[Wo]man's Best Friend

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND NINE: The Pauper Says Goodbye

“A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself.”  - Josh Billings

In my last post, I lamented the loneliness of Christmas and the hopelessness it can bring.  I closed my post with a quip about watching Blue Valentine and the poor dog that dies in it.  Not two minutes after posting, I received a call from my mother telling me that on Christmas Eve, they were going to put down my 16-year-old dog, Sparky.

Unable to think properly, I had to hang up the phone, allow myself to break down, and then call my mom back.  This now being Christmas, and about 17 hours since he has passed, I am going to indulge myself via blog and eulogize my baby.

It's a weird feeling to carry when a beloved pet has passed.  It's understandable to be upset when a beloved human passes.  It's a human life, after all.  But as I walked into work today, I had to carry the burden of pain without the relief of being able to call off work.  It's just a dog.

It's not just a dog.

I don't have a lot of memory of my childhood - a truth brought to light when my foreign exchange sister, Adriana, visited me last spring.  She recalled so many memories that her 17-year-old self had of which my 10-year-old self had zero recollection.

But I will never forget the moment I met Sparky.

Adri was living with us at the time.  This sets me at 10, as previously stated.  My mom had used her newly purchased cellphone to call and tell me that she had picked out a new family car and was heading home.  Remembering how awesome it was to see our new minivan for the first time, I ran to the garage when I heard it open to see what gem she had picked out.  When I opened the door, I screamed as I saw no car, but instead my mother cradling a two month old Shih Tzu in her arms.  He was small enough to cup in my 10-year-old hands.  You sneaky mom...

I had never had a dog before.  I had always talked about wanting one, but I didn't realize how much I really wanted it until I met our new little guy.

We spent the evening playing with him in the living room.  He was shy - a trait my mom later told me was a factor in picking him out amongst his hyperactive brothers.  With a 9:00 p.m. bedtime, I only had a few hours with the puppy before I had to go to bed.  And it sucked.

Mornings at that age left me about 15 minutes alone in the house before I had to catch the bus.  Jordan was in middle school, Adri in high school, my mom worked, and my dad was home on weekends due to his job.  My 15 minute ritual consisted of laying on the couch and watching the first segment of Rugrats until I had to catch the bus.  That morning, I held my little Sparky as he fell asleep nestled against my chest.  I thought briefly about skipping school.  The thought of putting him in his crate was too much to bear.  So I pushed my time with him to limit, set him in his crate, and dragged myself to the curb where I barely caught my bus.

Throughout the years, Sparky blossomed into the (completely objective) perfect pet.  He was friendly.  We often joked that if anyone ever tried to rob our house, we would be screwed.  He'd just lick them to death.  He rarely barked - unless a pesky rabbit hopped outside the window.  But even then, it was never annoying.  A few barks out of his system, and he was done.

When we took him for walks, he'd boast to giant German Shepherds at a distance, but cower away the moment he realized he was within biting range.  Like a wimpy kid trying to impress a girl by bad mouthing the bully just outside of earshot.

During high school and home stays in college, Sparky would spend the nights in my room.  I'd put my comforter on the floor for him.  As we both settled into bed, I'd often hear the sounds of him thrashing about - picking up the comforter in an adorably carnal fashion to get it just right.  And some times when he'd fall asleep first, I'd hear his little yips as he dreamed.  Probably of walks and Snausages.  And if ever he got lonely on the floor, I'd hear a moment of silence before he leapt onto my bed and always, always nestled as close to my body as humanly possible.  Usually pushing my legs apart creating the least comfortable sleeping position for myself.

But I never cared.

I wasn't a really happy kid in high school.  I'd spend hours crying in my room over teenaged angst.  Some times I'd leave the door slightly ajar.  And who would push his little nose in and comfort me?  You may guess Jordan, but no.  It was Sparky.  I'd clutch him close.  My tears would coat the top of his head.  And he'd lick my chin and take all the incomprehensible angst.  For the life of me, I can't remember what I was crying about.  But I will always remember the soothing comfort he brought.  That's the power of unconditional puppy love.

I am not exaggerating when I say there was never a single guest in our house who didn't love Sparky.  Grown men would fall to their knees and speak in baby voices as they entered our house and pet the living daylights out of him.  Always the sucker for attention but never a whore for it, Sparky obliged every giddy entrance.

As I returned home more seldom in my college and post college years, my parents would gladly take in my suitcase as I ran into the house to greet the Sparkster.  His tail would shake so happily that his entire back half would shake with it.  In later years, he became less willing to run down the stairs when he heard the door open - his bones getting weaker and weaker.  But there was no way I'd walk into my house without a greeting from my Sparky.  So I would go straight upstairs to my parents' bed (his new favorite hangout), crawl under it, and give him a kiss and hug.

In those later years, I began saying my real goodbye to Sparky each time I left for the airport.  I'd spend about 10 minutes cuddling with him on the couch or in my bed just in case this was the last time.  But for about 6 years, Sparky managed to stick around for each return.

My last visit home was Thanksgiving, 2012.  At this point, the damn little guy kept proving me wrong, so I made my goodbye brief.  Like the Boy Who Cried Wolf.  Even without a return trip in sight, I never thought this one would actually be the last.

Until I got that call Monday.  I woke up earlier than I anticipated on Tuesday morning.  I knew what time his appointment was.  I kept imagining my little baby, so old, so tired, so unknowing of his fate in a few short hours.  I stayed awake until I knew it was time, and I cried myself back to sleep knowing in my heart that he was no longer with us.

I'll never return home to see that little face, full of so much love.  Full of so much comfort.  It's hard to believe.  I don't want to believe.  I have so many wonderful memories with such a wonderful pet, but now I can't shake the haunting visual I have of his final moments, as described to me by my mom.  As his body filled with drugs that lulled him into a calm that prepared him for a peaceful end.  I'd give anything to have one more night of uncomfortable sleep with him shoved up against me.  I'd give anything to give him a bath, even if he was such a little shit about it.  But most of all, I'd give anything to have someone look at me with such unabashedly love that he would give to me.

He's not just a dog.  He's a living, breathing companion and instant smile vessel.  He was my friend, my family.  And now all I have left is the indelible mark that memory leaves behind.

