Here I sit in the Frothy Monkey in the 12 South district of Nashville, just down the street from the restaurant where I arguably spent most of my time during the years I lived in this fantastic city. It was in this coffee shop I sat down and decided that if I was going to make it in this world as a writer I was going to have be dedicated to my craft. I couldn’t continue to find excuses on why I couldn’t write today. I had to find the dedication to take the time to pull out my laptop and type, even if it was only a few words. There were definitely days when I would write 100 words and just be over it, but at least I remained dedicated to the one activity I always cared about.
(To all of those out there reading this: One, Sally feel free to read this one. I don’t think there is too much in it that will upset you. Two, my editor took a few liberties in the editing process and I only recently discovered them. I left them for posterity sake though)
Many people have found that one of the negatives of growing up is you tend to grow apart from the friends you made as a child. It makes sense if you think about it; people change, move, get married, have kids, grow up, grow old, grow apart, get sick, and die. It is one of the negatives of aging. As a child the world is an endless array of possibilities. The person you ride bikes with down to the 7-11 to grab Slurpees, even though your parents told you not to go there without them, will one day have his or her own life across the country only to be heard from occasionally on social media. (Only a short 10 years ago or so, even this wasn’t possible, and the only way to know where someone ended up was through rumors and local lore with tales starting with, “Did you hear where Kat went?”). Fortunately for me, even with all of the crusades I ventured on, the many times I decided it was time to pack my bags and head to a different part of this globe, I am lucky enough to have one friend (this is not a retelling of the story of my best friend, so please continue before growing bored and assuming I have run out of wonderful tales to tell) who, through all of the hurdles Life put in our way, has remained one of the lynchpins of my existence.
(Sally, I have no idea what this story is going to be about yet. Proceed with caution if you choose, but be prepared to read something that disappoints you about your son. Edit: don’t read this. You will abhor some of the subject matter.)
My editor (and sister) and I don’t really see eye to eye when it comes to politics. After reading my last entry on this site, she responded by asking me when I became boring. What can I say? I finally graduated college (lots of people take 7 years to graduate college) and found a passion. Who knew it would be Libertarian politics and dating people who are 11 years younger than me? (actually, anyone who knows me probably saw the latter coming) The fact of the matter is I am boring now, and I hate that about who I have become. I spend most of my time alone. I do go out and hang out in public at night, but even as I’m out among the crowds, I am spending the bulk of that time in my head wondering what exactly happened in my life that lead me here. Am I upset about my lot in life? No. I would never say that. Anyone who has read my stories knows I enjoy drinking from the chalice of life allowing it to drip from my lips as I chug the sweet juice attempting to get every ounce of pleasure from it. Somewhere along the way though, that pleasure switched from blowing lines of cocaine and ketamine to organizing politically charged social gatherings, while dreading someone dropping off a free pan of lasagna on my front porch.
(Sally: I openly express later on in this story how I don’t know why I continue to do things that would make you ashamed of me. So please don’t read past this line.)
Writing this will be mildly difficult. I don’t want to give away anything about the other members of this story so I will have to not only change the names of the people in this story as I tend to do, but the timeline will be off and what city it occurred in will be a city that I never lived in, and the job I say I have may or may not be the job I had at the time, as to truly protect everyone involved in this story (which in all honesty is one or two other people, but they don’t need me to air their dirty laundry…unlike everyone else I write about. Huh. I must actually care about them). Basically, what you are about to read has been turned into a work of fiction based on many different experiences in my life that have been conglomerated into one story (It’s kind of amazing how often I find myself in this situation), and my desire to truly protect one person. Continue reading The Last Right Thing I Did (Followed By The Next Wrong)
I opened my eyes and blinked away the light film that covered my pupils every morning. The sunlight exploding through the room blinded me for a minute as my eyes adjusted to the sudden change from darkness to light. I wasn’t exactly sure where I was, but the pounding in my temples led me to believe that I was having fun last night.
I sat up in a strange bed—nothing more than a futon on a metal frame only a few inches off the floor—and looked around the room. I was surrounded with white. The curtains, the walls, the carpets, the sheets, the furniture—everything was white, reflecting the early morning sun violently in every direction. The clothes that had been carelessly tossed to the floor at some point last night injected the room with an unexpected splash of color.
I rubbed my temples in a vain attempt to subside the headache that was growing worse by the second and making it hard to see anything in the too-bright colorless room. I took a deep breath, hoping that the taste of day-old beer and stale cigarettes would magically disappear with the fresh air of a new day. Continue reading Prologue to “Diary of an Addict”
(Sally: Skip it. Don’t read it. It brought up memories I didn’t want to relive, so I’m certain you feel even more passionate about that, because you have real feelings, and as we all know, mine are made up.)
(Everyone else: This is not as lighthearted and funny as most, you may not want to delve into this one.)
There was a time in my life where I was unsure of who I was, or where I was heading. I was a teenager, lost, like so many others were at that same age and while I figured that everyone else my age was going through the same sort of mental shit I was going through, I also felt as though my personal problems were worse than anything else anyone had ever gone through (the narcissism was rooted in me, it wasn’t learned). At the time, I was not the glowing beacon of confidence many people know today. I was unpopular. I was liked by very few people and not because of my personal feelings about myself, or the fact I thought I was better than everyone as I do now. Back then I was narcissistic, but I felt instead that people would never want to be my friend. I was the most important person in my world, that hasn’t changed, but I, for some reason, could not fathom a reason on why anyone else would want to like me, especially as much as I liked myself.
(*Sally, I think this one is okay for you to read. You may want to skip a few paragraphs…actually, let’s not risk it. I don’t want to take the chance. *)
I will never be able to truly express the gratitude I have for my friend in Nashville. At least not while I have the daunting task of packing all of my stuff and moving to Florida staring me right in the face. I can’t really say this has snuck up on me since I have known I’m moving for many months, but in a few hours, I will be loading up my exceptionally overpriced U-Haul, pulling away from my literal prison of a house, and heading down to live a very different life from the one I am currently moving through. Continue reading To My Nashville Friends