On January 1st, 2014 I decided my resolutions were
1) Fall in love.
2) Get laid.
I know, I know, you’re thinking KATHLEEN WHAT WOULD YOUR MOM SAY??????
Well, to those of you who felt the need to ask that question in all capital letters, my mom doesn’t get to know about the sex life I wished I had (but for some reason, you all do).
Welp, four months into this new year, I’m happy to report that I’ve achieved one out of two goals.
I’ll leave you all to salivate and wonder which one it is.
Spoiler alert: Seen any selfies of me and the mystery man I supposedly fell in love with? No? There’s the answer I know you’ve been so desperately craving.
I moved out of my parent’s house and into an apartment with a roommate who is twice my height and together we adopted three (YES THREE) cats that spend too much time shitting everywhere and not enough time cuddling with their single and highly approachable mom (that’s me). Also, I invested in like a ga-gillion lint rollers because long-haired cats was the worst decision I’ve made since cutting my bangs back in.
All jokes aside, I did the thing that every other twenty something does when faced with an opportunity to improve his/her life.
"This year will be different."
Yeah, okay, I lied.
It’s so easy to look at everything that’s wrong with your life and imagine that you know how to fix it. Newsflash: the key to self-improvement isn’t always doing the exact opposite of whatever you thought you were doing that was so wrong. It’s taken me the better part of twenty two years to realize this. There are some days when I wake up and everything makes me sad, from how I can’t get my winged eyeliner to look even and that must mean I am un-lovable, to when I accidentally burn toast and feel like I am a college-drop-out with no foreseeable future besides asking people what THEY want on a Friday night.
So I got even more sad. And I found someone who couldn’t really look past my smile to see what was so wrong with me on the inside. For a little while, that was fine with me. No one really wants another person to dissect every little thing going on underneath their skin, and I discovered that it’s even harder to find someone who’s willing to take the time to peel back your skin and then put it back exactly the way they found it when you ask at three in the morning because you just can’t fucking sleep in his arms anymore.
I went to bed every night for seventy six days and I felt like I was drowning. Drowning in two jobs and drowning in too much laundry, not enough money for groceries and drowning in a never-ending pile of homework that only got bigger when I refused to do it. Drowning in a bout of acne that came out of nowhere and took too long to get rid of, drowning in how much weight I’d put on since I realized I didn’t care where I was going so long as I was moving.
On day seventy seven, I woke up and realized that I needed to take a damn break and come up for air. I took three days off, and I slept in till an ungodly hour, I went for hikes even though my ankle injury wasn’t completely healed and I broke up with the boy (okay, okay, man. He was thirty) I’d been stringing along for three months. I realized that when you love someone, sometimes words aren’t enough. You should always treat the the people around you the way you feel. And I was too busy to find time for the man who had taken my virginity and wanted to love me.
God, that sounds so shitty.
I left, I cried, and then I flourished.
All my life, I’d been waiting for the excitement that’s supposed to come from finding bits and pieces of yourself in someone else. I’m twenty-fucking-two years old, and thus far, I’ve hated the parts of myself I’ve seen in other people.
It’s almost the end of April and I haven’t finished a book yet,
it’s almost the end of the night and I haven’t found the person I want to say “I love you” too,
it’s almost the end of April and it’s been months since I last imagined him sleeping in my arms,
and I”m finally starting to forget the idea I had in my head of how perfect my life should be.