had lost all appeal quickly with the compelling combination of politics and an unhealthy amount of social media upkeep for two out of my three jobs. It had gotten to the point where I could - at any given moment on any given day, silence my phone for 15 minutes of work, reopen it, and the app would once more be filled to the brim with notifications. Tens of them. None of them my own. It had become 60% work, 40% irritating, and 0% fun. 

So with social media out of the way, what else was there? I had cycled through my medium selection of fiction books recently, having recently decided to be thrifty; 2 new jobs working for tips in Lewiston with a third straining to even clock in 6 hours a week did not a concrete paycheck make. This month, December, 2016, was the first full month where I had only my 3 new jobs to depend on (in a related note, this variable created what I would acknowledge to be the single lengthiest month I had ever experienced). Other than reading and sweating profusely as the date to pay the mortgage crept closer, the only art I had really been practicing was the art of making the best homemade cold-brew coffee. With what could be described as easily the cheapest coffee available at the local supermarket, that is, without tasting completely of cardboard and must. 

Yes, it had seemed I had been making very clever decisions. Foregoing my daily Venti Starbucks for that of my own creation, staying in instead of going out, not spending all of my money on gas by only traveling to work, the bank, the grocery store and back (an especially difficult feat during the holiday season). I pushed myself to stay positive, as per usual, treated everyone with the utmost respect, worked hard, picked up shifts whenever possible. And yet here I was. Down not only a job, but also a car, a boyfriend, and what I could only assume to be an enormous amount of money. With a fuel-oil bill on the way.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

* * *

Everyone had warned me; "2016 is the worst year", "I can't believe how bad everything is", "I'm moving to Canada" etc. And as they warned, I shook my head kindly, danced through the rainbow that was my life, and sang Broadway classics. Everything was not bad; it was great! In November, I had been living in my trailer since May of this year, May also marked the one-year anniversary of my relationship with my dream guy, my car was running just fine (with snow tires from just last year in my shed at the ready), I had been hired in a flash at 2 new waitressing/bar tending gigs (which, naturally, I took as "a sign from God": that here was where I was supposed to be), I was on the way out of my last job that had run its course (my last day on Thanksgiving, how appropriate), and I had solidly found the best, most peaceful, quickest route from my new place to Starbucks. Life was, by definition, good. I had been so blissful that I had even cut back on smoking (3 a day!).

By the time I hit mid to late November, I had gotten a friendly text from one of my sister's friends who had created a brewery in Lewiston. It was a job offer! He wanted me to meet with him and his business partner so we could discuss me being a Product Ambassador! I would essentially be setting up tastings at bars, grabbing samples of the brewery's beer products, and bringing them over to said restaurant to taste and discuss. The end result, of course, being that hopefully I had done my job well enough that I could schedule the brewery boys to deliver a keg or five to said restaurant. Get their name out there a little more, make them a little money, and make a little myself. And working hard for these two boys was more than my pleasure. I don't recall the text I received that day, but I do believe I recall doing what could be categorized as a "victory dance". On top of everything else? I had a "career opportunity"! All-too aware of my own mortality, I had decided early on that I did not wish to be the 90-year-old waitress/bartender that hadn't known when to quit and was no longer relevant as much as she was irrelevant, irritating and all-around unappetizing. Who, more than likely, only still had the job due to the exponentially deepening sadness of the situation. Although I wouldn't mind the blue hair.

By Thanksgiving, my last day at my old job, I had decided that all my stress would surely be coming to an end. Walking out at the end of that shift, I imagine I felt the way everyone in that situation would have; 'This is it. I've clocked out. I am officially free. no more [enter example of being taken advantage here], no more dealing with [enter name of biggest pain-in-the-ass here], I'll never have to come back here again!!!! YOU DON'T OWN ME, ANYMORE, [enter company name here]!!!!!'. Give or take a few exclamation marks (I'm leaning on the side of give). 

Yes, I was finally free of all the bologna. Little did I know my slate had been wiped clean only to pile an insurmountable pile of horse shit atop my very soul. To say the least, I'm smoking again. Habitually.

TAXES 2017

Why is it that when you attempt to forge through your taxes at home, alone, online, it never goes properly the first time?

I can’t possibly be the only person who goes through this.

You’re one year smarter and have, most likely, survived one more problem from last year’s go at whatever tax site you log on to. Sure, you stumbled a bit last year, but that was last year! You were but a child! You’re an adult now. Things are different. You’ve filed all of your paperwork you’ve deemed necessary under “T” for taxes, subcategory “2016”, and once more you’ve got a separate folder INSIDE of those aforementioned for each job, each car, each loan, each medical bill and so forth. You get out of work on a Friday, you pour yourself a hot tea (with lemon, because, let’s not forget; you’re an adult now), log onto your personal computing device and have only a dim lamp to distract you. You even have your AGI and a personal check with your banking information, checking account and routing number on it. Surely you’ve done everything properly. You won’t be taken by surprise this year.

Surely.

You start out strong and confident, maybe even allow yourself a quick “HAH”. ‘You won’t take me this time,’ you think. Then, in the height of it, once you’ve painstakingly entered in all of the information from any and all W-2s, you remember ‘Oh, yes, I took out a bit from my 401k last year… for the house.’ You fiddle through your filework, first calmly, and then a bit more feverishly as the seconds go by. Fingers dancing, heat and panic building, you start to sweat as you begin to realize ‘This is it. This is the thing. The thing that stops me dead in my tracks and disallows me my feeling of completion.’ And then, finally, after admitting defeat; ‘I’m not getting my taxes done tonight’.

Now I have been through this rigamarole enough times to know that there are ways around things. Don’t have your AGI? No problem; go to this website and enter a few things. No routing number? Look it up on Google. No personal check? Well you can get that information at your local branch. Just a quick drive away. So naturally I think ‘Okay, so I don’t have my 1099r. I can just log onto that 401k provider’s website and get a copy there. Or at least enough information to get by.

I’m not entirely certain how many times and how casually I thought I had logged into said provider’s website, but whatever the number, it hadn’t been enough to remember my id and password to log into my personal information. But that’s what security questions are for! And after failing two in a row, I was locked out for the night… and the weekend. Because it was Friday night and this provider was unavailable by phone until 8:30am, Monday. And that is the only way to unlock my account.

The only reason for any real frustration is that, in addition to this new and exciting fuck up, I have never in my life waited this long to complete my taxes, and I wonder how much longer it will take. Have I surpassed the allowance of time? Is the FBI going to take me away in an armored car the way they would have liked to do to Al Pachino in Scarface? Only this time they would succeed entirely, due to the complete lack of uppers in my bloodstream. How tragic. Taken away at the young age of twenty-seven for accidental tax-evasion. Perhaps I will get off a bit early for good behavior. *

*I have done the proper research and found that this year's cutoff date is in April.