New Beginnings

We are all repetitive in nature, but there comes a time when we must question our patterns in order to maximize our potential. After all, how much better can we become if we're always doing the same things?

I'm swallowing words whole. I'm doing a hundred sit-ups a day. I'm cleaning like a maniac. I'm learning more than I've learned in a long time - even though I'm not taking any classes. And I feel so good about things. That's my day-by-day.

Still, I know that inevitably my confidence will lax and I will be full of self-skepticism - if only because I am humble by nature. When that time comes, however, it isn't my self-worth that I'll be doubting - my looks, my intellect, my wardrobe, etc. - but whether or not I'm achieving my goals in the best way possible. I've reached a point where I don't compare myself to others, I truly couldn't care less what people think of me, and my self-perception is pretty steady. Now my main focus is soaking up knowledge and experience, dwelling on ways to improve my station in life, satisfying my urge to be all that I can be. The only fear I have is leaving behind people who can't keep up.

A Conversation Between Me & Trina

Trina: Yo, that stuff you posted on your blog the other day about dumpster diving got me straight thinkin about going to the dump this weekend fo real. You down?

Me: Word. I'm free after three o'clock on Saturday. Just lemme know.

Trina: (nodding) How come you ain't posted stuff about what's going on with your family, with your trip?

Me: (Sipping Starbucks) I texted a few heads the other night, just saying that mad shit's going down so expect me to be kinda m.i.a.

Trina: I dunno, ma. If I ain't run into you here, I wouldn't know a damn thing about what's really going on with you - and I thought I knew cuz I've been reading your blog and seeing you at the spot lately. I thought the whole point of keeping a blog was for full disclosure, to get shit off your chest.

(Beat.)

I guess I got it twisted.

Today's Word is "Confidence"

I keep meaning to write something substantial up here, but I'm stopped by the sensation that some living is meant for the memorialization of fictionalization - and not memoir.

Instead of diving deep into the drama (which I often do), I'm gonna keep it short and sweet: a synopsis of all that I've been up to. And, along the way, I'll start naming people, since I'm kinda getting tired of using initials.

1) Getting my swerve on whenever I get the chance. It's scary how naturally this comes to me. One second, I'll be dancing on a table, the next I'll be fucking a guy in a public restroom - and none of it fazes me anymore. I find these sexcapades so passe that I don't even bother mentioning them in person. I mean, yeah, sex is great, but it's only sex. If it's really that interesting to you, you're probably not doing it enough and/or don't have much of a life.

This is probably why I shrug off all sexual advances - and I've been getting a lot of them lately. Aside from the daily barrages of boys, girls, men, and women who bask in my beauty and ask to get a taste, there's been an onslaught of dudes that happen to have remembered me in the past six months. Maybe it's cuz they caught wind about my leaving the country, or maybe Asian women are in season - but accountants, rappers, drug dealers, models, actors, DJs, MCs, doctors, financial analysts, stock brokers, students, wanna-be film makers, etc. are flooding my cell phone. And I really couldn't care less.

2) Realizing that some friends truly are family - but that doesn't mean they know me and/or we vibe 24/7. There are moments when I'll be hanging out with someone and we are undoubtedly tuned in to the same frequency of life and understanding. We can expound on each others' thoughts and assist each other in broadening our mutual horizons. We realize that we have similar passions, interests and priorities, and feel less alone in the world. We develop respect for each others' thoughts and ideas. More and more, the people with whom I have these attachments and relationships are people that I haven't known all that long. They're people that I happen upon by circumstance and intuition, and they are on similar paths as myself. I look to these people for guidance, instruction, and assistance in the difficulties of my adulthood. For these reasons, these people should rightfully be called my "best friends" - but they're not.

I call Dallas, Yvonne, and Ariane my best friends. Not because we have common interests or because they understand me the best (truth be told, there are times when I feel like we don't know each other at all), but because we have a history together and I know that when push comes to shove, they'll help bury a body at a moment's notice and the only question they'll ask is, "What story do I have to tell the authorities?"

I mentioned this to Tori today as she was helping me sort out my finances, and she said, "Seriously? That's your criteria for calling someone your best friend?"

"Sure," I said. "We love each other unconditinally, and we're there for each other no matter what."

After laughing at how redundant I sounded, Tori sucked on her teeth. "I'm willing to fork over a couple thousand dollars to help you pay your mortgage," she reminded me, "no questions asked. Your writer friends help engage your imagination and your passion - and don't have ill will towards your success, which is very hard. Your activist friends heighten your awareness and your hope - all while entertaining your monthly bouts of depression and cynicism. I can name off the top of my head people who would take a bullet for you, if it came down to that - and all you have is 'they're willing to dump a body and corroborate a story to the cops'? If that's the case, you have a lot more best friends than you realize."

Later on in the conversation, as I was crying on the phone and talking about my family's financial crisis, Tori made an observation that frightens and validates me and my feelings. "You say that you couldn't leave your family because when push comes to shove, they're there for you - and you think you need that, even if sometimes you question their worth. Maybe that's what your best friends are: your family."

3) No matter how far I stray from the path I feel I should be on, sooner or later, I always find my way. For the past few months, I haven't felt like myself. I was taking in all of my acquired life experience and academic knowledge. I was steeping in feelings and options. I was growing up and growing out of the person I used to be, and in that process, I was afraid that people wouldn't understand me or like me. I was afraid that I'd be labeled by some people as "corny" or "lame." I was embarassed and frightened that I'd no longer be the crazy, loud, show-stopping diva that people had become accustomed to.

And then, one day, I was Me.

I really couldn't care less what you think of Me.

4) I really like the structure brought to my life by working all the time, etc. I'm getting back in the grind, writing, performing, teaching, looking for another source of steady income, etc. I'm more invested now in my life than ever before. I have a sense of self that's unparalleled. I'm crazy comfortable in my skin and able to take responsibility for my life and everything it entails. Things are so clear to me now: who I am, what I want, what I need. This faith in myself is absolutely intoxicating. I wake up and feel like I have purpose. I deal with situations with ease and understanding. I write and learn and read and teach and feel a part of everything.

Even after being diagnosed for cervical cancer and coming through that alive, I didn't feel such an overwhelming sense of resolve and hope. These days, I'm filled with confidence and appreciation for everything that I have and encounter. More than that...