Sparky Williams - August 28, 1997 - December 24, 2013

And At Christmas, You Tell The Truth...

DAY ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN: The Pauper's First Christmas

Our perceptions of reality have always been altered.  Conflicting ideologies paint the beliefs some people are willing to die for.  As children, we are taught that we celebrate Thanksgiving because it's when the Indians and Pilgrims sat down together and became best friends forever.  Until, of course, the Pilgrims raped the Indians, spreading incurable communicable diseases and stole their land only to essentially rape and pillage that as well.

The most egregious application of the taintification of reality would be the romantic comedy.  (Yes, even more so than the decimation of an entire people.  And yes, read the sarcasm, sit back, and enjoy an acerbic blog post from a Christmas Scrooge.)  I recently revisited a newly anointed Christmas perennial, Love Actually.  I believe it was Christmas of my 16th year of life the first time I caught it in an overpacked theater with some friends that preceded a ladies' dinner date at Pargo's Restaurant (R.I.P.) in Frederick, Maryland - my hometown.

I can't fully articulate what made me want to see it.  I had been a staunch cynic having come up completely and utterly empty-handed in the love like seriously, can we just pretend like I at least have lady bits department.  So rarely did I feel like spending my Friday or Saturday nights paying 8 bucks to spend an hour and a half Liz Lemoning all over a crowded theater.  But for some reason - maybe it was the allure of British accents or the undercooked French fries with that perfect style of Honey Mustard at Pargo's - that had me agreeing to see it.

And something weird happened to my body while doing so.  I smiled.  I laughed.  I got this warm gooey feeling inside of me that should not be read as inappropriate, you ass bags.  I had done it.  I had thoroughly enjoyed a romantic comedy.  Who am I?

By the time college had started, I purchased it and made it my own tradition to watch it every year at Christmas in the time leading up to my familial Christmas traditions.  And an away message quoting the infamous "Carol Singers posterboard" scene played an integral role in a pseudo relationship when I was 19 - the details of which are too pathetic and therefore rife with self-effacing humor to be told in a sentence or two.  So stay tuned.

So I carried on my tradition.  Even as I grew up and realized just how insipid the plots were, and how cringeworthy the writing is, and how cloying the music can be; I still always enjoyed that little warm and gooey Christmas pick me up.

Until the year I decided to spend Christmas alone instead of heading off to see my family in the same stupid city that stupid movie was stupid filmed in.

I'm not sure why I thought it'd be a good idea.  Some kind of masochistic inclination triggered by some late night whiskey after a long day at work.  Nevertheless, it happened.  And it wasn't pretty.

Everything I was willing to forgive was no longer unforgivable.  Hugh Grant falls in love with some girl just because she was silly enough to swear in front of *gasp* the prime minister?!  It's not the fucking pope.  And even he seems pretty chill by today's standards.

Alan Rickman, as Laura Linney's fucking boss feels it is appropriate to probe into her love life and make her feel awkward as hell just because we need a plot device?!  JOBS ARE HORRIBLE!  COMPANIES ARE NEVER AS COOL AS THEY ARE IN THE MOVIES!  UNLESS YOU WORK AT FUCKING DIGITAS WHICH I HAD TO PASS IN THE ELEVATORS EVERY DAY AT WORK AND WATCH AS WHAT CAN ONLY BE DESCRIBED AS A CORPORATE FUNHOUSE APPEARED BEFORE ME ON A DAILY BASIS ON MY WAY TO MY SOUL-SUCK OF A JOB!

But I digress.

Sam doesn't give a shit that his mom just died?!  DUDE!  Put the insipid puppy love on hold for a second and mourn the woman who has loved you unconditionally since you were a fetus.

So all these flaws started to come through the cracks.  I got mad at this movie I loved because it made my poor, blackened heart believe that Christmas was a time for goddamned miracles.  Christmas was a time you never had to feel alone.  Someone would be there for you.  Someone would care for you.  Someone would walk up to your front door and pull some elaborate, speechless speech to tell you how much they love you.

We watch movies like this because they give us hope.  Hope is the thing that keeps us going in life.  People cling to religion in the hope that life isn't just over when we die.  People with suicidal tendencies don't always go through with it because they have to hope that things are going to turn around.  And 26-year-old women still believe in fairy tales because it hurts too much to face reality.

Some naive part of me still believes something magical is going to happen in two days.  But the part of me that clings to those silly hopes is quickly dying.  Because even when you get the fairy tale, you only get the portion most movies allow you to see.  It's the law of gravity: what goes up, must come down.  After the fairy tale is over, life gets all mumblecore on us.  And what's really more depressing to watch?  The truth, or a fabrication of life too impossible to be real?  This Christmas, I'm going to pop open my Netflix, open up a bottle of whiskey, and watch some Blue Valentine.

Let it be known that Hannah's new Christmas tradition shall be watching the demise of Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams' marriage.  And watch Michelle Williams lose their poor dog.  Aw, poor dog.

Evolution Through Creation

DAY NINETY-FIVE: The Pauper Becomes the Second Option

"People love witnessing creation." - My improv teacher, Spike.

It's a simple and even obvious thought that still manages to confound people.  When we witness something, we witness it in one of two ways.  Option #1 is as a casual observer.  In the most basic sense of viewing something.  If it's funny, we allow our bodies to laugh.  If it is sad, we allow our bodies to cry.  If it's awful, we allow our bodies to throw peelable fruits in its general direction.

Option #2 is as an absorptive viewer.  If it's funny, we allow our bodies to laugh, and then we attempt to dissect why we are laughing.  Am I laughing due to physicality, situation, diametrically opposed ideologies?  In this option, we are no longer static members of the audience.  We can critique the creation in front of us, and that is how we become better creators ourselves.

It took me a long time to start absorbing my entertainment in this fashion.  A recent example that springs to mind is The Beatles' "I Am The Walrus," a song with lyrics like "I am the eggman," and "Goo goo goo joob."  It's a song that as a 14-year-old beginning to acclimate herself to the later Beatles canon, I took it mostly as "What a silly song!  Who would be sitting on a cornflake???"  But it was The Beatles.  And I grew up understanding that The Beatles were infallible artists.  Everything they created was inherently a masterpiece because, The Beatles.

