Po Qua?

Widescreen 38972 Region 1 133 mins. US R Canada PG/DP “A Very Long Engagement” and supplementary material [copyright symbol] 2004 - 2003 Productions - Warner Bros. France - Tapioca Films - TFI Films - TFI Films Production [copyright symbol] 2005 Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved. No copying. Subject to applicable laws.

They say Paris, France is the city of love. French- a romance language, a romantic cuisine, a kiss that is deep and daring. I am not much for mushy love stories, or for war, or for tales that combine the two- but Jean-Pierre Jeunet definitely did it right.

For those of you who haven’t seen “A Very Long Engagement”- you should. It’s almost like “The Notebook”, but with subtitles, plenty of gore, and still a heart wrenching ending. With all the different perspectives, I have never before seen war portrayed so boldly. There were five men released into no-mans-land for self-mutilation, trying to get a free ticket home. They could not return to their own trenches, but the enemy looked to shoot them down at any opportunity. The fiancé of one of the five men dominates the movie- trying to figure out wether he was dead or alive- and finds out pieces of what happened in no-mans-land one bit at a time.

For me, one of the most intense scenes was when the fiancé hears a story about one of the five men who was gunned down by both lines. He was tired of hiding amidst the maggot-infested bodies, wading in blood-sodden earth, and seeing hope dissipate with the passing days. His last request was that the sides hold their fire.. to let him actually stand up and pee like a man.

As for the romantic parts... it just sort of makes me wonder where all the effort went. Not in the movie, I mean real life. When did men stop trying so hard? When did they lose the passion that leaves them babbling nonsense about feeling their woman’s heart beating in the palm of their hand, like morse code? And what of love letters? commitment? of gallantry and seduction?

Last night, I was walking down South Street, and had a guy call out to me, “Hey! You wanna suck my dick?” -that’s attractive... real classy too. I replied, “If only you had one!” flipped him off, and kept walking. Thing is, it wasn’t JUST last night that this sort of disrespect manifested- somehow it has become common over the years. I used to be startled by the sounds of car horns, wailing my direction unexpectedly- and now am not fazed- which is probably dangerous since there may be a day when the horn is not a cat call and I could walk head-on into an accident. I wouldn’t be surprised.

“A Very Long Engagement” is the third film of his that I have seen, and the most serious of them. “Amelie” and “Micmacs” were more comedic- with an unspelled humor. All three contain elements of revenge, ambitions, and mystery- add 525 g imagry, 1345 g color, 34 K carefully orchestrated dialogue, pour it over a grade A cast, stew it on a screen for over two hours- and you will get a taste of Jean-Pierre’s undeniable talent.

I wonder if the man, himself, is a romantic or a pervert? He portrays both on the screen- like old obese men drooling over the supple limbs of the European ladies. Then again.. Do men who shout obscenities from car windows realize their vulgarity.. or just chose not to acknowledge it? Or do women hold their expectations too high, exposed to such unreasonable love stories- delusional?

Po qua? For what? Does it matter.. or is it all a facade as people stroke their own egos and manipulate the heart strings of another?

"because life is everything but work..."

“Hello?” I picked up the receiver, slightly confused. It was happenstance I was in New Jersey; I haven’t lived in that house for four months now. Who could be calling?

Turns out it was my boss. He needed me to come into work the next day- which I was supposed to have off. Then as an afterthought he added in that I’d been approved for full-time status, benefits, and I’d be getting a raise.

How are you supposed to react when everything you were hoping for falls into place with perfect timing? My heart didn’t pound. There were no butterflies in my stomach- just a grin stretching from ear to ear. Health insurance. Education compensation. 401K. Life insurance. Paid vacation. Sick days. Holiday pay. Overtime. One step closer to sanity. Stress level- zero. Euphoric shock.

So, that’s me- as of Monday, June 14, 2010. The best part of finding out, was seeing how excited and happy everyone else at work was for me. Everyone from my immediate co-workers up through the Big Boss Lady who’d left me her umbrella when it rained one day. Everyone was just happy to have me on board- more officially- more permanently.