5) I'm done with fear. They say there's nothing to fear but fear itself. I feel like I've been afraid of everything: Rocking the boat. Not rocking the boat. Not living up to my parents' expectations. Only living up to my parents' expectations. Making too much money. Not making enough money.

I've always been extremely aware of myself and my place in the greater scheme of things. I'm not one to overdo or underdo. I've strived to strike the right balance in everything, and make a positive impact on as much as possible.

But there's a downside in keeping such a keen eye on yourself: you forget to just Be. So that's what I'm doing now: just being, and knowing that I'm inclined to fulfill wonderful and extraordinary feats. In the face of the impending storm of family drama, financial drama, etc., I feel good. Really, really good.

An Excuse to Visit Honduras

Back in elementary school, there were a few girls that I called my best friends. One of them was a cute brunette by the name of Berenice. She and I clicked off the bat in sixth grade, and we were inseperable. We hung out all the time, I played match maker between Berenice and my friend Kepler (who I "dated" much later - but I'll get to that story some other time), and she was consummately there for me. I'm talking about would-kick-someone's-ass-if-they-looked-at-me-wrong there for me.

After elementary school graduation, we kind of lost touch. I started hanging out with my present-day best friends, Dallas, Yvonne, and Ariane (and Pamela and Denise back then, too), and Berenice stopped calling me.

Well, fast forward to 2008. Twelve years have past since Berenice and I have seen each other. I still talk to Dallas, Yvonne and Ariane all the time. Kepler is married for the second time and a dad to a beautiful little girl. And social networking websites are the vice du jour.

So maybe that's why, a week or so ago, bored and unable to sleep, I decided to search for Berenice on Facebook - and I found her!

She's married and teaches English in her native Honduras - and I'm gonna visit her the first chance I get. Not just because I realized how much I missed her and because she offered to put me up for however long I stay, but because- Well, I mean, look:








Even if finding her wasn't an absolute breath of fresh air which reminded me of friendship back at its most simplest state, I'd be a fool for not taking her up on her offer. Right?

I'm turning into a bona fide hippie!

Change. It comes in many different variations. For some, it's putting on new underwear and brushing off last night's plaque. For others, it's shaving off hair, retiring panties, and adopting an exotic accent, a la Britney Spears.

For me, change consists of trying out different perspectives on life and how best to go about living it. I submit to you three options that I've been considering:

1) Freeganism. According to its website, the definition of a freegan is as follows :"Freegans are people who employ alternative strategies for living based on limited participation in the conventional economy and minimal consumption of resources. Freegans embrace community, generosity, social concern, freedom, cooperation, and sharing in opposition to a society based on materialism, moral apathy, competition, conformity, and greed. "

What does this really mean? Freegans are philanthropic freeloaders. They spend as little money as possible, recycle the hell out of everything, and are generally very creative in how to have a good time. (See: Dumpster Diving for an example of all three.)

Even Oprah's getting in on this, and with the country's economy the way it is, it's no wonder! I was gonna partake in a meeting at Columbia University tonight, but instead I'm dealing with phone calls from lawyers in Asia. Go figure.

2) Pescatarianism. I've officially been a Pescatarian for... um... I think, four days - and already I feel so much better. Friends have asked if it's a stepping stone to vegetarianism or veganism - and no, it's most definitely not.

About a week ago, my dad went to Burger King. I asked for a chicken sandwich, and when dear old dad came home he realized he'd forgotten to buy mom a sandwich (or, most likely, he thought he didn't have to spend money on her because she was sleeping). Any which way, I ended up giving my chicken sandwich to my mom, and dad and I split a triple whopper. I ate maybe two bites and felt completely disgusted with myself - which is strange, cuz I'm Filipino and we pretty much eat any kind of meat, even when it's deep fried in lard.

The next day, I went over to Rob's house and his cousin, Mat was watching Fast Food Nation. I watched a snippet of the part where they kill the cow - and I decided right there that I was changing my diet.

Four days later, I have crazy amounts of energy all day and night, my skin looks better, and I'm forced to recall my past culinary prowess.

YUM!

3) Couch Surfing. This is what it says on the website: "CouchSurfing seeks to internationally network people and places, create educational exchanges, raise collective consciousness, spread tolerance, and facilitate cultural understanding.

"As a community we strive to do our individual and collective parts to make the world a better place, and we believe that the surfing of couches is a means to accomplish this goal. CouchSurfing isn't about the furniture- it's not just about finding free accommodations around the world- it's about participating in creating a better world. We strive to make a better world by opening our homes, our hearts, and our lives. We open our minds and welcome the knowledge that cultural exchange makes available. We create deep and meaningful connections that cross oceans, continents and cultures. CouchSurfing wants to change not only the way we travel, but how we relate to the world!"

The basic idea is it's a collective of people who hang out with strangers and get to know each other in person. Think Facebook or MySpace, only there's a good chance these strangers will give you a tour of their town/city and take you to the "real" side of the place.

I've been meaning to join this community for a while, but only now have I gotten the courage to do so. I think maybe the idea of living in southeast asia has made me realize how valuable traveling really is.

Okay, so... THAT WASN'T IT

I can't really sit and type since I'm due at Nuyorican in six and a half hours and still haven't gotten any shut-eye. But after tonight, it's been confirmed: the blog isn't over yet.

So much to cover this weekend...

I'm gonna start with dating and sex.

So here's the deal, short, sweet and to the point: I still have sex with Rob, but lately he hasn't been dependable on providing orgasms and I realized that we've NEVER had an actual conversation. (Yeah, two years together and the only thing we ever talk about is our relationship. How's that for unhealthy?) Those two things combine to give me ample reason to limit our time together. So I have. And the singles scene ain't what I remember, to say the least.

I remember, three or four years ago, fucking my way uptown on a Friday night just to fuck my way back downtown by Sunday evening - all to sleep off the heady high of sexual euphoria in time for Monday's work and classes. I've come to the realization that something must've happened between then and now: I've become sexually desensitized, my memory's lying to me, or I'm shit out of luck cuz lemme tell ya, the "great fuck" has taken on the mythic proportions of the Yeti of Loch Ness Monster and I am H-O-R-N-Y.

I'm dating a few people - a woman included - and remembering that pretty faces and kicking good games don't mean that people have the skills to get me off. The woman I'm seeing, PW, is hot - but more than that, she and I can vibe with each other on so many levels. With the men, it's all about looks and personality - but not intellect. I feel like now's the time that karma's biting me in the ass. It seems to be saying, "You had a good run with so many men who loved you, nurtured your spirit and intellect, and fucked you silly - and you denied each and every one of them any real opportunity at a serious, long-term relationship. Now you get to see what the other side's like."

