the 30 days meme
I'm kind of loving reading everyone's responses to these, so obviously the natural thing to do is play along. Right? The only thing is, the first day is the most intimidating. So I might as well get it out of the way.
Sorry, I couldn't help it. I can't hear the words "introduce yourself" without hearing the "Right on!" It's a Faith No More song. Some of you knew that.
Anyway. I don't know, these days, what the summary is. My name is Molly. I'm 34. I live in Eugene, Oregon, and I wish I still lived in New York. Or maybe Portland. Or maybe, sometimes, here is OK, but I'm looking for something bigger than OK right now. I want to say I'm in the midst of a change of some kind, but when I read back over this journal, it's all the same, cycling through wanting things harder and harder and doing less and less about them.
But lately I've been walking around with this nervous, about to leap off a cliff feeling that snuggles in and sinks into my stomach. Anticipation. Promise. Something's shifting. I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and not veer off the path. I have to want even harder.
I have to figure out what I want.
I grew up here, see, a few miles west in a very small town that I never want to live in again. I was a shy, smart kid, an introvert, mostly, but my memories of friends are such a tangle. Sometimes lots, the way little kids have friends; sometimes so few. In high school, I made friends with these boys in hair metal bands in Portland. They were all at least four years older than me, and I adored them, and they treated me like I wasn't a kid, but was just one of their people. So I spent all the time hanging out with them, growing a spine, and by senior year I didn't feel like a nerd anymore. I didn't care. I sang a silly song in the talent show and even the jocks were nice to me about it.
I think I needed that before I went off to college in New York, which I still think of as home. I met roomette there; we've been friends now for more than half our lives. I met a lot of people there who are scattered over the internets now; there was that funny phase around 2001 when we were all on Diaryland. I went to NYU for a music business degree, hated it by sophomore year, spent all my time in the Program Board office, and transferred to Gallatin, where I majored in stuff.
My senior year, just as my first real relationship was taking off, just weeks before my 21st birthday, my stepfather died. I'm still not over that.
My first job was as a marketing assistant at a kids' publisher. It was an awakening: I'd thought it sounded interesting, but I'd no idea I'd really want to get into that world and stay. After a year and change, my department head sent me to a friend of hers at a smaller publisher. How she knew it was the right place for me, that I'd want to be there, I'm still not sure, but off I went to another marketing job that eventually turned into an editorial job that eventually led me to to at least one award-winning author asking me - this one over martinis - when I was going to write a book.
I still haven't. But I still am, Jack.
But all that stuff is just the one thing. The other thing is the way I stopped being an introvert, started collecting friends, organizing trips to the movies, poker nights with my incredible series of roommates, sweeping the friends of exes into my world and holding tight to everyone I loved even the tiniest bit. I feel like that's who I am, in a strange way: all the reasons I love all these crazy people, even the ones I haven't seen in years.
I might be a little nostalgic today. I might be a little nostalgic every day. I want to do all these things, and so sometimes I jump. In 2002, I jumped as hard as I could: Quit my job, left my city, ran away to Australia, which is its own chapter. Then I came back here, where I never wanted to land, and where I've been since, to varying degrees of satisfaction - and dissatisfaction.
I write, I edit, I complain, I drink coffee, I go see bands, I play pinball, I want too many conflicting things. I'm a daughter and a friend (and a fairy godmother, now), but not a sister or a mother, and that's the way I like it.
Day 01 - Introduce Yourself
Day 02 - Your first love
Day 03 - Your parents
Day 04 - Your music
Day 05 - Your definition of love
Day 06 - Your day
Day 07 - Your best friend
Day 08 - A precious item
Day 09 - Your beliefs
Day 10 - What you wore today
Day 11 - Your siblings
Day 12 - What’s in your bag
Day 13 - Your mode of transportation
Day 14 - Where you live
Day 15 - Your childhood
Day 16 - Your first kiss
Day 17 - Your favorite memory
Day 18 - Your favorite birthday
Day 19 - Something you regret
Day 20 - Your morning routine
Day 21 - Your job and/or schooling
Day 22 - Something that upsets you
Day 23 - Something that makes you feel better
Day 24 - Something that makes you cry
Day 25 - Your sleeping habits
Day 26 - Your fears
Day 27 - Your favorite place
Day 28 - Something that you miss
Day 29 - Your favorite foods/drinks
Day 30 - Your aspirations
Sorry, I couldn't help it. I can't hear the words "introduce yourself" without hearing the "Right on!" It's a Faith No More song. Some of you knew that.
