Ramblings

A letter of (un)motivation as to why you should pay me:

Suddenly, three years have passed by, like the countless nights that was set on fast forward by the double vodka lime’s. Now you’re here. In between your little pseudo adulthood, wrapped up neatly with a bow and the security blanket of mom and dad making sure you’re still okay – and the nitty gritty reality of the real world.

Now what?

I wish I had the answer – but instead, I will use my polished undergraduate humanities skills to try and romanticize my little existential crisis. If that doesn’t work, my next option is to deny the fact that I will ever have to face next year, and lastly, when next year hits me hard, like saturday morning hangovers, I will strongly consider becoming an academic and never leaving uni. – Sidenote: This would only be possible if I somehow manage to raise my class average to about 150% to balance out my neat, close cut 50’s from the last 3 years.

Another alternative, which is the one I am most drawn to (keeping the neo-colonialist teaching english abroad as a back up) is drawing up a letter to all future employers along with my CV (which will probably include me being class captain in 2nd grade).

It will read:

Dear Future Boss.

I’m not quite sure what you’re looking for, but I am pretty hopeful that I can convince you that this job has been my life long dream. Also, please do not quote me on any of this as I am extremely proficient in the art of denial.

Secondly, don’t worry about giving me efficient time before deadlines. I’m not sure about a lot of things, but I can promise you that I will leave all work till last minute, regardless of the scenario. I like to claim that this is because of working well under pressure, but in reality the final product is mediocre.

If this job entails answering or making phone calls, I am extremely talented in staring at the phone until it stops ringing.

I am very good at covering up tense situations with humor, without truly reflecting on the problem, which allows me to continuously avoid conflict but balancing it out with constant inner turmoil.

I will frequently blame my unproductiveness on needing a “personal day” which will consist of binge eating, listening to music that evokes nostalgic heart breaks and then proceed to think about what I want in life.

I have an incredible skill set of choosing appropriate mood music, and will be able to set the tone with my multiple playlists for any occasion, if needs be.

I can do pretty much anything with enough coffee in my system, including taking naps (a skill I have come to master).

If we have a work ‘group’ on whatsapp, I have some really good memes I would like to share.

So, text me if you would like me to be a part of your team, as previously mentioned, phone calls give me anxiety.

Kind Regards

A soon-to-be broke student

 

 

Thanks Brain, you’re a dick.

The great thing about growing up is discovering all these different parts of yourself. I mean, basically any coming-of-age movie makes it clear that we’re all trying to ‘find ourselves’.

*spoiler – They find themselves.

*plot twist – I’ve never been very good at hide and seek.

So, whilst moving from one existential crisis to the next, we get to know ourselves, right? We start becoming familiar with our self in relation to the space we find ourselves in. The shitty thing is though – not all of our parts are nice. Not all of them want to be found, and quite frankly, I wouldn’t mind not-looking for them either.

One of the little discoveries I have recently made is the ease in which I fall into self-doubt. This little bugger, however, is not shy at all and it was never lost. It knows exactly where it can and can’t go and just does what it likes anyway. I never went looking for it, it’s just been around.

Now that I have (or at least tried) to acknowledge my little partner in crime, I am trying to distinguish between my actual flaws and the blatant lies my brain tells my body.

The most recent lie in the saga of my mind has been the reoccurring theme that, no one likes me, no one loves me, no one will come when I need them and as soon as I leave the room there is a basic unanimous sigh of relief from the universe in general that I am no longer paining anyone with my presence. Melodramatic, I know, but bare with me.

We start believing it, and as soon as it’s stuck, Mr. self-doubt feeds on everything and anything it sees. We start perpetuating it in the things around us.

*CUE THOUGHT* – “It’s been like 2hours, why hasn’t he/she replied, I probably did something dumb again, why are they mad, are they okay?” –

and then there’s the reality that they’re probably just busy dude. Chill.

Second-guessing and doubt will get you absolutely nowhere when it comes to the things you can’t control or the people around you. Also, I am pretty darn sure that if someone loves you – the petty things you worry about is not enough to make them up and leave.

Therefore, in order to keep my sanity – I am starting to be as kind to myself as I try to be to others. You are human, You are trying your best, you’re growing and constantly creating yourself. Breathe a bit and let the people around you prove the poo part of your brain wrong as much as they can – and people will, I promise.

D(r)aft Glory

“Authenticity” – That’s a word I like to through around ever so casually. Especially when it comes to writing. I frequently catch myself saying things like “unapologetic, raw, honest”. They roll off my tongue like the lyrics to my favorite song. Easy and well rehearsed.

Yet when asked about my blog, when writing, when socializing, even when getting dressed in the morning, I constantly find myself floating around in the metaphorical “draft” section of life. Just waiting, checking, rewriting, tip-toeing around my flaws until we see ourselves fit for publishing, influenced by our surroundings and the idea of how we think others perceive us.

Proofreading and editing ourselves to make sure we don’t sound too sad, that we don’t act too clingy, that we aren’t talking too much or too little. That we aren’t wearing too much or not enough. That we share too much or we’re too closed off. Ricocheting between what if’s and could have’s and maybes and maybe not’s.

So – Note to self and anyone else who has been keeping up with my incoherent trains of thought and ramblings. Post the drafts. Whatever your draft entails. Cause lately it has been far more terrifying trying to avoid error.

Things aren’t always good, things aren’t always bad either, but I know it’s a whole lot easier when you stop constantly wondering if what you do or say or think or write is good enough. Life is too short to wait until things are neatly typed out and polished, because I don’t think it ever will be. Instead, it’s a dozen papers lying around with a hundred thoughts, ideas, coffee stains and different colors from all the different pens that decide to run out of ink mid sentence.

And if we fuck up – that’s okay. Make mistakes. Let people question what you say. Learn from your mistakes, make them a few more times and listen when people tell you what’s on their minds. Tell them what’s on yours. Change your mind, change your plans and talk about things you don’t understand. I promise you aren’t the only one that doesn’t know exactly what they want or exactly what they are doing, but at least you’re doing something.

Bad at Blogging (and other things).

I lit a candle to ‘get in the mood’. The mood of a ‘writer’. I’m not quite sure what this mood entails, but somehow the closest thing to it, I thought, was a jasmine scented candle, which is now flickering next to the very bright light-bulb-charged bedside lamp.

“I write because, uhm, I can’t not write”. –  This sentence sat comfortably on the blank page in front of me for a fair amount of time. I laughed at how my own lumpy sentence seemed to be taunting me with its isolation, as if shouting “You don’t even know why you write, lol”. Charles Bukowski said, “There is nothing more magic and important than lines forming on paper. It’s all there is. It’s all there ever was”. I laughed again at my sentence and thought of how easy it would be if I could just repeat Bukowski’s sentence to anyone and everyone who asks me why I write (an easy cop out, I am aware).

The truth is though, ever since I can recall, my best days ended with the need to record the day’s events. Be it on the fragrance paper of my primary school diary, or the jotted down thoughts of a confused adolescent on perforated paper. Paper stuffed in the back of drawers and hidden behind a pile of clothes in messy cupboards. So, that’s what I do. I write, and my stories are messy and unpredictable and boring and happy and depressing and sometimes ordinary. Sometimes so beautiful I am left in awe.

I don’t know how to say the right words, my sentences are awkward and long, and I ramble about sadness too often. It’s senseless. Confusing. Grammatically incorrect. Awkward. Real.  Dwelling in every single emotion, saying things I don’t mean, being confused and feeling it and dealing with it. Whether the stories to follow are from personal experiences or about people halfway across the world. I want to write them and I want you to read them.