And sex?! I dunno. Maybe I'm out of practice with telling someone new what I like, but five years ago, screaming out, "Yeah. Right there. Don't stop doing that," was appropriate and got the job done. Does that not work anymore? Or am I fucking men who don't know how to listen/don't care to listen once they've been invited to the show? (I haven't slept with PW yet.)

Speaking of "the show," what the fuck is up with dudes that expect you to diddle your clit to get yourself off?! Honestly, I've always held the position that you should NEVER have to masturbate while fucking someone. During foreplay? Sure! But during the act itself? Nah, man. Fuck that. If I need to do all the real work, then you're just there for the privilege of watching it happen - and I don't need to risk pregnancy, STDs and wasted time in order to put on a show. Just pay me money and I'll hook up a webcam. Fo real.

This might be it

I'm thinking I'm gonna take a break from blogging. Or maybe, the next time you log on, there will be half a dozen entries. No. Definitely the former. I feel like it'll be a while till I blog again. Too much going on...

I'll leave you with a snippet from last night: IF and I in Fort Greene, walking past a girl with whom I once shared a birthday celebration. I've mentioned to IF how said girl can irk the hell out of me with her idiotic statements - "There are no gay people in India," being my favorite one - and then charm me with her quick wit. Six months ago, I would've ran to her, professed my undying adoration, overwhelmed her with compliments. Last night, I gave her a head nod, and unflinchingly continued my talk about real estate and the gentrification of Brooklyn.

IF laughed at me and made a face. "What's that about?"

Without skipping a beat, I licked my lips, raised my eyebrows and shrugged. "I stay away from people who don't treat me the way I want to be treated," I said matter-of-factly.

IF laughed, no doubt remembering the book of influential phone numbers that I used to carry with me at all times. "What about networking? Power? The hustle?"

"Fuck networking. Fuck power. Fuck the hustle. It's all so fucking fake and shallow and ridiculous. I don't wanna be involved in any business, any social circle, any circumstance that obligates me to smile, wine and dine, get wined and dined, go through all that bullshit ass-kissing and unsubstantial communication."

"So no more networking, huh?"

I hesitated, flailing my arms while I scrunched my face. "Well... Maybe a little networking." I thought for a little bit while IF laughed, then motioned to cross the street, "Speaking of networking, one of my guys tells me there's a property a couple blocks away, and the owner's willing to slice off a chunk of her asking price if the bidder promises not to paint over any of the murals. I said to hell with that, who would want to keep crappy paintings on their walls..."

I had a dream last night...

...where I won an award for "Most Wasted Potential."

It was a wake-up call to finish all the work I keep putting off. To take advantage of all the second chances I've been given. To rise.

Second Chances

When I was in junior high, I dispensed advice like I got paid to do it. Filled with the confidence of a teenager who feels like she's lived, I totally used my brave and experienced persona to create the person that I ultimately became. This lack of permanence justified my transcient personality; I rationalized that I wasn't being fake, so much as being what I knew how to be. Like an actor that becomes fully immersed in her role, I embodied a thing that I never really knew, and the more I lived in the skin of that person, the more my transformation into her became complete and real.

At first, the two Marias were inextricably linked, even though they weren't anything alike. Then the line between them blurred and I accepted the version of myself that people knew as the person that I was. This happened many times, so that I could comfortably squeeze into whatever stereotype or character that my chameleon self wanted to personify.

Up until recently, my life has been a succession of events that reinforced the person that people already knew as Me. For all of my philosophy classes, deep thinking, and insight, I've never gotten over my fear of figuring out exactly who I am. I've always been afraid that I might not fit any of the worlds I so comfortably slip into. I worry that in discovering myself, I'll abandon the people who love me, and will thus become a bad person.

*****

The past three months have been a lesson in humility for me: thanks to the understanding of professors, I've been able to bring up my GPA; I've realized universal truths, like the fact that my folks don't know much and (due to this fact?) that I don't know as much as I let on; and I've come to the conclusion that my "tried and true" modes of living haven't exactly proven themselves worthwhile. It's been humbling to fully grasp and believe that everything I've accomplished is only the tip of the iceberg, that there's so much out there for me to explore and identify, that my journey isn't nearly as completed as I'd previously believed.

At the same time, however, it's scary to come to the conclusion that much of what I know to be best for me is actually detrimental to the great person that I can become.

*****

But something happened this weekend, and now I'm less afraid of coming to conclusions: I hung out for the first time with BKD, a twenty-one year old woman from Indiana who knows within the fiber of her being who she is and what morals and ethics are.

Excuses?

People don't get it when I say that my family is the most amazing and frustrating part of my life. No one else supports and loves me the way that they do - unconditionally, constantly, patiently, and completely. As a collective, they truly do "get me."

But they're needy. That's where the frustration comes in.

Case in point: Plans. I can never keep them.

I've been conditioned to walk away from people and situations with the quickness and ease of a misguided misanthrope. My father, who taught me that it's preferable to walk away from uncomfortable-yet-promising situations, laid the foundation of this unfortuate mindset. My mother, whose lack of common sense, intelligence and physical coordination keep her way behind the curve, further fueled the unfavorable thoughts. Together, they form a tag-team of total distraction: I make plans, set goals, start working toward them, then Mom mentions that she has only four dollars left in her bank account, wants to work a double shift, and needs me to pick her up from work; Dad guilts me with talk of his own unfulfilled ambitions. This happens in different variations ad nauseum, and knowing that my parents have good intentions, I find myself relegating my ambitions to the realm of coulda-shoulda-wouldas in favor of being a "good daughter." My father, who is more liberal than his counterparts, ultimately rejoices in the idea of his daughter being safely banal; he enthuses over the events.

There have been so many plans, goals, dreams that have been deferred for my family's sake. Not just social events, but ambitions of grandeur: a desire to start a nonprofit organization, designs to fling myself fully into fiction writing, hopes of making my mark on poetry, journalism, and politics (to name a few). Though I've been lucky to start many of these ventures and end them in my own terms, I haven't had more use for them than experience for experience's sake. Goals haven't been reached, my idea of success has never been accomplished - and every time this happens I wonder what keeps me from them.

