I am better than you, but you are doing fine

I'm approaching that point in productivity where you're running as fast as you can, but you see the wall ahead. There are two options:

1. Slow down and see if you can find a way around the wall. Maybe you can climb it (ew just kidding I hate climbing things). Find a way around it at a walking pace.

or

2. Keep running as fast as you can and accept that you're about to hit a wall. Just turn your head to the side so you don't break your nose. I've recently started to really like my nose. It's cute.

The latter will prevail. I remember they said once in driver's training not to swerve for animals. They probably would have said, "Stop for walls," but I don't remember that, so I'm going to loosely apply the animal tidbit to walls in my creative life and hope it works.

The wall I'm approaching is built from bricks of other writer's works. Originally, I wanted to say it was built from the bodies of other writers, but that evoked a certain image I already try to avoid given my blonde hair and alabaster skin. Maybe we just imagine a wall of writers in an arm-linked-fence kind of way. Red Rover style. That sounds less controversial.

Anyway, me, running, wall, writers.

Point being: those writers are not better than me. For the first time in my life, I read things and think, "I could have written that better." I was explaining this to my roommate (who I would call my best friend, but we all know my recent luck with that title), how I am better than these writers. And I just finished reading Mindy Kaling's book. That's like the Pope saying he could have made a hotter Adam & Eve. Or at least ones that didn't have a weird thing for apples.

to which my roommate replied

I think it's time you start calling yourself a writer.
and
Stop making religious references. 

Da FUQ*? I wasn't looking for advice. I was just bitching over a grande blonde roast, but he was right. Those writers were writing successfully because they are writers. As straightforward as that should sound to anybody over the age of 6, it wasn't until this moment that I realized how much I'd been avoiding the issue.

Because if I called myself a writer, it was one more thing to fail at.

-I ended that sentence with a preposition. I know that because I am a writer.-

I had been swerving. But I didn't go to school to be a writer. What claim did I have to titleship? Then again, I didn't go to school to be a restaurant manager and I'm OK failing at that. Move over, Ellen Paige, it's my turn to come out.

Red Rover, Red Rover, this bitch is coming over.

Writer,

TJB: Making It


*Translation: The Fuck? as in "What the fuck?" Good for Snapchats.

L-O-V-Me

You'll be pleased to know I'm eating carbs again. I had a realization this weekend while eating pie a boy baked for me in the nation's capitol and binging on House of Cards.

Somebody had asked me the week before if I could ever have imagined myself where I am in life. I thought, "Yeah. I could have. But why would I have wanted to?" It was a short conversation.

I remembered an assignment from English my senior year of high school in which we had to write a letter to ourselves in 2025. I confidently predicted a post-award show TONYs or Oscars, still in a tuxedo, reading it on the sofa of my Manhattan loft or swanky L.A. hotel room.

But I always thought it would be funny if there had been stipulations to the letter. Rules of mediocrity. For instance: you never got married, your cat just passed away, you have $25,000 left in student loans, and you're leasing a Toyota.

Now write a letter to THAT, snotty 18 year old.

While I thought of this over my second heap of pie during episode 5, I realized we spend our entire lives with the hope of reaching our personal dreams. Then, out of nowhere, we are sideswiped by some terrible thing that compromises our trajectory and forces us to gamble everything we've worked for thus far in the hopes that we could still achieve our goals while pulling the weight of another person who is running in a completely different direction.

Now imagine writing a letter to yourself in 2025, but today, you've been sideswiped by this "love". There can no longer be a straight path to Happily Ever After. Well, not since we gave women the right to vote and started letting gays get married.

Luckily, I've always been a tragic romantic. If I have to make it on my own, I guess I'd rather not make it. I blame my parents for never getting divorced.

I included in my letter that my husband would be reading over my shoulder, and already proud of my undoubted win from the evening, he would kiss me on the forehead for having been so kind to include him in my plans since 2007.

I mean, I had to ensure I was still getting some at 35.

And whether that forehead kiss comes from a boy who bakes apple pies or some future man who is hopefully not leasing a Toyota, I know that as long as I'm dreaming my own dreams, I'll be braced for collision.

Hot? Unintentional, but yes.

He's going to be incredibly lucky,

TJB: Making It

Wednesdays

Making friends is hard. In general. At least past the first grade when everything could be based on a preference of dinosaurs over astronauts or My Little Pony versus American Girl. Now, we can't even gender stereotype when we just fucking want somebody to hang out with.