As I was listening to that song the other day, I realized it still doesn't make much goddamned sense, and from my knowledge of The Beatles, I'm fairly positive hallucinatory drugs are partially - if not completely - responsible for this song.  But to write down those lyrics, create melodies, and commit them to a recording - that requires the lack of inhibitions that creation stems from.  It's the reason talented people go undiscovered and untalented people are swimming in their Scrooge McDuck money pits.  You have to remove all sense of inhibition: fear of failure and need for perfection.  You are going to fail while creating.  But if you are good at it, no one will notice.

I've been having a really great time reviewing shows, movies and music I held so dear as a child.  Even as a child, I knew witnessing Buffy the Vampire Slayer was witnessing something special.  And I'd like to think some of Joss Whedon's sense of humor molded a bit of my own.  But re-watching episodes as a 26-year-old who is a decade older than the characters were at the start of the series, I can appreciate the beauty of the story-telling from a new angle.  An episode like "The Body" always felt like something special, but paying attention to the lack of sound, the patience of holding a moment, the out of frame paramedic, and the way each character acts in response - these are no longer elements I take for granted as appearing out of thin air and onto my television screen.  These are products of many people brainstorming in an office until they realize the perfect capper to Anya's inability to understand mortality and Willow's frantic outfit choices would be Anya finding the desired sweater and replacing it next to the chair nonchalantly.

It's watching Can't Hardly Wait 8 years removed from high school and having it resonate 8 times more.  It's understanding that the people who created that movie weren't just some "let's make a high school rager that will net us some money."  It's seeing a writer grappling with the idea of fate, and clinging to the hope that something besides our own meandering thoughts are guiding us through this thing called life, and it's committing that idea to paper.  It's having the courage to tell a story.  The courage to be judged.  The courage to create.

A few years ago, I felt adrift in my early twentysomething bullshit.  I was talking to a friend of mine who had about 3 years on me.  I was concerned that I spent too much time listening to depressing music, drinking wine, and expelling my emotions through aquatic viscera leaking out of my eyeballs.  She told me that was a fine thing to do, as long as I was an active participant in my emotional journey.  It's one thing to cry uncontrollably and spew "whoa is me" bile throughout your brain.  But the only way for such an act to be considered conducive to your emotional and mental well-being is to actively participate in your pain.  "Why am I crying?  Why does this hurt?  How did I get here?  And what can I do to stop it?"  It's a much healthier practice than "WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"  See the difference?

So let's all try to be more active participants in our consumption.  Be it sources of entertainment, conversations, or our own thoughts.  If we become more active in our lives, we'll be able to create more.  And there's nothing more impressive to witness than creation.

Hannah, Meet Hannah. Hannah, Hannah.

DAY EIGHTY-NINE: The Pauper Drinks a Boost

I used to have a major problem watching the show Girls.  This is a well-documented road block known to my friends.  When I was in college, I had an idea to write a show about three post-grad women in their early twenties trying to navigate life, love, and career pitfalls.

"But Hannah, everyone who has ever had an idea has had that idea."

The reason I was sure watching Girls would cause me to convulse, spasm, vomit, and rotate my head 1080 degrees was a tonal reason.  I wanted my show to be real.  It would star a young woman, not stereotypically beautiful, but a woman that women could identify with.  She would be an anti-heroine.  Not always the best person, someone you certainly shouldn't admire, but she'd endear you because of her humor.  She would make horrible sexual decisions.  There would never be a scene where the characters begin kissing, and then slowly fade into the morning after with the two of them laying awkwardly in bed with the sheet pulled up to her chin.  She was an aspiring writer with deeply penetrating fears of writing.  Her "love" interest was named Adam, because I always named my male counterpart Adam.  And she was me.  She was Hannah.

I tell you all this because some of you readers don't know me well enough to understand my frustrations at seeing and hearing about this show.  But I can assure you from the number of times it was brought up in conversation, "Have you seen Girls?!  You would love it!" that this show stole my idea.  And Lena Dunham would pay... by not having me watch it!

Until, yeah, I watched it.  I cringed as I saw exact storylines I had thought of executed in incredibly similar ways.  I squirmed as little "self-deprecation in the face of comedy" moments played out like Hannah always sneaking into the fridge to eat something when stressed, even if it's Cool Whip.  I agonized as Jessa responded to Hannah's sighting of Adam with "Who?  The first man?", a rationale I adopted long ago in my writing.  It was difficult to digest, but I watched the whole damn thing.

Girls and I have a very complicated relationship.  It's nearly impossible for me to watch this show without bias.  The same things I love about the show are the same things I love about my writing.  But the Catch-22 is I therefore hate everything about the show that I hate about my own writing.  And that self-loathing is the reason I'm sitting here at 26 writing a blog that about 4 people read and at 26, Lena Dunham won a couple Golden Globes.

She had the confidence to go after an idea she had.  Whereas I have a tendency to overanalyze everything I do creatively, she just did it.  (Don't even get me started on Tiny Furniture.  I have a nearly finished screenplay stored on my hard-drive that would like to have a word with it.)

So how do we attain this confidence?  Well, speaking from two month's experience, it helps not being berated at work on a daily basis.  It helps actually showing your work to people.  It helps forming friendships with people who not only support you, but encourage you.  And it even helps when you have a nice conversation with a mother/daughter at your table who writes "Good luck with your career!" on your credit card receipt.  But ultimately, you just have to understand that you won't be perfect, but with practice you will be good - even great.  And the difference between the people who make it and the people who don't is confidence.  Or an amazingly stupid amount of luck.

Girls and I are doing a little bit better now.  I've forgiven it for making me feel like shit about myself.  Because something happened over the past year.  I realized it's not really the storytelling I aspire to anymore.  Kudos to Lena Dunham for doing what she is doing, but the idea of reliving my early 20's for the sake of my career seems like a certain place in hell meant for pedophiles and sandmonsters.  My desire to create is stronger than ever.  And I think I had to get over myself a little bit before I could do that.  I have confidence in knowing Girls is a show I probably could have written (and maybe I'd have a couple Golden Globes to add to my shelf, though I've already got a couple of my own.  HEY-O!), but it's no longer the show I want to write.  It's no longer the story I want to tell.  Because I finally realize I my creation abilities excel beyond recreation of the past.  And without Girls, I don't know if I'd ever have gotten out of that frame of mind.