I'm hoping that in leaving my folks in New York to fend for themselves, I'll slough off the remaining proof of their negative influence, as well as the pattern of co-dependency that they reenforced. I also want to distance myself physically and emotionally from other people who unintentionally weigh me down. Only then will I know for sure if I have been the reason behind my shortcomings, or if circumstances are truly to blame.

As I step into a world that feels blindingly bright, beautiful and new, I approach each situation by asking a single question: Are you gonna hold me back, too?

Questions After a Post-Mortem

Now that I'm officially and undoubtedly single, I find myself in a precarious and uncomfortable position. The past four and a half years have been consumed by relationships of the "serious" variety, and I've forgotten what it's like to not be in a serious relationship.

There are many out there who would scoff at my statement - "How about that guy you made out with at my party?" "Remember that fling you had over Spring break?" "Are you saying that sex doesn't count if it only lasted four minutes?" - but it's true. Sure, there were one-night stands, casual dates, non-sexual-but-ultimately-illuminating encounters in between the "serious relationships" - but those haven't rendered me seemingly inexperienced at being single. At this moment, I feel alien to the world of dating.

I submit to you a list of questions/situations that I find myself wondering when I'm idle. Send help immediately!

1) Men keep telling me that they haven't gotten some in a while. Is this a casual way of slipping in the fact that they want sex? Do they think it will endear me to their "cause"? Are they simply obnoxious and/or lying in an attempt get some?

2) I've gotten some strange requests for sex in the past couple of weeks: "I want you to be the last person I sleep with before I become celibate." "My girlfriend says I can have sex with one person one time with no repercussions, and I want that person to be you." "I can't stop thinking about that one time at that concert when we were going at it, and I wanna do it again." "I've been in a relationship with my girlfriend for four years and I can't emotionally commit to her - I think I have to get you out of my system before I can do it." "I've always thought you were out of my league, but I know you'll be so far ahead of me by the time you get back to New York that I need to make my move now, before you don't know who I am." "I want to lose my virginity to you." etc. Did I miss something? Is this a new trend? Are people (men in particular?) resorting to story-telling to get laid? Or is this just another strange thing that's happening to me?

3)I'm 23 years old, and if I keep with my typical age projections, I should be dating people that are within the 27 - 32 age range. If I stay away from the obviously age-retarded, does that mean that I can look forward to finding more people with emotional/financial stability?

Why Do I Torture Myself?

I just spent the last twenty minutes stalking a guy online. I'll call him DD. No. That sounds like a reference to my cup size. And in case you're wondering: yes, I'm a 38DD. You can wear my bra as a hoodie. But I digress... Oh, whatever. DD it is.

So DD and I fucked a while ago. The sex wasn't that great. Scratch that. It was pretty bad. His dick was small, he came too fast, and he isn't all that to look at.

Okay. Wait. The first two are definitely right. That I remember. How could I forget?! He was just so puny and so... Remind me again what the point of promiscuity is?

Anyway, when I first met DD, a year or two before we actually had sex, he was pretty good-looking. He was the kind of good-looking that sits somewhere near the intersection of Hoodlumm Hottie and Artistic Sexy, a juncture well known to women who are rough around the edges and need a guy who thinks outside the box. His eyes were the kind of green that seem to be the doorways to an underwater cavern, full of mystery and intrigue. His hair, when braided, hinted at his street roots; when loose it fell haphazardly around him, a distinct indication that he couldn't care less about your opinion. All of that is well and good, but what got me is his attitute. He was brazen. Bold. He'd start feeling me up in public in a way that suggested he was the man - and somehow it didn't come off as needy or swarmy. His words had meaning and thought. There was a sense of purpose and duty to his air.

So yeah. I fucked him. The act itself was pretty bad/forgettable. But I'll tell you what I do remember:

That first night, in between repeatedly fucking DD - what can I say? I'm quick to give out second chances - we had meaningful conversations. Not the kind of gushy sentimental bullshit that guys feed you when they want to get laid. Not the nonsense verbal spillage of couples who talk just for the sake of talking. But actual conversations: the kind that made me think and communicate insights. The kind that opened me up to new thoughts and ideas. The kind that are so rare they don't even happen often between best friends.

After the sex was had and the weed was smoked, I said I'd drive back to my place, but he insisted that I stay. That we actually sleep together. That I maybe stick around in the morning to talk some more. And now that I think back on it, I'm surprised that I agreed; back then, I was quick to hightail it out of a scene after I'd gotten some tail.

So we slept together, and in the morning, I took a shower and he heated me an empanada for breakfast. He played hiphop on his Mac, sat on his balcony, writing, and left me lying on the bed to do the same. Deep in thought, I scribbled away and studied his walls, which were littered with remnants of his childhood, reminders of his goals, retainers of his memories. Now and again, a line from a track on his playlist would pop out and one of us would break our mutual silence to exclaim how great it was, or to start a conversation about artistry, or to get the others' attention and just smile.

Even though the details of that first night we fucked are getting hazy, I remember a lot about the feelings of the next morning. They're painted in that perennial shimmer of bliss which taints your heart every time you think of something pure. I know that we "talked" for a bit after that, and that when drama started coming up in my life (as is often the case) he didn't want to/didn't know how to deal with it. I know that I let myself become needy for a day, then decided that I was better off on my own. And I know that I'd rather I have that great memory than have started something with DD that more resembled an actual relationship; I sure as hell wasn't ready for one back then.

More than all that, I know that DD knew how to kiss, and that our lips seemed to compliment each other like interlocking pieces of the same puzzle.

******

So maybe that's why I made out with DD a few months ago, while Rob and I were on one of our ubiquitous breaks. I dunno... What I do know is this: I'm not the same person I was when I slept with DD, and he's definitely not the same person that he was. He seems less confident, more needy, definitely less physically attractive. And no, his kisses don't do for me what they used to.

Now and again, though, I still like to think back on him, relish in the sheer feel-good feeling of a particular encounter, and wonder if somewhere on his bedroom wall is hanging a short poem that I wrote while lying on his bed.

My big, fat mouth will be my undoing...

...and the undoing of great sites that stream free movies.

Rob put me on a few months ago to moviesister.com, which has a bunch of free movies, shows and such for your illegal enjoyment. Now that I'm sans job and classes, I'm totally whoring it out for all its worth.

