Fuck errythang.

I’ve been crying a lot lately, so much so that even when I’m not crying, I can feel the well inside of me brimming, waiting for something — anything — to tip me over and spill emotion everywhere.

I have lived a privileged, sheltered life. I fear, sometimes, that because of this, I make myself feel horrible about otherwise inconsequential situations, just because I haven’t experienced anything more dramatic. I blow things out of proportion, if for no other reason than to feel more deeply than the events of my ordinary life necessitate. Oddly, this seems to have a numbing effect, like a wound rubbed raw.

I’m moving out soon. I’m moving out soon and to be honest, I don’t have my shit figured out yet. I feel conflicted.

I hate the idea of breaking my parents’ hearts. I think they anticipated me staying at home longer than I am. I think they anticipated me staying until I had an actual plan mapped out — one more detailed than a big circle surrounding the words “find job.”

I feel grimy. Sick. Anxious. Sad. I want to move out. I crave that independence, I crave living closer to my creative connections, I crave the shorter commute into LA. But I don’t know if my parents understand that. I don’t know if they can see that this has nothing do to with them, and everything to do with my own needs, my own desire to find my way in this world, even if it means fucking things up along the way. I can’t deny the selfish nature of this.

I wish I could have hindsight now. I wish I knew NOW if this is a good idea or a horrible idea or an immature idea or an idea that I really do need in order to step closer towards my future. It’s not logical to move out of a loving, easy, generous living situation into one that is so uncertain and undefined and amoebic. It is very possible that I will fall on my ass and crawl back home in a really pathetic manner.

I’m also coming to terms with the fact that I may never “make it.” Fame and celebrity for their own sake have never attracted me. But I’m going into an industry where success is inevitably dictated by the size of the audience you reach.  I can write stories and convey human experience — but what does any of it mean if other people don’t connect to it? If other people don’t see the validity, the beauty, the intent?

Everyone wants to be the fucked up voice of their generation, myself included, but there’s no way we could all possibly be it. And there are people more competitive than I am, more talented than I am, more driven, more extroverted, more self-starting. I fear giving my all to something and failing, but also fear that in doing nothing, I’ve already failed.

God, life is just fucking weird right now. It would be nice to fast-forward time and see it all figured out. Or maybe it would be depressing and scary because maybe in five years, my life won’t be all that great. Ugh. Who fucking knows.



It’s the day before you break up with me and I’m sitting in the car with my mother. We’re stopped at a red light and she asks about you excitedly. I don’t date much. This is as new and fun for her as it is for me.

“So, what do you like about him?” She presses, a smile dancing on the corners of her lips.

I think about it. I think about our dates, about your style, about the way your hair falls. I think about texting in haikus, about our political beliefs, about the pictures we send each other. “I just feel like we’re on the same wavelength,” I eventually respond. “We just get each other.”

Maybe that’s how I knew, driving out to Long Beach the following evening, that you were going to end it. You hadn’t done anything juristically different that week, only mentioned you were tired, a bit stressed by work. It was just an inkling, just an itch at the back of my brain, but somehow I felt it — What if he breaks up with me tonight?

The diner is grimy but likable, hundreds of pictures anarchically filling the walls. You order a burger. I order a salad and blueberry pie. We make small talk about our days, our weeks, work, school. I can tell something is off and you can tell that I can tell that something is off and so we both ignore it as we sit peaceably in the booth with puffy plastic-lined cushions. It’s not the right time. Not yet.

After we finish we walk to the beach behind the building. It’s solitary. The sun, bleeding out her radiant glow, abandons us as she dips below the horizon line. You grip my hand tightly and I know you’re anxious.

We walk up the beach, mounting and descending the small hills of sand. It’s not romantic — the grains sting my feet and I’m out of breath in a few minutes. You talk about feelings you don’t understand, and I listen intently as you struggle to articulate, as you attempt desperately to better explain the ambiguous descent. I appreciate the effort, but you don’t need to finish for me to understand where the conversation will land us.

Your hands, once so welcome, feel misplaced on my skin now. I shrug them off only to find the chill of their absence worse. I want to reach out, place my hand back in yours, press my face to your chest, but it feels wrong. I know now, even before we’ve said it, that you’re not mind to touch anymore.

The problem with waves is that they crash. The tides endlessly pull them in and out, shift them around, upturn them and unfurl them and tumble them into and away from one another. I always believed we were on the same wavelength, and maybe we were. But the wave eventually crashes into the flat, dampened sand, as predictable and inevitable as nature and all her algorithmic processes.