Of course, this means I am now tied down to the city of brotherly love for another couple of years. But it feels right. My intuition is usually the best thing to go by when it comes to these types of decisions. After all, it was my gut that told me to turn down three other jobs before I even accepted “the job previously known as Job 1".

So now I don’t have to worry about..anything really. I will have days off to live life. I’ll be making more than enough to pay my bills, save, and splurge. I’ve been getting back into good habits. I’ve reunited with some friends that had gone long overdue for a visits... and I look forward to whatever adventures happen next.

On that note, I also had some time at work last night, and came up with an ACTUAL list of things to do before I die..in no discernable order:
-write a book
-go sailing
-snowboard
-compete in a race
-learn to read/write/speak Japanese
-learn to read/write/speak German
-walk down the red carpet with some gorgeous guy
-give $1000 to someone who needs it
-fall in love
-give someone else a tattoo
-go skinny-dipping
-get into a fight
-meet someone that genuinely makes me feel like a moronic idiot
-have a dress custom made
-learn to play the cello
-attend a professional football game
-sing kareoke
-teach a class
-tag some amazing art onto a building...

It’s a work in progress.. which probably is all the same to any of you, as if I didn’t have a list- but I figure I might as well have some lingering un-career-oriented goals. I think everyone should. Haha. Because, “life is everything but work,”...right?

"..you're never really awake and you're never really asleep.."

The ceiling fan blades are hypnotic. Smoke detector lights turn into glowing fairies, dancing around in an unfocused blur. The pattern on the ceiling tiles move. The walls move. Textures are awesome and amazing.

Listen, I don’t try to trip out- that’s not my goal. But it happens. I have a sleeping disorder- and I have been medicated since November 2005, with the exception of a five month span.
There are three major sleeping disorders a person can have: Narcolepsy, Sleep Apnea, and Insomnia.

Essentially, those who are narcoleptic fall asleep at inappropriate times, and wake at inappropriate times. Such as with that one quirky character from “Rat Race” who fell asleep randomly in the casino lobby- that’s an extreme and humorous portrayal of Narcolepsy. One of the scary symptoms is the disassociation between reality and the dream world. Consciousness and unconsciousness blur together- so “dreams” can act as “hallucinations” at any point when the person is awake. They could “dream” that a car is about to hit them, that doesn’t exist for instance. Or, imagine how frustrating that could be in an office work environment, “dreaming” you already handed your boss some paperwork. Another symptom: just as much as the “dreams” can interfere with their awake time, their awake time can interfere with their sleep. For everyone, when you are truly asleep, you’re body is sort-of shut down and will not move... your brain has to turn on, like a computer before you can function again. Well, for narcoleptics, sometimes they get their consciousness back while their body is still “asleep”, stuck in a state of constrainment. That is my main impression of Narcolepsy, and do not know much more about it. But since it is such an impressionable disorder- those who have it generally need medication to regulate the symptoms.

Sleep Apnea is more of a physical disorder, associated with sleep. For all those extreme snorer’s out there- you might want to look into it. A weakened airway not only restricts airflow from the nose and mouth to the lungs, but it could potentially collapse entirely in the horizontal position of sleep and take your breath away. Talk about scary- having your body wake up its brain screaming, “EXCUSE ME! WE ARE NOT BREATHING!!!” the vessel of this brain/body disagreement usually wakes, startled- throughout the night, short of breath, still very tired and very unaware of what just happened.. and falls back to sleep. But in this vicious cycle, the brain and body are not receiving enough oxygen throughout the period of rest for the sleep to be very effective. Many people who suffer from sleep apnea will wake in the morning, fatigued- but can otherwise function. The disorder so heavily centers on the restricted airways, making surgery an option for correction.

Insomnia can be both developed in situations- like high stress- or inherited. For those who develop this disorder just from a situation, it is only a momentary thing- a discomfort on the calendar of long nights. Those who inherit it- there isn’t really much hope- you just kind of get to have it.. like me; the stress and situations just add to its effects.