Here's the list of the movies I've watched in the last four days:

1) Atonement
2) Juno
3) National Treasure: Book of Secrets
4) My Blueberry Nights
5) The Nanny Diaries
6) Suburban Girl
7) The Bucket List
8) Charlie Wilson's War
9) A really, really bad film starring and directed by Helen Hunt... You remember Helen Hunt, right? She's that chick that was in "Mad About You" and "What Women Want." I always thought that she should do a film with LeeLee Sobieski, where they play mother and daughter, or where : Sobieski plays the younger version of Hunt, cuz maybe it's me, but they look alike.

<--Leelee Sobieski

Helen Hunt-->

Okay. Maybe the eyes are slightly off. Slightly.

But anywho, you get the idea.

Anyway, I lied. Not about thinking that Helen Hunt and Leelee Sobieski look like older/younger versions of the same person, but about watching all of those movies in a span of four days. It was more like seven or eight days. And I dunno if I watched them, so much as I focally inhaled them. Or had them playing in the background as I read books, cleaned my house, and scoured the web for job openings.

Incidentally, I recognized the "office set" of "Suburban Girl" to be the Penguin office, where I did a brief stint as a promotions/marketing intern last semester. Watching that movie made me remember how great/horrible an industry publishing is. It also made me uber critical of my grammar.

Then...

Somewhere along the line, I was fully-formed, an abstract of everything and nothing all rolled into one. His role was defined as "part of the whole." Between us, we were complete and empty, and I decided I wanted more.

*****

When I was in junior high, my friends and I were taken with the concept of "The Craft." We felt like that could be us: four misfit teenage girls with exceptional magical powers. Of course, our powers were over the realm of sexuality, popularity and academics - but we imagined that our moods and words dictated the currents of air and consciousness. We could make things happen.

These days, global warming is in full effect, my friends and I are scattered petals in the wind, and I am feeling lost. I know what plagues me and I know what people say I should do to fix my problems - but I'm stuck. I don't want to take the advice of others. I don't want it to be that easy. My decision (no matter how hard it is) will be my own. I don't want to be able to blame anyone for the outcome of my life.

*****

For the longest time, I was stuck in a vacuum of adolescence. I didn't bother to learn how to take pride in my work, and I sure as hell didn't learn how to commit to anything. I was a flake and a fraud, always too afraid to define myself as something.

But what's done is done, and that past isn't far enough in the past to fully digest and expound upon. All I know is, when I look back on it all, I blame (along with myself) my parents. There was so much that they taught me unwittingly, to my detriment. There was so much that they didn't teach me, to my detriment. There were so many gaps in the road that I wish they'd have paved over before I came along. And there was always a reason that I had to "come to their rescue."

But no one is perfect and parenting doesn't come with an instruction manual. My family is a burden and a gift, and loving them is something I do out of obligation and responsibility.

Now I'm older and have taken full responsibility for the crappiness and loveliness of all that I am and all that I have - but I feel like I can't fully become the person I'm supposed to be - and again, I blame my parents.

I wish I could just go, balls out to the wind, writing to my heart's content, finding a living as a teacher or at a desk job. I'd find a place that's comfortable, make enough money to get by, and keep my nose to the grind. Instead, Right now, I can't write or speak eloquently. My usual insightful banter is lost and my tongue is dry. I am too afraid to get it all back. I'm afraid because the person that I am is not conducive to being the person that I have to be. The person that I am is hard and brash, sharp along the edges, creative and undisciplined. The person that I have to be is disciplined and orderly, a type-A personality that memorizes long passages of scientific lecture.

Nelly Furtado Speaks To Me...

... and so do Jim Morrison and Incubus. Talk about eclectic!

"All Good Things (Come To An End)"
By: Nelly Furtado

Honestly what will become of me
don't like reality
It's way too clear to me
But really life is dandy
We are what we don't see
Missed everything daydreaming

Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
come to an end come to an
Why do all good things come to end?
come to an end come to an
Why do all good things come to an end?

Traveling I only stop at exits
Wondering if I'll stay
Young and restless
Living this way I stress less
I want to pull away when the dream dies
The pain sets it and I don't cry
I only feel gravity and I wonder why

Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
come to an end come to an
Why do all good things come to end?
come to an end come to an
Why do all good things come to an end?

Well the dogs were whistling a new tune
Barking at the new moon
Hoping it would come soon so that they could
Dogs were whistling a new tune
Barking at the new moon
Hoping it would come soon so that they could
Die die die die die

Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
Flames to dust
Lovers to friends
Why do all good things come to an end
come to an end come to an
Why do all good things come to end?
come to an end come to an
Why do all good things come to an end?

Well the dogs were barking at a new moon
Whistling a new tune
Hoping it would come soon
And the sun was wondering if it should stay away for a day 'til the feeling went away
And the sky was falling on the clouds were dropping and
the rain forgot how to bring salvation
the dogs were barking at the new moon
Whistling a new tune
Hoping it would come soon so that they could die.

"You Give Me Something"
By: Jim Morrison

You want to stay with me in the morning
You only hold me when I sleep,
I was meant to tread the water
But Now I've gotten in too deep,
For every piece of me that wants you
Another piece backs away.

'Cause you give me something
That makes me scared, alright,
This could be nothing
But I'm willing to give it a try,
Please give me something
'Cause someday I might know my heart.

You already waited up for hours
Just to spend a little time alone with me,
And I can say I've never bought you flowers
I can't work out what they mean,
I never thought that I'd love someone,
That was someone else's dream.

'Cause you give me something
That makes me scared, alright,
This could be nothing
But I'm willing to give it a try,
Please give me something,
'Cause someday I might call you from my heart,
But it might be a second too late,
And the words I could never say
Gonna come out anyway.

'Cause you give me something
That makes me scared, alright,
This could be nothing
But I'm willing to give it a try,
Please give me something,
'Cause you give me something
That makes me scared, alright,
This could be nothing
But I'm willing to give it a try,
Please give me something
'Cause someday I might know my heart.
Know my heart, know my heart, know my heart

"Love Hurts"
By: Incubus

Tonight we drink to youth
And holding fast the truth
Don't want to lose what I had as a boy
My heart still has a beat
But love is now a feat
As common as a cold day in L.A.