So thanks, Lena.  But if your next heroine is named Katharine, I'm coming for you with the force of a thousand and twelve banshee grey hounds.

From Great Risk Comes Great Forward

DAY EIGHTY-FIVE: The Pauper Settles In

A weird feeling has recently passed over me.  It's weird because it's so foreign.  It's not something I've felt for the last quarter of my life.  And though I'm not foolish enough to believe it will last for years to come, I can confidently say that in this moment... I'm happy with my life.

What brought me to this utterance?  A risk.  A big one.  When I was a freshman in college - a point in my life where the world felt like the proverbial oyster - a senior I knew from College Democrats bestowed some advice upon me.  She was at an age where the world seemed less like an oyster and more like an ominous void.  But when she was discussing her plans to do Teach for America in a new city she knew no one in, she explained, "If the decision isn't scary, it's probably not the right decision to make."

Scary life decisions are the most difficult to make.  It's all there in the title, so it's not like I'm making a grand statement that will open people's eyes.  But one of the hardest things you or I will ever do is step outside of our comfort zone.  That warm security blanket that makes the day to day easier, but the long run impossible.

At the beginning of August, the idea of quitting my job seemed, ironically, impossible.  Why on earth would I leave the thing that has kept me going for four plus years?  This is what people do.  They graduate from college, find themselves a job, and they stick by it to ensure a life of financial stability.  But when you graduate in the midst of a recession, you get this curve ball that requires a bit of risk.

In 2009, the place mats where set for a life of drudgery for Miss Hannah Williams.  Working in a position so far from my major that I trained myself to laugh every time I admitted the difference.  "Majored in film?  What are you doing now?"  "I work at a law firm... yuck, yuck, yuck."

But it took a low point at work to point me in the right direction.  A moment of realization that spending my life hating the days and yearning for the nights would do nothing but subject me to a life of misery and regret.

Regret: The biggest devil of them all.  After a collegiate romance gone astray because I felt too inferior to reveal my true feelings, I promised myself I would never regret the things that I didn't do, but would rather regret the things that I did.  I took this to heart, but relegated them to my romantic life, as I thought anything else was merely what I "should" be doing.  And it took four years to realize that there is no "should" in our professional lives.  There is simply what we do.

So on that fateful day in August, when the fates fed me a can of unnecessary "whoop ass" at work, I realized that I simply could not carry on in this charade.  Paychecks weren't enough to keep me going.  Life had other plans for me, I was certain.  But I had eked out everything I could from four years of professional ambiguity.  It was time to take a risk.

I'll admit that waiting tables hadn't felt like my proudest moment.  In the beginning, I welled up inside nearly every day I slipped on my uniform and stared at myself in the mirror before I walked out the door.  Last week, I encountered a father and his collegiate daughter who asked me what I had majored in when I studied at Loyola.  I felt ashamed.  Telling this man that I attended school four years ago and now I am serving him and his daughter pizza with my degree.  It wasn't exactly what I pictured myself doing when I wore that cap and gown in the spring of 2009.

But then I added in, "I'm studying at Second City now."  And I continued to recommend some shows to him.  And I realized, I have nothing to be ashamed of.  I was working in a job that sucked my soul away like some kind of legalese Dementor.  And I had the balls to walk away from it.  And now I'm starting over.  There is no shame in changing your life.

And now, I stand as a woman who walks into work joyously.  My coworkers are wonderful.  I am obliged to improv with tables on a daily basis.  I wake up in the mornings and get to write instead of hopping into the shower to go to a job that will do absolutely nothing for me beyond giving me rent.  I have a new show opening next year.  I feel confident.  I feel strong.  And I feel happy.

The dust has settled around the rough patch of my risk.  And from it, the phoenix rises.  Though the future remains uncertain, it's a hell of a lot clearer than a life resigned to apathy.

The Railroad Tracks on the Horizon

DAY SEVENTY-EIGHT: The Pauper Gains Perspective

I'm about to blow your mind grapes: We all see things differently.  Not simply because our life experiences dictate how we perceive any new hurdle presented to us, but because of perspective.  Perspective is the reason this street art:

Is not nearly as impressive as this:

It's the reason members of the Academy in 1942 believed How Green Was My Valley to be superior to a movie that is now widely considered the greatest American film ever made.

Sorry guys, though it fits most of the above description, this movie unfortunately didn't come out until 2011.

And it's the reason someone like Chris Brown can't understand why the world would be a better place if he simply moved to Northern Canada and let the polar bears deal with him.

But even the polar bears beg for sweet, sweet respite.

We see things how we see them because few of us have the range of [e]motions to comprehend a life outside of where we stand.  To do that takes experience.  So for the unexperienced, we often need to take alternative measures to see the truth in a situation.

I had a conversation with a friend the other day.  I wasn't feeling particularly optimistic about my circumstance.  I had made the difficult choice to spend my first Christmas alone in the name of waiting tables.  I've made very little progress in the search for a better "grown up" job outside of submitting resumes until my fingers bled.  And a lack of creative confidence still plagues my thoughts as I stare into the abyss known as "social media helps me see why everyone is so much better off than I am."  So my friend did the best thing he could have done for me, he told me I was being "daft".

He proceeded to point out the fact that I made a decision knowing it would take some time.  He pointed out that it had been roughly 6 weeks since I left my job.  That I have multiple creative opportunities on the horizon.  That this job is only as temporary as I want it to be.  That in order to be what I truly want to be, I am exactly where I need to be.  He gave me perspective.

Some times it's easier to get a hold of perspective.  In the case of the street art, you could just stumble upon the correct spot to view it's ingenuity.  

Other times, there's no way to gain perspective outside of time doing all of the work; as is the case of a film like Citizen Kane losing the title of "Best Picture" in 1942, while being lauded as the great American masterpiece nearly every subsequent year.