“When you have insomnia, it’s like never being asleep and never being awake” -Fight Club

The average person takes seven minutes to “shut down” once they are tired, in bed, and ready to fall asleep. Then their brain goes through the sleep cycle until they wake, recharged and refreshed.

There are two major symptoms of insomnia: the difficulty of falling asleep, and the difficulty of staying asleep. Some insomniacs only experience one of the difficulties. For me- there were times it would take hours of frustrating exhaustion before my brain and body would submit to the needed rest... and then still wake up throughout the night. Waking up throughout the night is like pushing the re-do button on a game: any progress you made is lost- and you’re knocked back to square one. So I would, eventually, fall asleep, wake up, eventually fall back asleep, wake up, eventually fall back asleep, then wake up, then lay waiting to fall back asleep only to be greeted by my alarm clock’s buzzing. The sleep cycle struggles to make it to REM- the brain doesn’t get to recharge properly- and the struggling accumulates over the days and nights. There was one point when the stress that made my insomnia worse, was worrying that I wouldn’t get enough sleep. Talk about a perpetuating problem.

In November 2005, when my insomnia was at its worse, I had gone an entire seven day span with an accumulation of maybe two hours of sleep. Paying attention in class was like hearing the adults talk on “The Charlie Brown Show”. During basketball practice I would get dizzy and hallucinate. My brain just didn’t have the will to send the necessary signals to my body, making my reaction time slow. I was cranky. I had horrible bags under my eyes... I still wasn’t sleeping- and I still didn’t know that I had insomnia. I thought I was just a high-maintenance sleeper. I needed it to be DARK in the room. I couldn’t nap. No moving vehicles. I needed a certain amount of weight on me. I needed silence- even the ticking of a clock would keep me up. I just thought I was weird (and maybe I am).

24 hours under hospital supervision. A night study. A day study. A neurologist. Two weeks after my lowest point, and I had my answer- my diagnosis, confirmed. That wasn’t the moment I became an insomniac, it was just the moment I knew.

My neurologist taught me about sleep hygiene. One of the methods to help ANYONE sleep better, is to regulate it:
1.Go to bed at the same time every night (this will trigger your brain to shut down, by habit)
2. For about two hours before sleeping, just relax. Don’t do anything productive that might stimulate stress or relentless thinking. Just wind down.
3. While you’re winding down, avoid illuminated, optical stimulation like TV and Computer (the light sends signals to your brain that says, “it’s time to wake up” -a primitive eye to brain reaction from when humans knew they weren’t nocturnal)
4. Avoid auditory stimulation once you are finally about to sleep. (People who swear they can’t sleep without the TV or radio on- you’re only cheating yourselves. The brain can’t completely block out ambiguous, unrhythmic noises as another primitive recourse)
5. Avoid caffeine (which stays in your system longer than you probably realize)

So I tried just using good sleep hygiene practices for a little while... but was shortly after put on medication, fully aware and educated that the pills could cause dependency- and I slept- I slept through the whole night, for many many nights.

It was like clockwork. I’d have to have 8 hours to dedicate. I’d have 20 minutes after taking my medication before it was time to sleep. 20 minutes before I couldn’t focus on reading my book. 20 minutes before I couldn’t keep my eyes open. 20 minutes before my brain. shut. off...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

The one thing about the human body that is amazing: its capability to adapt. So after being on my medication for months- that’s when I started really feeling the side effects. It wasn’t just 20 minutes any more- it was maybe 30. The medication would kick in, but my brain wouldn’t shut off at the same time. That was a ten minute lapse of dizziness- of clinging to the walls in fear as I headed to the bathroom. The ten minute lapse of misconstrued sounds. 40 minutes... 20 of slurred speech, stuttering, and hallucinations before shut-off.