Sometimes when I'm alone I wonder
Is there a spell that I am under
Keeping me from seeing the real thing

Love hurts
But sometimes it's a good hurt
And it feels like I'm alive
Love sings
When it transcends the bad things
Have a heart and try me
'cause without love I won't survive

I'm fettered and abused
Stand naked and accused
Should I surface, this one-man submarine?
I only want the truth!
So tonight we drink to youth!
I'll never lose what I had as a boy

Sometimes when I'm alone I wonder
Is there a spell that I am under
Keeping me from seeing the real thing?

Love hurts
But sometimes it's a good hurt
And it feels like I'm alive
Love sings
When it transcends the bad things
Have a heart and try me
'cause without love I won't survive
Without love I won't survive

Love hurts
But sometimes it's a good hurt
And it feels like I'm alive
Love sings
When it transcends the bad things
Have a heart and try me
'cause without love I won't survive

Love hurts, ohhh-oh ohh
Love hurts
Without love I won't survive
Love hurts la-la-la-la-la-la oh
Love hurts
Without love I won't survive

Writer's Realization #2

Don't be afraid of writing just as inspiration hits you. You might look like an eccentric fool because you stopped dead in your tracks to scribble down a meaningful phrase or idea, but your actions are fulfilling a vital purpose. You need to get the gist of your inspiration down on paper before the idea loses its poignancy. Once that burst of illumination is gone, it can never be reclaimed.

Phone Sex, Good Porn, and the Joys (and Pains) of Masturbating

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What Dreams May Come

I woke up from an uncharact- eristically long-ass sleep remembering a dream that's so telling of who I am, what I'm thinking, and what I want from life...

In the beginning of the dream, I'm Suzanne Somers, a la "Step by Step." (Don't ask.) In case you didn't know, "Step by Step" was a show back in the 90s that was basically a modern remake of "The Brady Bunch." Two people who've been married before get married to each other, and each of them have three kids. Suzanne Somers' character's name is Carol in the show, and her husband's name is Frank.

So in the dream I'm Carol, and I'm in this park with my mom (not really my mom, Carol's mom - which is strange since I don't remember the character of Carol's mom ever making an appearance on the show, but whatever). Only it's not a park that we're in. There are acres of grass and trees and all of that all around us - but it's not public property. It's the property that Frank and I own (again strange because Carol and Frank were working-class in the show and didn't own any land).

Anyway, there's a rope that looks a lot like clothesline, and it's shaped in an upside-down V. My mom and I are walking around my property while she's telling me that I'll regain my confidence to be a trapeze artist? tight-rope walker? I dunno - something that deals with heights (although, strangely, on the show Carol didn't have any occupation that dealt with heights), when I see this rope. My mom's lost in her uplifting schpiel about never giving up, and I notice that the rope, which somehow makes its way hundreds of feet in the air on an angle before coming back down on an angle, has a small plank of wood attached to it. The small plank of wood is hovering over the ground, parallel to the grass. I step on the wood, and much to my surprise, I'm lifted ten feet off the ground, and I'm hanging onto the rope for assistance with my balance. A step above the plank is another wooden plank, and I step onto it. That plank moves up ten feet. My mom, who's been jabbering on about how she has faith in my ability to regain my confidence, realizes that I'm in the air, on this strange contraption that Frank's made for me (he wanted to help me get over my newly-found phobia of heights), and she begrudgingly gets on a plank herself, so that she's two lengths behind me. I keep on going up until I can see all of our property, which looks something like this:

Then I get too afraid to move. I'm petrified and teetering on the wooden plank. My mom is sitting on her plank, calmly telling me to relax. She tells me to step back onto the previous plank, since I'm obviously uncomfortable where I am. "I can't!" I say, stubbornly. "I want to see where this rope will take me! I want to get to the end of this rope!"

"You'll get there when you're ready to get there," she says to me, soothingly. "Just step back onto the plank that you're comfortable on."

"But if I take a step back, that means that I'm admitting I'm not as close to my goal as I want to be."

"So what? Better you take a step back and get comfortable enough to keep going, than you fall and hurt yourself."

So I take a step back, and the plank lowers to a more decent elevation. I keep on going until I feel comfortable, and I end up on the same plank as my mom - which upsets me. I don't want to end up like her.

"Don't worry," she says when she sees how upset I am. "You want to get to the other end of this rope, and one day you'll get there. I'm never going anywhere. This is the end of my rope."

The episode ends, and the camera zooms out, and I'm no longer Carol. I'm someone watching Step By Step on TV and thinking, Oh. So that's how great-grandma did it... I never get a glimpse of what I look like, but I know that I'm attractive, female and Asian. Also, I know that I'm either in my late teens or early twenties. Lastly, I know instinctively (as is the case in most dreams) that the great-grandma my dream-character is referring to is Me. Not just that, but my spirit is watching over this girl because the livelihood of our entire extended clan is in her hands.

Let me explain first what I mean by "clan." Filipinos breed so much that Wutang should shame themselves into changing their name to "Fam." Both sets of my grandparents had more than eight children, and most of my aunts and uncles who have remained in the Philippines have had at least four kids apiece. Many of my first cousins have had three, four, sometimes five or six kids.

And that's not all, folks. Unlike the prototypical "American" household, family to the typical Filipino isn't something that's merely tolerated during holidays and birthdays. At least, that's not the way the Rubios roll. Like the members of the Mafia, we're up in each others' business for better or for worse. Sure, there's drama and internal strife now and again, but through it all we've got each others' backs. Fuck with one of us, and a truck full of our kinfolk will show up on your doorstep with gats. No joke.

So, in my dream, I'm my granddaughter. Let's call me M.

M's on the first floor of a mansion, in a room, watching reruns on TV with her cousins, siblings, and other family members. She has at least six siblings, and a couple of them are adopted. They all have the look of youths who have the world at their fingertips and are humble enough to not abuse their power. They are carefree and do not take their easy lifestyle light-heartedly. They are street smart but ultimately have enough intelligence to think for themselves and seek higher education. They are well-provided for financially and emotionally, and are compassionate towards others. They are (for the most part) idealistic liberals, but are not susceptible to middle-class guilt. They know better.

The Rubio clan is having a get-together at our mansion, and hundreds of people are coming in through the doors. The people are from all walks of life: they look of different races, different classes, etc. - but they have two things in common. 1) They all look very satisfied with their lives. 2) They are all related to M somehow. (We really do breed like rabbits!)