What the hell, America?

I was out to drinks with a "friend" recently. I say "friend" because here's how our conversation went:

Me: I mean, you're my best friend, so you know...
Him: Wait, what?
Me: You understand what I mean because you're my best friend.
Him: Wait...we're not best friends...

I said those exact words in 4th grade to a girl who stole my swing at recess, but somehow I thought 24 would be easier. Instead of pushing him off his barstool, I paid for the drinks and left.

I was a part of an interesting group of characters in college called Wednesdays. Contrary to popular belief, we did not name ourselves. We became a clique shortly after a group of kids who photographed a fake GAP campaign pointed out that we were always drinking together on Wednesday nights (sans puffy vests and striped scarves). Clearly, we were the weird ones.

Three years later, we found ourselves in Chicken Soup for the College Soul: I Couldn't Adjust to College so I Wrote a Mean Story About Kids Who Tried to Include Me but I Decided I Was Better Than Them.

That bitch will never live it down. Her story painted us (through misguided metaphors) as a judgmental group of superficial friends who binge drank and gossiped about people we thought were beneath us.

In reality, we were losers and we knew it. At least that's what our subconscious told us. But when we were together, shoved into a dorm room on the 5th floor sneaking vodka into vending machine V8s, we were the fucking coolest. We were best friends.

I wouldn't have made it through college if it weren't for Wednesdays.

Living in a city of 8.3million people can be lonely, especially if you're just finding out your friends had a different take on your relationship. I was feeling pretty down about it until this morning when I woke up to a string of messages from Wednesdays on a Friday.

All of them single, spiking their coffee, celebrating Valentine's Day the only way we know how.

By being the fucking coolest.

I haven't seen any of them in months, but there isn't a single week that goes by without a Wednesday.

So to you, my best friends. If you're reading, I say: FOUR OUT OF FIVE OF US LIVE IN THE SAME CITY, HOLY HELL, ARE YOU ALL HANGING OUT WITHOUT ME, YOU STUPID BITCHES?!

Once a Wednesday,

TJB: Making It

oh my god i think i was an escort

We never made it to the frat.

I once went on a Valentine's Day date in exchange for a handle of vodka. Oh, to be 18 again. I remember
ordering a salad, because I thought that's what you were supposed to eat on dates (and because I have always been a skinnybitch). I left hungry, but more disappointingly, I left without vodka in hand. Three days later, I trekked through a snowstorm to pick up my payment. Smirnoff. Apparently, I was a cheap date. 

That handel created one of the most notorious nights of my college career.

That was probably one of my best Valentine's Days. In fact, in elementary school, I threw up 4 years in a row on Valentine's Day. I'll never forget projectile vomiting grilled cheese and noodle soup in the principal's office. Fourth grade. In fifth grade, I was lucky enough to puke before I left the house, missing my "girlfriend's" mom picking us up for an off-campus lunch date. To be fair, I thought she would grow up to be a lesbian anyway. 

Senior year of high school, I broke up with my boyfriend the week before Valentine's Day because I was afraid he was going to outdo me. The next day, my best friend brought me a bag full of gifts he had planned to surprise me with throughout the day, ending in an invitation to his school's Spring Fling. At least I was right. He would have outdone me. 

Junior year of college, my friends and I tried to attend a Cupid party at the Jewish fraternity after recreating aforementioned "Handle Night" from paragraph one. I woke up asleep on my friend who was Jewish, but not in the fraternity. So I guess I kind of completed the mission.  

I did have one Valentine's Day worth smiling about. I received a heart shaped box full of 50+ McDonald's BBQ sauces the guy had collected for a month. We broke up the next week because surprises gave me anxiety. He now lives with his boyfriend in Portland in a very chic apartment. He's incredibly happy. I'm incredibly happy for him. SO happy for him. Just...so happy. 

So, what am I doing this year? 

I decided to plan a trip to our nation's capitol to see a boy I fell for at a bar. I will meet his entire family and give him the cheesiest, most thoughtful gift a genius writer like me could think of without drinking myself into a stupor of inadequacy. I will risk everything I have to tell him how head-over-heels I feel in the hopes that he will be stupid enough to match me in said risk of diving head first into what is hopefully the deep end. 

And I will blog bout it.

And he will probably think I'm crazy because I did. 

And maybe I am. 

But luckily, he might be crazier. 

There will be vodka. 

And as long as I don't projectile vomit, this will be far from the worst. 

Tradition,

TJB: Making It