But when you don't have the time or the internal ability to avoid a state of mental collapse, the brutal honesty and insight of others can help you see what you can't.  It's a gift for which I am incredibly thankful.  And though my perspective will waiver as my days ebb and flow, I can fall back on the knowledge that where I am now is not absolutely where I will always be.  A simple truth that isn't necessarily so simple when you are too close to the edge of despair to see properly.

Now who is ready to Clockwork Orange the vitriolic piss out of Chris Brown with me?

Opportunity, Meet Change

DAY SEVENTY-THREE: The Pauper Tumbles with the Weeds

So I have taken a job.  A job shilling pizza pies to customers in the Loop.  A job that will pay my bills, force me to improv with humans on a daily basis, and could possibly prevent me from seeing my family come this holiday season.

And with that, I had a bit of a breakdown last week.  I was overwhelmed by a new position.  I was overwhelmed with the possibility of not spending my Christmas season with loved ones.  And I was overwhelmed with the idea that I will never supersede mediocrity.

I am essentially at the same place I was when I graduated from high school.  A little backstory, if you will allow.  When I graduated from high school, I had very little stakes in quitting my job at Bon-Ton (an east coast version of JCPenney's.)  If I had no income, I wasn't going to lose my home (thanks, Mom and Dad.)  If I had no income, I wasn't going to lose my car (thanks, Mom and Dad.)  If I had no income, I wasn't going to starve (thanks, Mom and Dad.)

But at 17, those responsibilities were figments of my imagination.  Instead, my reality was, if I have no income, I can't go to the movies (Revenge of the Sith came out that year!)  If I have no income, I can't drive around relentlessly with my friends while chatting about life.  If I have no income, I can't go to T.G.I. Friday's this Friday and get the the chocolate cheesecake swirl dessert (I settled for the side of fries.)

So I searched.  I searched for a job anywhere I could find it.  But with the legal age of serving alcohol in Frederick, Maryland being 18, my options of growth outside of Bon-Ton were limited.  I applied to non-alcoholic restaurants like IHOP and Waffle House.  I contemplated going back to my first job, Quizno's.  I searched high and low.  Until one day I applied to Carrabba's Italian Grill to be a hostess.  On the day of my interview, my (future) boss admitted that there were no hostess positions available, and that I was still too young to serve.  In a moment of sheer panic, I shouted at him, "I'll bus!"  He looked at this young white girl for a moment, and returned, "You want to bus?"  Knowing that I was only 17 for one more month, I nodded vigorously.  "I'll bus."

I finagled my way into a job.  A job I didn't want to do, but knew it would lead to better prospects once I turned 18.  And it did.  It was the job I returned to every summer and winter break from college.  It was the job that made my study abroad travel in Rome possible.  It was the job that meant I didn't need a job during college semesters.  It was the job I got my heartbroken in (multiple times).  It was my favorite job.

And now, here I am, a college graduate for more than four years, and I am in the same place I once was as a lowly high school graduate.  I'll admit to a feeling of shame when a class from Loyola's law school came into my section last night, and I proclaimed I studied undergrad there (and here I am now!  Serving you pizza.)  I admit that nearly every time I learn of someone's job (Marketing!  Designing!  Microbiology!) I cringe realizing where I am now.  And I admit that life feels especially hard right now.

But I had a conversation with my dad the other day.  **Please keep in mind that the person writing this blog once had an epiphany on a bus ride down Lake Shore Drive that she no longer wanted to be an actress because the idea of having an uncertain future scared the shit out of her.**  As I cried to my father over my current status, my inability to spend Christmas with my family, and my murky future; he said something to me that resonated.  He told me that right now, I need to let life take me.  I need to stop trying to make things happen and just let them happen.

It felt like a ruse.  I need to be in charge of my life decisions, Goddamnit!  I am, as Destiny's Child so proudly declared, an Independent Woman!  I am the master of my own destiny!  I cannot just sit back and watch what happens.  I need to take control.

That, in and of itself, is not a bad way of thinking.  However, there are moments - times - in your life that you have no control over.  I quit my job knowing the consequences of my decision.  But knowing the consequences and living them are two very different experiences.  It's difficult to relinquish control over your life.  But sometimes, for the sake of growing up, you must.

I may have steamrolled myself into a job in the summer of 2005, but my decision to leave my dead-end "stand behind a register and fold clothes" job left my possibilities wide open.  The thing about life is, you never know where it's going to take you.  And riding out the journey is the part where you grow the most.  It won't always be easy.  But if that were the case, you'd never change.  And if there's one thing I've learned from improv, it's that the transformations are the most fun to watch.

I Live In A Hologram With You

DAY SIXTY-EIGHT: The Pauper Meets Her Lorde

And now, we diverge from the norm of this blogosphere.  In lieu of opining over my current mind-fuck I have deemed "human perception", I would like to discuss an issue close to my heart: The degradation of society.

I recently purchased Lorde's debut album Pure Heroine.  Now, I'm not typically the person who seeks out entire albums by top-charting artists, but that damn "Royals" is so catchy that I thought I'd give it a look.  Plus, I had read a small amount about Ella Maria Lani Yelich-O'Connor, and she seemed like a pretty cool chick.  So I listened.  And I listened.  And I listened.  And I am still listening.

Lorde is the kind of artist I wish I discovered at age 13.  An age where Britney Spears was an artist I enjoyed, but felt weird admitting.  She went against everything I felt (read: I never felt like I was anything like Britney Spears.)  And although my dearest, Fiona Apple, premiered on the scene during my middle school years, I didn’t come to appreciate her beyond her “Criminal” success until college.

I have a big problem with youths today.  This is no secret to anyone who spends much time around me.  As an inhabitant of the final generation to live without the Internet, I find the youths of today mostly privileged, bratty, and narcissistic.  And their champions, Justin Beiber and Miley Cyrus do little to dissuade my bias.  These are artists who embody the narcissism of today's youth.  The fish-lipped selfies, the "do what you care" attitudes, the desire to grow up much too fast.  These aren't role models.  These are the embodiments of why people have little faith in the future.  These are artists so content on appearing grown up, they forget what being a grown up is.  Making yourself a sexual object does not make you a grown up.  It makes you a fool.  From a woman who has experienced her fair share of meaningless and empty encounters, I can promise this notion is true.  Sex without trust will do one thing: it will show your age.  But not the way young people may think.