There's a reporter from a major TV network who wants to speak to someone in the clan, and M does an interview. She's telling the reporter about me, about my idealistic notion to make the world a better place through my family. She says that I went to the Philippines in my early twenties with a void in my life. There had always been something I was looking for, a key to my aspirations. I found that key in my family in the Philippines. They were the people that I could trust with anything, and I decided that for my betterment and the advancing of my entire clan - cousins twice-removed, great-grand-nieces, everyone - I would use my knowledge, wisdom, experience and connections to make things happen. While I started churning out books and other forms of media, I encouraged my family to find their interests and niches, M says to the reporter. It was in this way that businesses were started, ideas patented and sold, an empire begun. And that's how we started to build capital.

Little by little, different sectors were taken over by members of the Rubio clan, as well as other minorities. Fashion, medicine, law, publicity, oil, politics, art, computers, engineering, automobiles, publishing, movies, television - the diverse interests of family members were encouraged and supported so that everyone really did well. But unlike the paradigm of WASP-y wealthy families in America, we were able to expand our hold exponentially due to our sheer numbers and the close-knit culture from which we sprang. Along the way, we assisted like-minded individuals (most of them disadvantaged because of their race, gender, sexual orientation, religion, etc.) around the world.

M talked about how she and her siblings frequent local shopping areas and malls despite the billions of dollars her family had accumulated. Once a year, everyone donated their ill-fitting clothes to the homeless, despite who the garment's designer might be. Gap and Old Navy clothes mixed with Roberto Cavalli and Gucci; none was more ubiquitous than the other, so that a healthy mix was brought to the less-fortunate (and the elitism attached to the garments was diminished). Millions of dollars were spent on after-school programs for inner-city youth, and job-training and placement centers in the areas in most need.

When the special on M and her family was finally aired, the reporter talked about how a new kind of wealth had been ushered in by my family. We were humanitarian and void of elitism. Some of us attended public school, while some attended private school. Some of us were CEOs while others of us ran blue-collar establishments and others yet had working-class day-jobs. Still, we were all a family, strong, loving, supportive, and loyal. We were showing America what it's like to stand together, make money, and still be caring, decent people. We were a model for the way people should be.

Needless to say, I woke up from my dream with a smile on my face. Disney's right: a dream is a wish your heart makes. But it's also a gamble.

My heart's all in.

This can't be worse than the first.

According to my laptop clock, it's twenty-three minutes into the second day of 2008; yesterday, at this same time, I was throwing a temper tantrum and crying hysterically on my bedroom floor while my parents were screaming at each other and my boyfriend lay helplessly in bed, eyes wide and mouth agape as I incessantly blamed him for the ruining of my new year's eve. If I'd have had some alcohol, or shrooms or acid, I could say that it wasn't my fault that I was being a monster. The truth is, it's been more than forty days since my last period, I've taken four different pregnancy tests that have all come out negative, and I'm worried, confused and anxious. If I were still in therapy, my therapist might say my anxiety is an extension of my subconscious need to fix shit that I keep putting off. I guess I don't need therapy anymore; I can figure out and respond to my problem all on my own. Yay for me.

It's now one o'clock in the afternoon, and I'm starving. My refrigerator's stocked with name brand holiday leftovers: Pepperidge Farm stuffing, Country Crock buttery mashed potatoes, etc. Even the stuff that's been prepared from scratch has the mouthfeel of food that's void of soul. My brother, the cook, is in the living room, having just woken up. His brattiness has tempered since he's gotten home, and he offers me a look of sympathy as I walk in through the front door. "You're home from work already?" he says, sweetly and sincerely. I nod, blinking to convey that I'm holding back tears. Behind my mask of MAC foundation and heavy eye make-up, I'm too numb to cry, but I don't seem to have a voice. I tip-toe to my bedroom, careful to avoid my mom, who is washing dishes in the kitchen, and I lay in bed. Letting my mom see me would mean having to answer her questions - why I'm home early, if everything is okay, if I'm hungry - and I'd have to lie to keep her happy. Goodness trumps honesty in this house, and happiness is a thin veil that we all wear: artificial sweetener meant to keep one another out of our doldrum ho-hum collective reality. We are all great albatrosses, the weight of our family-love wringing one another's necks.

Our satellite service got cut off a week ago. For days, my father - who sleeps on the expensive-looking black leather sofa in our living room - would tell us about a mythical pop-up that appeared in the middle of the sixty-inch flat screen of our TV and ask him during the wee morning hours to pay the satellite bill. Dad humorously told us that he first hoped he was imagining it, delusional from back-to-back 24-hour work days at the hospital. Then the pop-ups happened more frequently, till finally our satellite service was cut off and we started shuffling through our dvds and padding towards the computers for sitcom and dramedy distractions. My folks were planning on cutting off the entertainment once Abie and I were done; now they have one less task to take up their sleeping time.

I got another bill from LabCorp today. I owe them thousands of dollars, and every time I get one of these bills I shudder and hope they'll stop existing if I throw them away. I don't have enough money to pay even a minimum payment on them, and every time I'm faced with that knowledge, I think back on two years ago, when I was flush with cash and able to buy my folks a retirement house. Two years later, I can't even afford to buy furniture for the place, and I'm depending on the kindness of my friends to get through my financial and emotional hang-ups. I'm laying in bed, propped up on a Calvin Klein pillow, surrounded by clothes that no longer fit me, bills I can't afford to pay, and an ominous feeling that there are unfinished issues that I must conclude as soon as possible. I feel like I have a good sense of "what is what" when it comes to life, and more specifically, my life, and I want to get started with the living, doing, fulfilling aspects of existing. I want to make money, advance income brackets, fulfill my personal potential and feel like that's what I'm doing. I know instinctively that going through the motions is a necessary and vital part of making things happen, but I know through experience that it's the most boring and slow part of the process. It's the part that I wish were over right now.

But first, I need to get another job, since this morning I was fired.

Now, more than twelve hours after I left off on this post, I'm finding it hard to remember exactly how I got fired. I remember feeling out of place in the office, thinking that I don't belong in a real estate office in Richmond Hill, deciding that I'd better grin and bear it. I was yapping about how happy I was about my impending health benefits, and was confused to see my health care paperwork gathering dust on my boss's desk. I'd handed her the paperwork on my first day of work two weeks ago, and she promised to get it done so I could get proper medical care as soon as possible. Those were her words - "as soon as possible." She'd said them to seem concerned, and even at the moment they hit the air, they'd sounded strange to me, but I'd shrugged off my feelings as paranoia.

