31: We Are Each the Unreliable Narrator Of Our Own Life Story

Notation One: Another pseudo-linear follow-up to the previous year’s Birthday Angst post. 30 wasn’t good or bad, it was just a series of people saying “You’re 30?! How do you like it?” and me verbally stumbling awkwardly the same way I used to when people asked me how I liked Montana after coming back.

Notation Two: New blog design. Or new-ish anyway; put together when I was supposed to be working on Project: Fail Better (v1.0). More thematically representative of my current aesthetic preferences, featuring grey and blue and jellyfish and it even looks halfway like a really real professional website (or at least slightly less like something I built on LJ five years ago).

Moving on.

!!! WARNING: YEARLY BIRTHDAY ANGST POST AHEAD !!!

For the rationale behind the yearly birthday angst posts, see one of my two previous birthday angst posts. I don’t think I can explain it any better now than I did the previous two times and attempting to do so would be a waste of time, pixels and braincycles.

The list of things I wanted to have accomplished by this year (written last year):

  • Be elsewhere. <— nope.
  • Get an office job. <— also nope.
  • Be writing consistently. <— not so much.
  • Seekrit Writing Plan: revise and follow. <— kind of… but Seekrit Writing Plan is seekrit.
  • Develop my sense of personal style. <— yeah not so much.
  • Have at least two more tattoos/pieces. <— just this one.

This past year, I:

  • Decided my hair is actually really blue. Because I like it and it makes me feel more like me.
  • Have yet to have a total breakdown and quit my job—fuck me I even got promoted.*
  • Have not really written anything of substance since I stopped taking my “break” from writing.
    • Am seriously questioning whether I’m a Real Writer™ or just another fucking fake writer.**
  • Found a second person who is interested in making out with me.***
  • Discovered the following music: Aesthetic Perfection, Covenant, Faderhead, Front Line Assembly, Solar Fake, Surgyn.

By this time next year, I want to:

  • Be elsewhere (or at least moved into a new living space that I can survive in through the winter).
  • Get a different job (because I hate this one and it’s destroying me).
  • Be writing consistently (I will continue to flail and fail at this forever because that is what you do when you want something: you continue to try even when it seems—and by all rights is—hopeless; and maybe you don’t ever succeed but you continue to try because the only other option is giving up).
  • Plan my EXIT Strategy.
  • Seekrit Writing Plan (yes I’m still on about that).
  • Get MOAR tattoos.

Aaand back to Seabound.

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*I hate my job I hate my life blah blah blah.
**I guess if things get really desperate I could have a line tattooed through my functionally ironic write tattoo? Shit.
***Based on all available data my “type” is intelligent, arrogant and condescending; the smartest person in the room and knows it, with a tendency towards calculated self-deprecation that is endearing despite how transparently it’s played. I’m into a slightly less diplomatic/subtle version of myself, basically.

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