The opposite end of the spectrum of pop lies people like Taylor Swift.  Taylor Swift is a talented sweetheart.  But as far as an outstanding artist, well, I've never boarded that train.  Because Taylor Swift apologists harbor under the notion that teenaged pop songs should be dumbed down to the one-dimensional standards of puppy love.  First crushes.  "Falling in love" with a boy.  Dumping his stupid ass.  And so on and so *excuses herself while she recuperates from thinking about "We Are Never Ever Ever EVER Getting, Like, Back Together."

This all comes back to the pop stars we idolize as impressionable teenagers.  Before any of these life changes arose for me, I had someone enlighten me on my priorities.  He rightly pinpointed my dependence on men, being desired, and having a relationship.  Though there are many reasons I have traveled down this path, it's difficult to ignore the cultural influence.  When pop culture is so saturated with songs and movies about finding "the one" or embracing sexuality as a way to appear "grown up", an impressionable youth has little to ascribe to besides using her vagina to find love.  It's a dangerous mix.  And it's something you see very little in pop culture rebelling against.

And it all comes back to Lorde.  I listened to the album once through, and was taken aback by the maturity in the lyrics and vocals of this 16-year-old pop star.  She sings about the fear of growing up, alienation, the desire to be something bigger than you feel capable.  These are the emotions we feel as youths, as well as grown ups.  These are observations and emotions I some times struggle with identifying as a 26-year-old.  Yet through the maturity, her true age shines through.  She sings of being a beauty queen (in tears), sings about "lik[ing] you", and "laughing til [their] ribs get tough".  Things that any teenager can identify with while not feeling alienated by the one person who can identify with their own alienation.

I wish that teenagers today listen to musicians like Lorde.  I wish that teenagers strive to conquer the disingenuous nature of our Internet age.  I wish that teenagers knew what they were capable of in light of new technologies, not in spite of them.

And somehow, simply by listening to some 16-year-old's album, this cynical woman finally saw light at the end of the tunnel for today's youth.

It's All Relative

DAY SIXTY-ONE: The Pauper Loses the Paup

Well kiddies, unemployment isn't all the champagne wishes and caviar dreams the positive recession images would have you believe.  In fact, it's surprisingly the exact opposite!  I'll give you a moment to close your shocked and gaping mouths while you process this information.

In the meantime, here's an image to restore your equilibrium: a shark pony.  Or a Shpony.

The thing is, no matter how much money you save before self-induced unemployment begins, you will need to get back in the game eventually.  For a half-Arab saver like myself, that panic button gets hit much earlier than you can ever anticipate.  So after what seemed like months of applications and agony while waiting for responses, I had two interviews today.  (Please remember that in reality, it has been just over a week.  Time is relative, people.  Time is relative.)

The first position was for a marketing coordinator - the type of career I can see myself doing if this whole writing thing never fully pans out.  The type of creative job that I wouldn't mind calling home if I never become the next Woody Allen.

Or sell out and become the next Roland Emmerich

The interview turned into the longest interview I have ever encountered.  I got along really well with the interviewer.  It seemed more like a "shoot the shit" session peppered with remarks about my experience.  Three hours later, we were shaking hands and I was told the next step would be narrowing down the interviewees for a short list and going from there.  An arduous process that would hopefully end on happy news if I did as well as I felt.

And then as Jay-Z would say, on to the next one!  A restaurant position to tide over the Arab saver half of my person.  Finishing my chapter of "Gone Girl" early in the Starbucks down the block, I paced around the blocks near the restaurant trying desperately not to get there "too early".  I arrived a few minutes before 5:00 and asked the hostess for my contact person.  He ushered me to the back of the restaurant where a family most likely in from Cleveland mangia'd on a sheet of pepperoni pizza.  He asked me if I was currently employed.  I said no, and briefly explained my self-righteous answer that I left a job I saw no future in to pursue my dreams and felt that I wanted to return to a job I found I truly enjoyed: serving.  He cut in with "when was the last time you worked in a restaurant?"  I timidly mentioned "2008..."  He looked over a sheet of paper and then said, "Ok, so we'll have you start on Monday at 4:00.  Black shoes, black pants."  I found myself asking more questions than he had.  Suddenly that moment of rehearsed "interview questions" you are meant to spew out of courtesy of interest became necessity.

I shook his hand, and walked out of the restaurant.  I checked my watch: 5:03.

Ba-da-bing.  I got a job.

All Day I Dream About Smarts

DAY FIFTY-NINE: The Pauper Needs Some Stimuli

Working out is something everyone in their 20s at least mulls over.  Unless you are one of those cross-country sporty types in high school (read: I was never), then exercise is something that rarely crosses your mind.  Even if you are uncomfortable with that excess flab (read: I was always), you'd still rather LiveJournal it or cry in your room over it while listening to John Mayer albums believing "if only he got to see my personality, he'd fall in love with me!"

Really sorry that never worked out, by the way.  Try again next time.

But once your metabolism starts to fail and you realize that what you put into your body and how you treat it genuinely affects your own personal output in society, things start to change.  Motivation will strike in the form of a break up, an upcoming event where you just have to look a-MAH-zing, or a good old fashioned weekend-long ANTM binge that leaves you feeling like a balloon filled with delivery pizza and shame.

The point is, we motivate ourselves to be better people when a catalyst forces us to take action.  The same is true for our brains.  But people don't often realize that their brains are atrophying in the same way our muscles do.  In other words, getting dumber is a lot less obvious than getting fatter.

My catalyst for writing was quitting my job.  It gave me the freedom of time, which I covered last post.  But the motivation is getting harder to come by as I realize how atrophied my brain has become.

In high school and college, I was often the girl that students gave a silent (or in some cases, verbal) "yes!" about when realizing they were paired for an assignment with yours truly.  I got good grades.  Teachers loved me.  And I wasn't afraid to voice my opinion (read: be "that girl" who raised her hand to answer every question.)  If I wasn't going to be cool, I was at least going to be smart.  I liked being smart.