I asked sweetly about my health paperwork, and my boss gave me a look of disdain. Maybe, I thought, she was still hung over from New Year's, and she didn't feel like dealing with my sunny office disposition. So I said very plainly, "I was hoping that my health benefits would be processed by now. Or at least already handed off to whoever's supposed to process them. But I noticed that they're still on your desk. Is there any reason for that?"

She blinked unapologetically, as if she were resigned to believe that whatever monstrosity leapt next from her lips was my own doing. "You're doing a great job here, but I don't think you'll be with us long enough to use your health benefits."

I thought she was kidding. I'd never been fired before, and I couldn't fathom the thought - especially from a place that was quite obviously below me. I furrowed my brow. "Excuse me?"

"You said at your interview that you're leaving the country in April."

"Yeah, that's right. And I was assured that I would still get all of the benefits from being a full-time employee - and that it was okay with everyone if the position was only temporary."

"I'll be honest with you," she said, her features stern and solid. "We've found someone who can stay past April, but we're going to let you keep the position till the beginning of February."

"That's very kind of you," I said, embarrassment creeping into my face. I walked away from her, aware that I wasn't going to get health benefits, that the job paid too little and was good only because it was easy and close to home. I thought of the job opportunities that awaited beyond this one, the fact that I've never been without a job for more than three weeks, my impressive four-page resume.

And this is what I was reduced to? Settling for a meagerly paying wage at a mediocre real estate firm whose employees couldn't even manage their quarterly reports without my expertise?

Rage consumed me. Anger engulfed me. Pride - possibly arrogance and hubris, too - blinded me. I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I must have done something wrong. Why else would they renig on their promise to keep me till my departure? Only ten minutes had passed since my boss had told me the news, and I couldn't stand it any longer. Maybe the Me that I was six months ago would've been too afraid to hear a negative reaction: that I'm really a slothful and disobedient worker, that I'm wasteful and inefficient, that I'm a slow learner - but I now have more faith in my abilities, and I can now stand false criticism.

I let the rage swell within me and continued to stare at my computer screen. There was no way that I would let my boss be proved right: I had to show that I'm worth keeping.

But then a thought formed in my head, as I stared at the quarterly reports that very few people in the office know how to do: I'm better than this. I can get elsewhere what this job gives me. Why do I have to show my worth to these people who are obviously beneath me?

So I walked to my boss's cubicle, knocked on the door, and looked my boss dead in the eye. "I'll be honest with you," I said, smiling sweetly, "ever since you told me that I'll be fired, I've found it hard to concentrate. I just want to know why you're letting me go, when you initially told me that you're fine with me leaving in April."

She nodded gravely, as if she were about to impart the secret of life to me. This was privileged information that she was imparting, and I had to be aware of that. I nodded. She mentioned the owner of the company, talked about him at great length in praising words, and then veered into a segment about his sixteen-year old niece, who's looking for a job. I nodded my head understandingly, all the while a million blood-soaked scenarios playing out in my head. Violence runs quick in my veins when I feel I've been wronged, and as much as I want to be a pacifist hippie, the truth of the matter is, it feels right to me to inflict bodily harm on people who do me wrong.

The rest is a blur. My boss and I talked for an hour about how she got into real estate. I talked about my resume, my work experience, my present educational situation. She told me about her daughter, who's my age and doesn't know what she wants out of life. I told her that it's common for people in my generation to have lofty aspirations and no real direction; she seemed comforted. She thanked me for all of the hard work that I'd exhibited in my two weeks, said that I'd taught the trainees and administrative assistants more than she'd bargained in my short time in the office, and said that she was sure great things are in my future. I thanked her for her kind words and went back to my desk. Crappy pay is still pay and my family needs help getting by - but I couldn't sit at that desk, working like a drone to make barely enough to pay our monthly utilities. I went out for my lunch break and didn't come back.

I've lined up promotions gigs for the next couple of weeks, and I'm looking for another desk job. I'm simultaneously reading three books - one by Al Franken, one by James Frey, and one by Neil Gaiman. There is a huge rat living in my house that I'm trying to kill. One of my best friends is going to be deployed to the Middle East in a couple of months. I haven't talked to another one of my best friends in more than a year because of my emotional hang-ups. My grades at Brooklyn College have to be settled once and for all, so that I feel like I'm leaving on good terms with myself. I think I might have carpal tunnel syndrome. And on New Year's Eve, as the minutes of 2007 ticked off and the new year rapidly approached, Rob's cousin was proposing to his girlfriend of thirteen years, Rob was sleeping in my bed in Queens after a night made sleepless by his first ear piercing, my parents were having a gigantic fight, and I was frantically searching for a live stream of Times Square on the internet. Traditions were broken: my mom wasn't her annual jolly, jubilant self, chasing away evil spirits with pom poms, bells, and tambourines; the Times Square ball wasn't on the television screen, counting down the seconds as I made a wish for the new year; I wasn't full of the idealistic and naive hope which annually fills me with good cheer.

For the first time ever, crappiness flowed uninterrupted from one chapter to another, and I was powerless to edit the events as they unravelled. I cried, I bitched, I moaned. And even though I knew that it was pointless, I let myself build up my moment of fury and supreme irritation because, in truth, all emotions are rendered pointless and meaningful with the passing of time and the introspection of artists. In that moment when a tradition was broken, my carefully constructed view of the way things ought to be was broken a little bit more, and my song of childish innocence gave way slightly more to an orchestra of adult experience. Romance and hope became a bit more alien; cynicism and skepticism invaded a larger part of my world. And the joyous version of me who's able to discover magic in the mundane, the part of me that's responsible for imagination and wonder, morphed into something altogether too stuck in "being real." When I cried, when I bitched, when I wanted to make someone (Rob) feel my pain, it was only because I had no audience to understand my suffering, to acknowledge what I was acknowledging, to sense the passing of time and the alteration of my character into something I don't entirely know or understand.

Some people slip through many versions of themselves without ever realizing that they'd been something else. Others only acknowledge their development after twenty, thirty, forty years. I drag myself, kicking and screaming, into a heightened sense of what is capable of becoming a better reality. Aware of the grand standards I've set for myself, I am humbled, excited and mortified at the idea of reaching them. So abruptly, impatiently, unapologetically, vocations turn into stints and destinations turn into reststops. On New Year's Eve, I entered a new beginning and now as I'm typing about it, it seems far away and already I am far-removed.