Full Speed Ahead.

nobody likes you when you’re 24, either.

Let’s get one thing straight—this isn’t a love story, or a story about life. What the hell do I know about either? I’m only 24. And this isn’t a story about a life-changing discovery or the road to self-enlightenment, because let’s face it—nobody cares. This is probably a story about a girl, trapped inside a hormonal body, with an overactive imagination and too much time on her hands. Yeah, that’s probably it. 

I think the best place to start is somewhere in the middle. If I start at the beginning, the story will drag on for ages, and you’ll probably get bored and start opening new page browsers and asking Google for driving directions or downloading the latest episode of some NBC show or checking your cell phone. Don’t worry, I’m not offended. An attention span is a terrible thing to waste.

So in the middle of this story, the girl, let’s call her Karen. That sounds like a nice, ordinary name. So Karen, she’s at home on a Tuesday night playing online poker and chatting to her friends on the internet. Actually, she’s not doing either. You see, Karen doesn’t have a lot of friends, per se.  Oh, don’t get me wrong—Karen knows a lot of people. A lot.  But you see, there’s a difference in knowing someone and being their friend, and Karen—well, Karen’s not the kind of person who makes a lot of friends.  She’s the kind of girl who looks a lot like someone you used to know in high school, or like that actress on that one television show that got cancelled last year.  She’s got a nice face and all, but Karen’s the type of person you forget you’re friends with until she pops up on your newsfeed one day while you’re bored at work and checking your Facebook, and then you think, Wow, I haven’t heard from Karen in ages. Wonder what she’s up to? Well, no, actually I don’t. It’s probably not that interesting anyways.

So what is Karen doing? Well, Karen is lying down on her bed, staring up at the ceiling at  the pipes that run the length of her room, waiting for the big chunky white flakes of paint to fall to the ground, like swollen fruit from a tree . She’s contemplating her life, or at least her Tuesday night life, which is a lot like all the other nights in her life. All of Karen’s roommates have gone out for the evening, leaving her alone with her computer and her books, which is how she likes it for the most part. Karen finds it incredibly exhausting being around people, especially people with active social lives who like to chatter excitedly and ask her personal questions like where she’s from and what she’s doing in this town.  As far as Karen’s concerned, it’s none of their damn business what she’s doing or who she’s doing it with.  She doesn’t care to be included in the ritual of dressing up for cocktail hour, or invited to the latest opening of some trendy club where she’ll end up paying too much for too little alcohol and wind up going home with some long-haired loser who reminds her of the boy she fell in love with in the 6th grade. Karen’s got bigger plans ahead of her than Tuesday night, that’s for sure. 

i need a little inspiration…

The American Dream is dead. Thank God.

As I get ready to leave this large, fascinating continent for European shores, I am constantly evaluating my decision to abandon my history, my home, the place that has spawned thousands of twenty-somethings like me.  Here I am, voluntarily picking up my bags and departing a country when many people risk their lives to be transported here, all for an idea.  The American Dream.

I believe America is an idea- a mesmerizing oasis sprung from the deepest hallucinations of stranded desert travelers, dying of thirst.  Americans live in a world of privilege without the stain of defeat.  America is a hedonist’s wet dream, in which the players run round in circles with demoniac glee—artificial, synthetic, chock full of vitamins to make you grow and preservatives that will immortalize you.  What every American secretly craves is a taxidermist on speed dial.

This endless race for perfection has exhausted every last drop of creativity that once flowed like wine through this country.  Americans want luxury, beauty, grandeur, ease.  We build colossal homes and fill them with food, children, art—and still we are chronically dissatisfied, forever searching for that nameless thing that will bring contentment and happiness into our lives.   

Unbeknownst to us, America has created a static movement, incapable of change.  We cling to ideas, cling to hope, cling to anything that we feel might stem this tidal wave of disappointment.  That is our greatest weakness.  If America were to loosen her grip, even just the slightest bit, we might know what it means to feel free again.

california in january

The trees are whispering, calling out to the birds that hoot to each other from beneath the branches.  This place is the last paradise, with its cerulean water that reflects the sunlight with glasslike precision.  The sky is a blistering shade of blue, and the palm fronds lining the water wave to each other with outstretched fingers.  As the wind picks up, the trees dance together, swaying in an elegant waltz to the sound of silence.  The smell of sunburnt wicker chairs and bamboo fills the void-the fish are swimming in the air, drunk with pleasure.  Silver, maroon, gold, sienna, coral, pearl.  They follow in waves towards their final destination, licking the tops of the trees as they pass by.