But something happened in my four years of paralegaling.  My brain was devoted to a field I cared very little about.  I didn't have to think the same way I used to.  I trained myself to be good at allowing others to succeed at their dreams.  Routine took precedence over challenge.  And I'm no longer the same thinker I was four years ago.

Sitting down in front of my computer, finding motivation becomes more and more difficult when I don't trust the thoughts brimming inside.  People around me seem to have evolved, while there's some personal devolution I can't seem to shake.  How do you overcome atrophy when you don't have school to knock the cobwebs loose?

You have to do it yourself.  It's not just a matter of writing at this point.  I have to study.  So before I get down on myself because the blank, white LCD screen in front of me shouts back slurs of insecurity; I'm going to do some things I haven't done since the last time I felt confident about my abilities.

I'm going to read.  Leisurely (fiction), scholastically (non-fiction books on writing), and research-based (screenplays).  Regardless of how much I hated studying in college; this becomes a matter of mental life and death.  Before our brains become a sedimentary rock formation, some times we have to push ourselves to get up off the couch, strap on our reading glasses, and start running some mental laps.

That Barrel-Chested SOB

DAY FIFTY-THREE: The Pauper Times It Right

“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That's relativity.” - Albert Einstein

Time.  Friend or foe?  Hero or villain?  Protagonist or antagonist?

One of the reasons I quit my job was because I never felt like I had enough time to do the things that I wanted to do.  I was emotionally exhausted by the end of each work day (being a human chew toy will do that to a person.)  So my goal from the minute I walked into my second story apartment was to shut down.  Make an easy dinner.  Pour a glass bottle of wine.  Binge on 30 Rock reruns courtesy of our great, red friend.  There was never any time.  Or at least never the right kind of time.

And here I am, fifty-three days post-decision.  And time has become my mortal enemy in lieu of the barrel-chested companion my heart craved.  

Brought to you in RealD by Time.

Suddenly, there's simply too much of it.  It sits there mocking me for not getting things done.  The financially responsible side of me panics on a daily basis and spends most of the day applying for jobs.

The truth is, I can't say that last statement in earnest.  Yes, there's the panic that hits me in the midst of catching up on Homeland (a lunchtime respite) when my mind wanders into the regions of remembering that rent is due tomorrow while my plane ticket to London shouts insensitive slurs on my credit card bill.  My stomach both drops and jumps inside its connective tissues.  But that's not the whole truth.

Failing at finding a job is the easier option.  If I can't find a more interesting job that I at least somewhat enjoy, it's the easier pill to manage down.  Because it's really just something I want.  But to fail at writing.  To fail at the only thing that really feels like it matters in my life right now.  To fail at my passion.  It's not really something I feel like I can handle.

And so I wait.  I procrastinate.  Until the panic turns into fuel.  Until the rejections turn into some form of mental cocaine.  Until I simply can't handle it anymore.

Happy Halloween, everyone.  I'm not dressing up because right now, I can't think of anything scarier than exactly what I'm doing right now.

Except hillbillies.  Nothing scarier than hillbillies.

To A Poet

DAY FIFTY-ONE: The Pauper Returns

There's something about returning from vacation that is one of the most unsettling feelings you can experience.  We've all experienced it.  It's this hardened pit stuck in your core that slowly seeps its way into your esophagus until you feel like you might actually choke on your own anxiety.  You get to have the highest of highs; seeing beautiful sites, spending time with loved ones, and simply being away from the doldrums of responsibility.  But when you return, you are reminded of the every day.  The ordinary.  The doldrums of responsibility.

Because of this common feeling, I figured I had concocted a solution to the Back in Town Blues.  I quit my job, and then I bought a plane ticket out to London to see my family.  My thought process being, I'll come home from vacation and still be on vacation.  I don't have to drag myself into an office that fills my every essence with self-loathing.  Instead, I can still sleep in.  Still go take a random walk around town.  Still do whatever I want and ignore the doldrums.

But what I did not anticipate is that a more fearsome sense of anxiety lurked around the corner of my return.  A one-two punch to the gut that makes the hardened pit of returning to work life seem like a game of patty-cake with your two-year-old niece.

I'll begin with the first pang.  Imagine being surrounded by undying love and support for two weeks straight.  Not simply some tangential love that you know always exists, but actually feeling it, seeing it, and touching it.  Feeling the embrace of your parents that you haven't felt in close to a year.  The look in their eye when you say something that you know they are proud to hear.  A look and a feeling that can't be replicated via Skype, no matter how hard our scientists and engineers try to put our lives online.  Imagine all this love that you anticipate as you walk out of customs at Heathrow; the thrill of seeing your mother giddy as a, well, mother who hasn't seen her daughter in nearly a year.  And then contrast that with the feeling of walking out of customs at O'Hare International Airport 12 days later.  A long flight that you can still feel in your legs 3 hours later.  Your hair is greasy - not seeing a point in showering that morning.  And you walk out of customs to signs of fanfare for other passengers.  The same terminal you've greeted many a visitor in the past, but now you must make your own personal walk of shame to the taxi cab line because you are too exhausted to drag your stupid suitcase all the way to the train.  It's a feeling of emptiness.  Of loneliness.  Of realizing the best things in life are fleeting.

But even worse is the moment a newly unemployed young writer walks into her apartment and realizes there truly are no more excuses.  Vacation is over.  It's time to write.  And forcing yourself to get up every morning and maintaining this amorphous schedule is probably the scariest thing I've ever faced.  Scarier than Disney World's Alien Encounter ride at 10 years old.  Scarier than pulling the ripcord on Daredevil Dive.  Scarier than getting my heartbroken.  If I fuck this up, it's not because I'm not talented (I've finally convinced myself that isn't true).  No.  If I fuck this up, it's because I didn't try my damnedest.  Failure will only happen because of laziness or fear.  If I fuck this up, I have no one to blame but myself.

