So last night, with my trusty sidekick Vodka & Cranberry in tow, I had a sort of drunken epiphany about my writing.
Which, I’d like to take a moment here to say that Vodka & Cranberry is no longer my 2nd runner up as drink of choice. After being sicker than shit today from it, we have since parted ways probably to never partake in each other’s presence again. Speaking of which, has anyone ever noticed that there’s a tiny, morbid part of you that actually enjoys throwing up? The forefront of your mind is screaming it’s displeasure over it, but deep down, in the very back, you’re enjoying yourself. & to mirror Dane Cook, if I may, next time you’re throwing up, do me a favor and take a gander back at your ass. It’s doing some really fun things back there:
Anywho..I digress. I’m getting way off subject
Back in the day, if you were to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up (and I’m talking back in the days of Jellie shoes and hopscotch here. No, not last week.. later than that) I would have insisted that I wanted to be a kitty cat. I was pretty convinced in my thinking that since I could be anything that I wanted, it only made sense that I could be a kitty if I so choose.
Somewhere along high school days, I realized: Hey, I REALLY like writing. I’m pretty good at it. I decided then & there that whatever it was I did with my life, I’d really like for writing to somehow be apart of it.
Well, years have passed since HS..and I haven’t really done anything with my writing, further than the occasional blog. I had it in my mind, before The Boy was conceived, that maybe I would pack up, move to East Village (or downtown Ann Arbor.. whichever was more appealing at the moment) & with The Husband in tow, I’d live out the struggling writer life and see where it took me. Of course, a baby changes those kinds of foolish ideas. It would make it difficult to live the whole Bohemian female Langston Hughes with a baby on my hip who depended on me to provide him with a much more stable life that a studio apartment sparsely furnished & cans of unheated veggies and pita wraps. So the focus changed, the dream changed, and of course, the kid came first. Everything else got pushed off to the back burner to simmer whilst I made sure his needs were met.
Deep down, in the place I’m aware of and rarely confess to the general public, I’d still love to live out my struggling writer-I-do-it-all-for-the-love-of-words-and-passion-for-the-art-of-writing dreams. That’s just not possible, however. Instead I’ll live in my world of 9-5 jobs, bi-weekly paychecks, budgets, plans, and spawn raising. Every now & then, I’ll escape that life for just a few moments to jot some things down in a notebook or on a blog, and while I’m sitting in the midst of my lower-middle-class neighborhood, in my mind..I’m in the studio apartment, somewhere in Lower East Village or Downtown Ann Arbor. It’s about the best I can do these days, pretend that I didn’t actually sell-out and give up on my dreams. And it works, there’s the tiniest bit of regret there.. but it still works.
Cause really? Compared to The Boy, that studio apartment & struggling bohemian writer lifestyle just kinda loses it’s gleam.