I’m missing my friends’ wedding festivities because I didn’t know I was supposed to save a date and had my wisdom teeth pulled. So I’m home alone with swollen gums and several prescriptions, and every once in a while the bedroom ceiling slides to the left like a Dali painting.
I am reminded that I never did finish planning MY wedding that was supposed to have happened on May Day. Because of the polar vortex my life fell apart for several months and then I got a terrible job and it rained on May 1st and I had a nervous breakdown. I haven’t spoken nor thought of my tragic wedding or even peeked at the chaotic lists of favorite foods/feelings or sketches of dresses I will never learn to sew. Not even the Pinterest board full of whimsical things to do with balloons, champagne, and hors d’oeuvres.
But today I did. And I’m like: damn, I can’t believe I used to have my shit in a together enough pile to coordinate events. Weddings look exhausting. But I totally want to have a chill, no-pressure party with all these things that I picked out for myself.
Then it dawned on me that I will be 25 Thanksgiving week, and I can practice throwing my wedding by having a killer birthday. Last year only two people came to my “party” because there was a “blizzard,” and then we couldn’t find a bar to serve us in that shitty town, AND THEN we almost got arrested for sliding through a stop sign in said blizzard. I cried a lot.
The thing is that when I turned 23, everything was sparkly and like this:I literally danced in the street and did cartwheels until I fell down. It was like New Year’s Eve, but in my honor. I want that again.
Luckily, I get to turn 25 during one of my worst years thus far:
A preview of the manic-depressive pixie party of my dreams:
So, IDK, brace yourselves or whatever because I’m having an Ida Maria feminist superhero ballerina masquerade poetry bordello Martha Stewart-approved cocktail party dance battle
Free the nipple. Save the date. Thanksgiving 2014.
I haven’t been writing lately because I’ve been depressed or whatever and I got some new photo editing apps and groceries so I’ve been busy in a very idle sort of way.
I could write for days and days about depression, but that would just be depressing. In short: I’m too young, black, and female to be taken seriously. The FLOTUS still has the same problems that I, a nobody from a nothing town, struggle with constantly.
So I’ve been succumbing to my own vices and listening to a lot of golden age radio detective mysteries. I’ve been taking selfies and practicing the art of braising pork and fermenting kimchi.
I go to work and I resent everything and everyone because I learned my work ethic from the Greatest Generation and still my best isn’t good enough. I get verbal warnings and terminated pretty much constantly.
All I want to do is get my hands on some Monsanto-free soil and start a little farm in my apartment. I’ve been all over the internet learning to improve my space and how to pollinate without getting evicted for having a bee hive in my living room.
I’ve given up on most of my dreams, replacing them with the single, multi-layered goal of self sufficiency. Everything I try is daft as it is, so why not live alone in the forest with goats and books?
Sometimes I cry because my existence is basically futile, but what else is a girl to do? Have a drink, a smoke, and try something else.
Dame el café para cambiar lo que puedo, y dame el vino para aceptar que no puedo cambiar todo.
I will always be a big dumb idiot who went to college for a thing people totally need but
don’t can’t pay for.
So I will never afford groceries, my occupation will always be everything and nothing, I will never work for money, and I will always make adverts for the small business I love on my outdated technology.
BUT. There will never be a reason for me to leave the underpants party in my apartment. Worth it. Because I’m worth it.