I would like to talk on the phone before bed because I could be in the dark. I wouldn’t have to strain my eyes to read a book, or cheat the sleep hygiene by watching TV or being on the computer. I could close my eyes, lay down, and wait for shut-off. During the lapse time it was never guaranteed I would remember what we talked about. Often, the next morning I would have missing puzzle pieces of conversations and have to re-ask what the blanks were... like a hangover- surprised to go through my phone and see that I talked to this person and that person throughout the night. With my brain all drugged-up before sleep, it was a different conception of everything... but without it- I already knew what my night would be like. I already knew what it was like to not sleep- I’d had sixteen years of that.

Wether I fell asleep right away or not, it would sometimes even be the opposite problem (especially in the beginning). I would sleep on schedule, but then the meds would still be kicked in when my alarm went off. I’d be “awake” and “functioning” but my brain was soooooo somewhere else, leaving my body on auto-drive. Same as with the “hangover”- there was a good chance I wouldn’t remember what I ate for breakfast, or learned in class that morning, so I HAD to have enough time between taking my meds and functioning if I was going to consider taking them.

Over the last few years of being on medication, I still have to follow the main rule of dedicating time to being drugged up- and if I don’t have the time, I don’t take the meds. When I don’t take the meds, I try to follow the sleep hygiene. I know my brain an body can be resistant to the proper function of the sleep medication, so I have to put a conceited effort into working with them. The hardest time to submit to this behavior is when I share my bed. Sure I deal with my own high-maintenance sleep in my own ways- but throw another person in the mix and I worry that my waking up throughout the night will wake them up- that they’ll get offended if I move away from mid-night cuddling because I don’t want to disturb their sleep. I feel most venerable when trying to sleep, so to share that with someone- to be comfortable enough to submit to sleep.. it’s infrequent, and a work in progress..

I was reading heath ad/article in the February 2010 issue of National Geographic the other day that states, “Sleep deprivation can lead to: greater risk of heart disease, increased risk of illness, thinking impairments (like slower reaction time, memory loss, and confusion), poor work performance, mood problems (like depression, anger, and irritability), risk of unhealthy weight gain and loss...”

...I wouldn’t blame ALL of those on lack of sleep. But it’s good to know I have a scapegoat.

the first day of the rest of my life...

“You wake up at Seatac, SFO, LAX. You wake up at O’Hare, Dallas-Fort Worth, BWI, Pacific. Mountain. Central. Lose an hour. Gain an hour. This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.”

The money was never really the issue. The money didn’t push me to bend over backwards and juggle the two jobs, relinquishing my soul to Philadelphia as I tossed aside the passing hours of my youth. It was easy though- making money. Not having much personal time sure made it easy to save- to spend- to disregard.

For over six months I worked easily over sixty hours a week. Which started within three weeks of graduating college- which I attended a week after leaving a job I had worked through the last year of highschool when my other job of two years could no longer employ me. That was about four years ago. It was probably 2 years before that when I was able to go on a real vacation and relax. Talk about time moving on...

Exactly two weeks ago, it happened. I found myself lost in between the pre-set microwave times of “Job 1" and the evolving menu that sets trends of “Job 2"... and I checked out. For the unnecessary stress, the underutilization, the mismanagement- for the crap compensation- I mentally checked out of “Job 1".

I didn’t have to worry about the loss in revenue. If you read my other entries, you’ll know I recently did my budgeting- and I know can afford all my bills even at part-time status with “Job 2". Maybe I’ll have to be a little more frugal with the luxuries- but really, what was my incentive to stay? What was my motivation to continue as a part of the cooperate shit-show? Exactly.

Time is the one thing we can’t control, right? Well fuck that. I’m controlling my time. I want to be able to do some things on “the list of things to do before I die”, and have time for it. I hadn’t even had time to go to the gym in the last.. Two weeks? Three weeks? Too long. I opted for sleep and sanity- and figured that was a good place to start.

As if the universe could hear my decision- the mental checkout- the Executive Pasty Chef: Big Boss Man of “Job 2" walks into the room where I am spinning ice cream for service. He pretty much tells me that they would want to take me on full-time. He’d have to have it approved by the other Big Boss people of the establishment, so nothing was definite- but he wanted to know if I’d be interested.

Interested? -More than interested! No need for question marks.