Dear reader, please excuse the ramblings.  I spent about 8 hours pondering what I wanted to write (and watching "The Way Way Back" and reading "Gone Girl", and staring out the window while listening to my ipod, but who's counting?)  But dear reader, one thing I highly recommend if you ever find yourself flying over top the snowy peaks of Greenland and Northern Canada, please do yourself a favor and put down the Candy Crush, pause "White House Down", and just take it in.  Preferably while listening to some Nordic band who really knows their lyrical way around snowy atmospheres.  My drink of choice: First Aid Kit.  It is breathtaking.

The Footnotes of Our Lives

DAY FORTY-TWO: The Pauper Makes a Footnote

There's a reason reality shows typically have some sort of writer credited.  It's because reality itself isn't all that interesting.  As I sit on my couch in my pajamas at 12:40 p.m. on a Thursday, I can tell you this statement is chock-full of truth.

Time in a lifespan is relative.  It's why I can remember at four-years-old a terrifying nightmare my brother told me he had about a monkey popping a balloon and screaming at him, but I can't remember what I had for lunch one week ago today.

Though if routine has anything to say about it, odds are on the turkey sandwich's side.

Our lives are marked by moments, footnotes, and events.  It's only in retrospect that we can differentiate.  A first kiss to a 14-year-old girl on the bleachers during a football game can seem like a monumental event.  But twelve years later, after hundreds of other kisses - some meaningful, some regretful, some forgotten - that kiss loses its impact.

Is there any way that we can determine the significance of an event in the moment?  For an alcoholic, an event can be as simple as that first lonely swig of the bottle, and the comforting warmth the liquor can bring.  But it can also be an intervention, trip to the hospital, or horrific car accident that can symbolize an important life event.  Or perhaps none of these amount to much beyond extraneous bills and continuing down the path of destruction.  The thing is, we will never be able to tell in the moment what a moment means to us.

I've been going on and on about this monumental decision I made.  Whether stating it in blog form or blathering to my family at a recent wedding, I've been describing this event as the turning point in my life.  But there's no way of knowing this to be true.  On the one hand, this could be my break from the monotony of a thankless office job, and I can figure out my true calling.  On the other hand, this could be the moment my development became arrested, and I meander through life working odd jobs just to pay the bills, but never amount to much more than a common prole.

You often hear success stories where people make a pivotal decision to pursue their dreams.  I heard that Halle Berry was homeless, that J.K. Rowling took her child and escaped an abusive husband in the middle of the night, or that Elizabeth Berkley actually threw crystals on the stairwell of her rival to ensure a starring part in a Las Vegas showgirl revue.

That last one was possibly a fictionalized account.

You hear these stories, and it simply seems like some sort of footnote on that person's life.  Like it wasn't much of a struggle because, hey, look where they are now!  It's often read as such a small moment building toward the final outcome.  But I've started to imagine what those moments must have felt like.  Those decisions people are forced to make in order to make their lives better, or at least tolerable.  And even if it winds up as a footnote in an interview or on a Wikipedia entry, it meant something much larger to the person who lived that life.

But for right now, my monumental decision has passed.  I'm out of work, and I can't change that decision.  Right now, I'm just experiencing the doldrum of the day in and day out.  Attending comedy classes and rehearsals at night, but spending the majority of my days either reading about screenwriting, writing, or watching episodes of 30 Rock for inspiration.  It's not much of an interesting life at the moment, but hopefully it will go down in my history books as a little footnote on the path to greatness.

Surrogate City

DAY THIRTY-FOUR: The Pauper Says Goodbye

Family is a fluid term.  Yes, the images conjured that immediately leap to mind with the word are often the mother, father, offspring and perhaps a cute little furry creature in the corner.  We all have this family.  It's a blood relation formed the moment of conception.  But through our lives, we formulate new families as we branch on our own.

Sometimes, when your immediate family, say, moves to another country, or you move to another city; its the blood bonds that keep you together.  But their absence means that you need to supplement your familial belonging with something new.  For twenty-somethings branching into their own lives, this often means a circle of friends.  Classmates (at a school of improv), or your job.

Today I said goodbye to one of my families.

For most people, work is what we do day-to-day to receive a paycheck to support ourselves.  We do the daily grind of nine to five not necessarily out of passion for the job at hand, but because the compensation is what we need to do the things that supplement our lives.  But when you are at this supplementary life situation, you don't realize that the day-to-day drudgery actually fills most of your life.  It's simply what you do.  It's not until you leave your post that you realize you've actually formed a family with your co-workers.  You see these people more often than your biological family, your friends, or your sweet as hell kitty that nestles on your chest the moment you lay down for a binge session of "Breaking Bad" on Netflix.

But your work family is your family.  It's the people you see for an average of 40 hours a week.  Compare that to anyone else in your life.  Even a roommate can come up short.

Today I said goodbye to my work family of over two years of my life.  I've done this multiple times.  But today was different.  Today was a family I deserted for selfish reasons.  A family who loved me enough to throw me a surprise party in the conference room and share their feelings on why they would miss me, but how excited they were to see me pursuing my dreams.  These are people I have clocked in just under 5,000 hours of my life with.

The thing about work families is that most of us spend our time with them doing something we find necessary to live our "outside lives."  But we spend so much time with them during this time that we often forget to seek them out during our "off" work periods.  That doesn't diminish the relationship, but rather takes it for granted.  Like a couple hitting their seven year itch, our work families are always simply there.  So even when you've prepared for months to say goodbye, you never really realize it until the week beyond "vacation time" has passed.

Where does this leave you?

As someone who has spent most of her life moving around and adopting new families, you would think this comes easy.  A natural acceptance of life much like gaining weight and getting UTIs.  But it doesn't get easier.  It simply gets different.

It's hard right now.  And it will be hard to ensure this family lasts in my life.  But what I know right now is this: I rode my bike home from Second City tonight and saw a Skid Steer (a construction vehicle that caused the accident of a major case of ours.)  And I cried.  Why did an industrial piece of machinery force emotions out of me reminiscent of Shirley MacLaine in "Terms of Endearment"?  Because I knew I would never have to care about that piece of machinery again.

And the emotions I felt at that moment proved in me that the difficulty in saying goodbye to one family I've cherished will pale in comparison to the happiness I will feel in my new adventure.

But from the cheap seats, I say, "Goodbye my loves.  I hope we can do lunch.  And maybe we can grab a beer."