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.

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