Regardless, I had already made my decision. I wasn’t happy anymore, and leaving “Job 1" made the most sense. I could already feel the weight lifting off of my shoulders... and the feel-good vibe continued as I indulged in some fun- like a dinner at a restaurant a bunch of people had told me I wouldn’t be able to get a reservation for. And a trip to see some familiar faces. And when I came down from my euphoria- I wrote my resignation letter. No need to leave things on a bad note- especially since the Kitchen Manager had been awesome enough to work with me, my commute, my move, and especially my second job.

I turned it in one week and one day ago, giving two weeks notice. The GM didn’t seem too upset, or too happy. But it was the perfect time to get out.. Like cashing in chips at a poker game. Apparently the menu was about to change. Apparently the cooperate money-men were coming to town soon (very unhappy about labor cost: food cost: sales).

The funniest part of the transition? I went to text my Kitchen Manager my availability for my last week of work, and she text me back, “LOL...my last day at “Job 1" was last Sat.”

Apparently I wasn’t the only one cashing in their chips.. And apparently the GM wanted to be a prick about it because he didn’t schedule me for any days this coming week, which made last night- my last day...and today- the first day of the rest of my life.

Within the next couple of weeks I should get a definite answer on the status of “Job 2"...which will now be pleasantly referred to as “work”. I will use the extra time to bring myself back to Earth and join society- maybe plan my next move- or maybe just live. In stead of saying all the things I want to do, how about I do them? Like get active again, work on my Japanese, and have some fun...

If I don’t get the full time, then maybe I’d look for something to generate more income- because I don’t want to have to worry about it. But that would open up entirely new avenues to explore.

How fake is it?

People on the train uncomfortably shift in their seats, fingering cigarettes while their fingers tap. They crave their stop if only for the next nicotine hit. An old soul with a few missing teeth eyes my bag, assessing the Filipino pearl bracelet on my wrist, and the dangly ear-rings which hang from my lobes- all accessorising the simple white sundress I had worn in the heat of the day.

Why hadn’t I thought to change? Then again- I shouldn’t have had to.

The man with the missing teeth engaged in some small talk with me as I rode the RiverLine from Camden, NJ to Beverly the other night- ready to get into some spontaneous fun with a friend- and making the necessary relocation from my urban abode. Some lady with halitosis breath and sagging breasts exclaimed, “Well don’t you look purdy, you cumm’n from a weddin’ or sumthin’?” Some of the passangers who apparently know her scoff and shake their heads from embarrassment. “AND you can shut the fuck up Will! What I can’t be nice?! Mind yo fuckn’ busness and stay ova der. Stay ova der. Can’t give a fuckn’ compliment? I’m sorry MISS, I didn’t know it was rude to give a god damn compliment....” she ranted on and on, eventually veering her ranting towards something about that Will character and jail, and court, and getting three broken ribs, and paranoid schizophrenia- and it was hard to say who she was talking to any more.

In the meanwhile Will had exclaimed that she better not use his fuckn name. Who is she to tell people his business.. then turned to me later in the ride. “..heh heh, mannn, she said you look lik you commn’ from a weddin’. Don’t pay huh no mind, she just don know high class.”

PAUSE. This was the point when I actually had to stop and think out my scenario. I was on the last train out of Camden. This guy had assessed my appearance. I was alone. I had- in the bag of course- my phone, wallet, medication, and several articles of clothing. Never mind the clothing, just losing my wallet and phone would have sucked. And the thing that got me- was it wasn’t even that I’m the goody-goody these people were assuming I was. In a sense- I come from the gutter.

Let’s rewind time for a moment.

Any given person could cruise the streets of the New Jersey suburb that is Willingboro. Any person who is from Boro or winds up in its black hole knows that the town is separated into “parks”. The street names help distinguish what park a person is in. If you were from Buckingham, your street began with a B; if you were from Millbrook, an M; If you were from Garfield, a G; etc. I was from Twin Hills, sometimes referred to as “Killa Hills”, which can- to this day- be seen spray painted across the blacktop pavement of the Twin Hills Elementary Basketball court.

