I’ll be the first to admit it: writing a memoir at twenty two after having achieved no great feats in my life makes me feel incredibly self-obsessed and irritating. It’s okay to be irritated by me, hell, I’M irritated by me. And yet, here I am trying to convince you to read this and understand me. At twenty two years of age I have held no less than two jobs at a time, I’ve worked seven jobs in the course of my life, dropped out of college on the cusp of receiving a degree that would never help me in the “real world” and started collecting bottles of wine and cats. So many cats.
Whoops. I’m confusing the number of cats I have with the empty wine bottles. So many wine bottles, only three cats.
Only! Ha, I make myself laugh. I guess if you haven’t laughed left, you should probably close this tab and go read something on Texts From Last Night (no but really, that site is pure gold) There’s nothing I can do to convince you I’m worth listening to, and to be frank, I’ve got no interest in that. If you want a love story, this isn’t for you. I’ve been in love with the same person for six years and we’ve never even hugged. Love? HA. If you want a happy-ending fairy tale, I’ll loan you my copy of The Princess Bride. Seriously. However, if you’re in that one percent that sees past the lure of happy endings, true love and the myth of perfect hair even when it’s raining, then this is for you. I’m not going to market myself as anything other than a fucked up girl; the product of two fucked up marriages, the victim of a school system that puts more value on appearance than education and the survivor of small town autonomy. Damn right I think I deserve to be heard.
The thing I’ve heard the most in 2014 is not “damn Katie you look good” (unfortunately) or “wow you’re late again but somehow still managed to get Dunkin Donuts??” (Fortunately) but “Let it go!”. And as we’re nearing the end of this whirlwind year, I’m starting to think I’ve been misinterpreting it. You see, I thought it was grounds for me to unload a shit ton of emotional baggage on other people, to open the “I’m a bitter virgin that no one asked to prom” flood gates and make everyone around me feel guilty about what I felt was wrong with my life. Using “let it go” as a crutch, I confessed my love to two different people in the span of three months, offered up my overly-coveted virginity to someone I couldn’t stand to be around for more than half an hour, quit two jobs and realized that I don’t know nearly as much about maintaining friendships as I’ve always thought. You see, I’ve been coming home and sleeping in a gilded cage for so long that I simply wasn’t seeing that a lot of the blame needed to be put on myself for failing at love, feeling miserable and unaccomplished and skipping the gym like nine months in a row.
I’m happy to report that just yesterday I woke up and realized I’ve been doing this all wrong. Maybe what the suspiciously good looking cartoon lady was trying to say was, “stop obsessing over bad moods, bad hair days, boys who don’t call, jobs that don’t feel fulfilling and anyone that tells you pasta makes you fat and let it go”. My mom is a two-time cancer survivor, my brother was wrongly accused of a crime and still managed to find love, my father was laid off after thirteen years at the same job and my youngest sister just graduated high school. What do I have to be upset about? So, so, much. And yet, nothing. Do I really want to waste precious time walking around a ticking time bomb of emotional instability or do I want to forgive the people who I felt never loved me back adequately, spend my money on memories and work my fingers to the bone because I’ll never be as able as I am right at this very moment? Heads we choose option two, tails we flip again.