Losing game

Sometimes I
really think I’m going crazy.
It takes almost nothing
to trip
me
up.

I know I’m not ready
for love
or even like
when I’m kept tossing
and turning
thinking about losing
and hating what’s going.

I guess I wanted to feel
and touch and
remember what
this
felt
like

once.

I don’t know if you’re it
But it doesn’t matter
because I’m not able
right now
I’m not stable
I’m not really here.

An exercise in self-hatred.

I am on day number 2 of a no-carb diet, day number 5 on a seemingly endless bout of PMS and day number oh it’s countless stuck in this brain of mine.

I get so nervous when I don’t hear back from Z in a timely manner, like he’s just gonna blink and decide he doesn’t want to see me or talk to me again. A big part of me is scared he’s going to figure me all out and realize I’m so not what he thought I was. When will I get to the point where I feel sure that he’ll be on the other end, even if I’m not calling?

I am hungry. I’m tired of feeling fat, but I’m also tired of my jeans cinching into places that were much slimmer a few months ago. I know diets don’t work, but crash diets do, and I am a big fan of instant gratification.

I hate myself today. I hate everything today. I want to go home, but I’ll hate that too. Some days, the only answer is sleep.

Aww, fuck it.

In the absence of any real crushes or love interests, I’ve decided to do a little work on myself in order to waste time until the next waste of time comes along. I fluctuate between wanting to find love and being totally okay with being single about 100 times a day, and right now I just happen to be comfortable with being alone. I don’t know if it’s the same thing as being lonely, but I have a feeling it’s not.

Anyway, I suppose there’s just not much to say if it’s not about guys or sex or drinking or dating. I’m not doing much of any of those lately. I think that’s a really good thing. Have I said that already? I don’t know.

So here’s my plan:
1. Quit smoking. I’m two days in and I’m doing okay. The only time I’m tempted is when I’m driving. I love to smoke and drive. But I’m learning to cram gum in my mouth if I start salivating over the thought of nicotine.
Seeing myself in pictures with a cigarette between my index and middle fingers is just starting to gross me out. So unclassy.

2. Eat better. Eh. Everyone needs to.

3. Stop paying attention to boys I don’t like just because I’m bored. It’s not nice.

4. Sleep naked. I wake up feeling better about myself. And when I catch myself looking in the mirror at a body part I don’t like, I’ve taken to telling myself it’s okay. Then I hate it a little less. Only a little, but less. It’s a start.

Journalism vs. Public Relations

I was eight years old when I discovered the typewriter in my dad’s law office. It wasn’t anything special — just a long, tan rectangle that probably weighed more than I did. I had to press down on the “On/Off” switch so firmly I thought it might break, the first time I sat down to write, and it came alive with a steady hum. No matter how old, how deaf, how crazy I might get, I will always remember the noise that typewriter made, the quick clacking of the keys and the “swish” sound that came when I pressed “Enter” to switch to a new line.

I’m not saying my work was, or is, that great; I pecked out stories about trees who spent days dreaming of the things they wanted to be (one was turned into a canoe, another a book and one stayed a tree … I didn’t realize until now the act of being cut down and ground into a boat or book might be a tree’s worst nightmare, but whatever). I created a girl my age who had the life I wanted: Eyes free of wire-rimmed glasses and attention from boys. She, “Libby,” was going to be my first novel. Yeah, I gave up maybe a year later, after several chapters, when I realized that her life wasn’t interesting even to me. Flaws are good.

 But my point is, over the “brrzzzz” of that IBM typewriter, I came to realize I wanted to be a writer. 

A few years later, in middle school, I crafted my own handmade newsletter, [No Subject], and passed it out to my friends. The local newspaper wrote a feature on me. That’s when I began to set my sights on journalism. I was about 14. 

So for almost a decade, I’ve been pursuing a career in print journalism. And I’ve done everything I said I was going to do. I’ve freelanced for a huge paper, interned across the Atlantic and snagged my first reporting job a week after graduating from college. 

I still love reporting. But I get scared because I know jobs are disappearing and I don’t know where that leaves newbies like me. The pay isn’t great, but you do this because you love it and not because you want a lot of money. And besides, half the time chasing a story feels like anything but work. I love telling stories. I’m still that kid pecking away and trying to make sentences mean something, except now I do it on a MacBook. 

The problem, I guess, is that I miss living in a big city. I’m not sure I want to put in the time it would take to take a stab at a major metro reporting job. I don’t want to settle for some crappy “writer/editor” position with some company I don’t care about — these job postings seem ubiquitous in places like Chicago. 

So what if I sold my soul and went into PR? More money, more perks and probably a little more respect. I don’t know what it would take for my heart to be in it. And, when it comes to that nerdy little girl writing about optimistic trees, I don’t want to completely throw her away. When it comes to the things I really care about, I feel like I’ve already thrown away so much. 

I don’t know what I want to do.