Why did the park you live in matter?.. Foolishness.

You see, while Willingboro looks halfway decent in some parts from the outside, the inner workings of the community were what gave it its ugliness. The property taxes used to be considered cheap and the town was in a build up. Carl Luis even grew up there, graduating from the same high school I attended; the stadium was named after him. The town took in families over the years from nearby cities- Philadelphia, Camden, Washington D.C., Newark, Patterson, New York, and who knows where else.. so many families with so many good intentions- trying to get their kids out of bad situations.. and then tossed them into one big shit show.

Kids don’t usually make much sense. Half the time they emulate what they grow up around- their older siblings- TV- media- all that stuff. So take all these kids, from all these places- not exactly rich, and not particularly smart- with big attitudes- and you have yourself a bunch of fake gangstas. I’m comfortable calling them fake because Willingboro is NOT the hood. It is not any of the places the people come from. But when all the idiots keep acting like it is, with just relocation as the change- all of them are nearly headed to jail, repping “their park”- repping the family set- repping their hometown- cussin and fighing all over the place.

Even though it was a bunch of fake people, the actions got very real as we got older. It wasn’t just name calling, or small tousles any more. By the time I got to highschool, it was rivalries that took the scrap-fights from the Shopright parking lot to the back corners. Bomb threats closed out classes, bullets found on grounds left everyone on lockdown- and you’d see nothing but dime bags and blades falling from the second story windows like confetti because noone wanted to get frisked with their shit on them.

All the fake became real when kids die from smoking cronic instead of mint, flip cars going down the drive, and stray bullets wind up in friends’ backs- literally. How fake is it when it seems like one student or more dies each year? When all the girls seem to either have kids or be pregnant? When about 70% of the school cannot pass remedial Math and English classes? When 50% didn’t actually attend enough class to pass..When more than half the school has an STD or AIDS.. when cops put people to the ground for no particular reason?..and it was hard to shake the ebonic vernacular I had picked up over the years when I finally got out.

Not everyone gets out of that town. That’s why I call it a black hole.

But all the same, growing up there- especially as the ONLY white girl in my graduating class, I left with a cultured view of the world. I was resilient against not only the generic foolishness, but dealing with black history month EVERY YEAR in a predominantly black neighborhood. A girl had once admitted to me that part of the reason I was ostracized most of the early years of my life, was because my peers had assumed my family was a part of the KKK- just because I was white. Instead of empowerment, every February was a hate-fest directed my way when my family had nothing to do with that part of history- because noone thought to disassociate me from the ordeal... maybe I’ll talk more about that topic another day... maybe.

I guess the point is- that I got a lot of bad decision making out early on.. rhythm in my dancing.. and a pretty decent jumper since I knew more about AND1 then Atreyu. Yes, I can corn-row hair. I can even fry chicken, make greens, and good mac n’ cheese. I remember when Usher was reminded of a girl that he once knew, and it was 7 o’clock on the dot in his drop top..

Fast-forward to the other day on the train.

I’m no fool. Since I left the neighborhood the biggest adjustment has been the fact that people do not know what I come from. All they see is the sweet smile, the porcelain skin, and a confident posture. It would have made so many more people on the Riverline comfortable if I would have doted my Nike Dunks, turned my th’s into d’s, and taken about twenty steps backward in my progress toward success. I know from experience what they were thinking- looking at me- so seemingly out of place. It’s a good thing I didn’t have the nervousness to go with it. I probably would have had my stuff stolen. No joke.

"..the dark hour of reason grows.."

"Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights, before the dark hour of reason grows" -John Betjeman.

This particular quote was at the opening of “The Boy in the Striped Pajamas”. It has stuck with me ever since I saw the movie in Vero Beach, Florida, where I lived for several months last year.

It is a heavy concept- growing up. Everyone has to do it because our bodies change and age everyday- living ultimately toward a degenerative death. I think as people get older, they try to gauge where in the spectrum of life they are- creating lists of things they want to do and complete before it’s all over, if only subconsciously.

