I Find It Kind of Funny, I Find It Kind of Sad

Well, it's been over a year since I've blogged, but I feel compelled to pick it up again for...reasons. Not concrete reasons, but reasons. That's for sure. I guess it will all come together as I continue to write this.

Nearing the beginning of my fourth and final year as a college student, I begin to feel that all-too-common feeling of dread. I have a frightening sensation of not knowing who I am, where I'm going, why I'm doing what I'm doing, and how the hell I'm going to get to a place that I want to be (or, really, what that place even is). I've realized that in twenty years of life there have been very few times/moments/instances that I have felt like I was truly, completely happy. That sounds worse than it is, because while I don't feel like I've spent a lot of time being elated, for the most part I've been satisfied, and maybe even mildly joyful, but I don't spend the majority of my time being leap-out-of-my-shoes, goofy-grin-on-my-face thrilled with life. I know that's fairly common, but I also know that with the life I have and the things I've done I could definitely have been...happier. More satisfied. Less melancholy.

I've realized that, as an English major, I spend the majority of my time with my nose in a book or my face in front of a computer. I type a lot and I read a lot, and along with that comes a feeling that I spend a lot of time in other people's worlds. I don't live in my own world, I live in Palahniuk's world, or Murakami's world, or Foer's world. I live in whatever world I read about at the time. And while many of those worlds have been wonderful and fascinating, none of them are mine.

Most people would respond to this by saying, "well, be a novelist. Write your own worlds." Here's the thing. I am a terrible creative writer. It comes from reading so much. Anything I write is a rip-off of something written better than what I'm writing. And really, I'm okay with that. I never had aspirations of being a fabulously famous novelist or poet. Honestly, I suck. I've tried to write plays and books, and I just don't do well. They're clunky and awkward, and they are painfully shallow, but that's just fine. I don't something other than my love of rum and cokes driving me to alcoholism anyway.

I've digressed a little, but here's my point: I have no fucking idea how to fix this problem. All the things I've wanted to be have fallen apart, and I haven't managed to pick up the pieces and find something new yet. But I feel like in the process of picking up the pieces I need to do something...big. Different. Out of character. I don't know what it is yet, but I'm looking. And I'm ready for it when it comes and knocks on my door...or maybe when I knock on its door. Who knows.

But, for now, there should be more blogs to look forward to. I'm going to try. It's the best I can do right now.