I consider myself a lucky person, even though I kind of hate the word "lucky" because my dad prefers to attribute my accomplishments to my luck rather my ambition or smarts.
I think I am both ambitious and smart. And I'm around a lot of ambitious and smart people. But I don't like pretending to be more ambitious and more smart than I actually feel. I'm not very good at it.
People like to do a lot of pretending. When I was little I used to always pretend that I was Julie Andrews, and that my cousins were the Von Trapp children. Julie Andrews fucking rocks.
Lay-ee-dee-oh-lay-ee-dee-oh-lay-ee-oh!
I have a lot of cousins. I love them all. I like most of them, not all. And I'm not sure they like me all that much, either. In any case, I'm lucky to have a great family. Very, very lucky.
Even though they drive me fucking crazy sometimes.
My brother and I are the crazy ones in the family. We make Halloween costumes from scratch. We get up at 4:30 in the morning for Black Friday sales during Thanksgiving. We go to Midnight Mass and sing with the choir whilst a little bit drunk. We do muscle tests to ask the universe about how our lives will turn out. We play the The Penis Game when we're grocery shopping with our mother. We like to move the car when our dad is running an errand, just to freak him out when he thinks that we've driven off without him. (Our poor parents are very patient.) We often contemplate stealing things, like annoying street signs or pretty rocks. We use a lot of bad words during family gettogethers.
He just recently became an adult. I'm eight years older than he is. I'm not sure what's my excuse.
People seem to assume that I'm mature and classy. Even though I swear like a sailor and enjoy poop jokes.
Poop is funny. Except for when you're living away from home for the first time and a drunk, naked guy comes into your room at 3 in the morning, poops in the middle of your floor, and runs off with your favorite pair of sandals. True story.
I like stories. I like telling them because I have many. I like hearing them, too. I don't much care if they're true or not.
I read and write stories for a living, and I'm training to be able to teach about them. Though, ironically, since I've started a career in reading and writing, I haven't had time to read or write all that much.
Irony is when the implied meaning differs from the literal meaning. Sometimes it's also a discordance between acts and their results. I'm not sure if I used it correctly in the above sentence.
I like irony, but only if I understand it. I don't understand when a boy tells you something that seems to mean one thing, but means the opposite. Like, when a boy tells you that you're beautiful, and smart, and ambitious, and that any guy would be lucky to have you, only to one minute later say that he's leaving. I don't understand why he wouldn't want to be that hypothetical lucky guy. I don't like when perfectly good compliments turn into dreaded warnings or cop-outs. I'm waiting for the day when "You're beautiful" means just that.
But I don't always say what I mean, either.
I sometimes say that I don't care when I do.
I sometimes say that I'm fine when I'm not.
I sometimes do say what I mean, but at the entirely wrong moment.
I've gotten quite good at biting my tongue.
Tongues are good for kissing. And I like kissing. I think I'm very kissable.
Some of the best lessons in life I've learned from boys I've kissed— Like, for example, that the right person at the wrong time is still the wrong person, that wants and needs always change regardless of what you intend to commit, that you can't love someone without loving yourself first, that it's okay to admit that you need more than what someone can give, that it's easy to lose yourself when you want to give too much.
I don't think I'm very profound. I know that I'm silly. And I know that I have a lot to learn.
I'd like to think that my students have learned a lot from me. And more than just about books and things. I try to teach them how to think for themselves.
Unless, of course, thinking for themselves involves believing things that are wrong and horrible and would make the world uglier.
I'd like to make the world a better place. I wish I could do more in that pursuit. I know that I have no one to blame but myself for the fact that I don't do more to contribute.
I sometimes contribute. I wish I had more money so I could contribute more.
I also wish I had more money so I could buy more things. I like things. I like candles and plane trips and luxurious sheets.
I also like shoes. Lots of shoes.
But listing these things that I like doesn't make me spoiled.
On second thought, scratch that— I know I'm spoiled.
Sometimes it's hard to regret my spoiled-ness because I know it's helped me get to where I am. It is a sad fact of life that talent often gets undernourished and unmined because of lack of resources.
I have many talents, many of which I discover when I'm trying to be resourceful. I'm quite good at being resourceful, because it doesn't take that much to entertain me.
I like making music and drawing pictures and building things and making things pretty and figuring out how things work.
Cooking, however, is not one of my many talents. Neither is anything that requires kicking, shooting, jumping, climbing, running, or balancing.
It's hard for me to balance my personal life with my professional one.
I wish I were a better friend. I hate that I don't call more often. I hate that I forget birthdays and things that people say.
But I think I'm a good listener. I think I'm pretty generous. I think that I'm kind.
But I'm also sometimes mean. And I'm sometimes selfish.
I'm lucky that I have great friends. Very, very lucky.
Luck, I suppose, is when something happens to you, and it's beyond your control. You didn't ask for it, work for it, deserve it, or earn it.
If that's the case, then I don't want to think of myself as lucky, because I'd like to think that I've deserved most things that I've gotten, whether they be good or bad.
But I know that I am.