My boss at “Job 2", who actually turned thirty-one recently, says that he’s pretty sure he’s reached the point in his life where he will never have any children. At thirty-one, he’s still pretty young and capable, but maybe it also has to do with the social aspects. My parents had my older sister at the age of thirty-one, and myself at thirty-three. They waited a bit; my dad was in the Airforce and would be traveling quite a deal. But whatever the reason, not that they were particularly bad parents, it just felt I couldn’t relate to them much as I grew up. I don’t have that close mother-daughter bond where I feel like I can open up to her about anything and everything. My dad- he’s another story. Let’s just say I respect him more now that I’m older and see the world through different eyes.

One thing in particular that my dad forced upon me, which I now appreciate, is money management. I was confused as a child when my dad called my sister and I down to the kitchen one day, and started babbling on about deposits, withdrawals, and cataloging everything. He handed each of us a book which had columns for the numbers and labels, and a clear blue file folder in the back- for receipts. Every. Single. Month. My dad would check the math we’d kept in the columns, try to see if we had receipts for everything, and most importantly- check to see that the balance in the book matched the balance of our piggy banks.

In recent days, I have been doing my budgeting. I spread out all of my receipts and sorted them into categories (grocery, hygiene, luxuries) classifying how much of my budget I was spending on variable expenses. Then I made a chart of my current fixed expenses (rent, phone bill, medication, ect)... added it all up and compared it to the average income I have been earning from either and both jobs combined. It felt sooo good getting organized with my finances, but it was really just the simple budgeting- I haven’t quite reached the point of investing..

I asked around at “Job 1" to some of the older guys (mid to late 30s and 40s)- what their budgets were like. I figured, especially since they had kids, they would be able to provide me with some insight on possible costs to cut.. leaving me somewhat disappointed when it seemed I knew more about the whole ordeal than they did.

“At what point do you think a person should write their will?” he asked. As we usually do, the Chef Supervisor at “Job 1" and I were engaged in some provoking conversation as the work night dragged along. It seemed a little strange that he would ask me the morbid question when he is sixteen years my senior. Adults always seemed to have everything figured out... you know, they were supposed to be responsible. But through my now adult eyes, it is apparent that I was wrong. People are still just as insecure and clueless as ever- each day passing with time relentlessly dragging on- leaving them to a spectrum of instability on their position in life..

Perhaps this is why older people seem to jump into marriage head on, while younger couples wait to see if it would work out. People even shorten their life’s goals down to a consolidated, limited list- in the event they should decide to create an offspring for themselves. The amount of attention and funding for a child’s life would be important and consuming, to take care of- until their own dark hour of reason were to grow.

People’s relationships and family plans seem to be a very prominent factor in the age schema. Personally, if I am fated to have an offspring, I would prefer it to be sooner rather than later- for social reasons. Yet, I am patient about the idea of finding a life partner- if I ever am to- perfectly comfortable about focusing on my own goals and career success. It’s like a huge tangled mess of hypothetical situations coupled with logic and emotions..and I AM only 20!

Why should I even concern myself with such big possible life decisions? I should be slapping people across the face with peanut butter and thinking it’s funny.. indulging in water fights.. going dancing.. tagging art onto buildings while I hang upside down from fire escapes.. I should run through every fountain in the city.. skinny dip in the dark of the night... and indulge in countless rendevous... since I’m 20.

But I don’t feel 20. Ugh.

I suppose society wouldn’t mind if I act as if I’m 20, no more than they have to mind the way I “act as if” I’m Wonder Woman- testing the limits of time itself to work, learn, and grow as a person... I stumble through my high-octane rush against it all just to be ahead of the game- and make it look like I’m strutting.

“So every time I start slippin- ego's start trippin'. I focus real hard and levitate just like I'm GOD. And I'm livin' lovely; I'm in the clouds no one above me, with the gift to differentiate snakes from those that love me. There's a thin line between happiness and hopeless.. an even thinner line between on point and out of focus.”

I feel like there should be a better way to end this entry.. but the clock is still ticking... and life goes on with it. We each only get one.