Anyway. I don't know, these days, what the summary is. My name is Molly. I'm 34. I live in Eugene, Oregon, and I wish I still lived in New York. Or maybe Portland. Or maybe, sometimes, here is OK, but I'm looking for something bigger than OK right now. I want to say I'm in the midst of a change of some kind, but when I read back over this journal, it's all the same, cycling through wanting things harder and harder and doing less and less about them.
But lately I've been walking around with this nervous, about to leap off a cliff feeling that snuggles in and sinks into my stomach. Anticipation. Promise. Something's shifting. I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and not veer off the path. I have to want even harder.
I have to figure out what I want.
I grew up here, see, a few miles west in a very small town that I never want to live in again. I was a shy, smart kid, an introvert, mostly, but my memories of friends are such a tangle. Sometimes lots, the way little kids have friends; sometimes so few. In high school, I made friends with these boys in hair metal bands in Portland. They were all at least four years older than me, and I adored them, and they treated me like I wasn't a kid, but was just one of their people. So I spent all the time hanging out with them, growing a spine, and by senior year I didn't feel like a nerd anymore. I didn't care. I sang a silly song in the talent show and even the jocks were nice to me about it.
I think I needed that before I went off to college in New York, which I still think of as home. I met roomette there; we've been friends now for more than half our lives. I met a lot of people there who are scattered over the internets now; there was that funny phase around 2001 when we were all on Diaryland. I went to NYU for a music business degree, hated it by sophomore year, spent all my time in the Program Board office, and transferred to Gallatin, where I majored in stuff.
My senior year, just as my first real relationship was taking off, just weeks before my 21st birthday, my stepfather died. I'm still not over that.
My first job was as a marketing assistant at a kids' publisher. It was an awakening: I'd thought it sounded interesting, but I'd no idea I'd really want to get into that world and stay. After a year and change, my department head sent me to a friend of hers at a smaller publisher. How she knew it was the right place for me, that I'd want to be there, I'm still not sure, but off I went to another marketing job that eventually turned into an editorial job that eventually led me to to at least one award-winning author asking me - this one over martinis - when I was going to write a book.
I still haven't. But I still am, Jack.
But all that stuff is just the one thing. The other thing is the way I stopped being an introvert, started collecting friends, organizing trips to the movies, poker nights with my incredible series of roommates, sweeping the friends of exes into my world and holding tight to everyone I loved even the tiniest bit. I feel like that's who I am, in a strange way: all the reasons I love all these crazy people, even the ones I haven't seen in years.
I might be a little nostalgic today. I might be a little nostalgic every day. I want to do all these things, and so sometimes I jump. In 2002, I jumped as hard as I could: Quit my job, left my city, ran away to Australia, which is its own chapter. Then I came back here, where I never wanted to land, and where I've been since, to varying degrees of satisfaction - and dissatisfaction.
I write, I edit, I complain, I drink coffee, I go see bands, I play pinball, I want too many conflicting things. I'm a daughter and a friend (and a fairy godmother, now), but not a sister or a mother, and that's the way I like it.
Day 01 - Introduce Yourself
Day 02 - Your first love
Day 03 - Your parents
Day 04 - Your music
Day 05 - Your definition of love
Day 06 - Your day
Day 07 - Your best friend
Day 08 - A precious item
Day 09 - Your beliefs
Day 10 - What you wore today
Day 11 - Your siblings
Day 12 - What’s in your bag
Day 13 - Your mode of transportation
Day 14 - Where you live
Day 15 - Your childhood
Day 16 - Your first kiss
Day 17 - Your favorite memory
Day 18 - Your favorite birthday
Day 19 - Something you regret
Day 20 - Your morning routine
Day 21 - Your job and/or schooling
Day 22 - Something that upsets you
Day 23 - Something that makes you feel better
Day 24 - Something that makes you cry
Day 25 - Your sleeping habits
Day 26 - Your fears
Day 27 - Your favorite place
Day 28 - Something that you miss
Day 29 - Your favorite foods/drinks
Day 30 - Your aspirations