oshitbritt

A year ago today I published my first novel, Stars Melt to Milk. Since then, my worldview has expanded immensely, my interests have diversified, and my writing has gotten like a trillion times better. All of this has led me to the decision to stop printing new copies of Stars Melt to Milk. It may seem like a dramatic decision, but hear me out.

If you watch my YouTube channel, you may recall a video where I said I didn’t want to talk about feminism anymore on the internet. I’ve made one more video since then, and then sorta ducked out of the YouTube scene unnoticed—which is exactly how I like to make my exits. I said I didn’t want to talk about feminism anymore because of the hate and harassment I had been receiving for a while. Which is certainly true, but not the entire story.

My real-not-on-the-internet life has way more going on in it than feminism and writing. I go to work, I spend time with my family, friends, and boyfriend, I do yoga, go to the public market, make candles and other crafts, hike, read, travel, take photos, go to Goodwill to make trendy outfits (at least I think they’re trendy), go to poetry readings, make food. I want to travel more and get a dog. My poetry has become more important than writing articles about feminism.

For a long time, I didn’t think those things were worthy about talking about on the internet. I felt the need to talk about intellectual things all the time, despite it stressing me out and not being conducive to my day-to-day life. I don’t know why I thought that, I just did. And it’s not that I don’t ever want to talk about intellectual things or feminism or social justice. I just don’t want that to be my focus anymore. Maybe I’ll write more on that later.

I’ve thought endlessly about the platform for my writing that I’ve built so far and how trapped I feel in it. I’ve thrown ideas around of how I can seamlessly transition into writing and talking about things that are more reflective of my real life. But I’m not really willing to go through an awkward puberty-esque transition on the internet for anyone to see.

I was watching an Anna Akana video on YouTube the other day when she mentioned that she’s made multiple YouTube channels before she made one that stuck and she felt natural in. That was a really freeing thought for me. That maybe I don’t have to hold on so tightly to what I’ve built so far—the Oshitbritt Empire (lol) and Stars Melt to Milk.

Stars Melt to Milk was a great learning experience for me to figure out how to write a novel and publish it. I did put a lot of work into it and I’m proud of the fact that I saw my project through until the end. If nothing else, it’s a testament to my passion, willingness to put myself out there, and determination—all qualities in myself that I think are fucking awesome.

But as I’m writing Blood Bananas and Gold Dust Odyssey (and I’ve talked about this in a video as well), I’m realizing that Stars Melt to Milk isn’t anywhere close to the quality of writing I’m capable of. I wrote it and published it with the intent of getting as many books out as I could. I didn’t take as much time as I would have liked to really contemplate what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it.

Blood Bananas, Gold Dust Odyssey, and all my future work is going to be a lot different. And I don’t want to ride off of decisions I made when I was nineteen and twenty. That’s just silly.

On July 24th I flew back to reality from San Francisco. My previous ten days had been a transformative experience. I felt a yearning as I turned on each street and saw "help wanted" posters, fantasizing about picking one up, killing the interview, finding a cheap apartment in Oakland, and starting a new life.

Instead, I got on that plane and swallowed my wanderlust, returning to everything mundane. It isn't that I dislike my life. Quite the opposite. I'm stable—in most senses of the word, healthy, starting to get a handle on adulthood, able to enjoy some simple luxuries, and lucky enough to still have time to write my stories. But there are things in my life that I don't like. That aren't perfect. That make me unhappy.

Those things trip me up all the time. Often I feel like a robot scanning my life for errors and then attempting to obliterate them, all in the name of being happy. While I was in San Francisco, I had moments of passion, excitement, love, relaxation, serenity, motivation, curiosity, gratitude, and bliss. I kept asking myself why I don't constantly have positive emotions washing over me at home. What am I doing wrong? What can I fix? What can I endlessly stress myself over until I am finally truly happy? 

Through my adult life, I've been going through the painstaking process of trying not to think that way. Happiness is a school of thought that most of us fruitlessly follow. Myself, being one of the most devout. I have a peachy picture painted in my mind of what my life will look like when I'm truly happy. My emotional brain completely ignores what my practical brain knows as fact. That you can never extract pain, hardship, sadness, etc. from your life. It will always be there. And you certainly cannot control the people and events that impact you. And it seems the more you subscribe to the idea of happiness, the more reactive you become to the people and events that impact you. The more you desire a life free from hardships and people letting you down, the more you cling to those things. What an awful rabbit hole that is.

So, San Francisco. For ten days I was living my peachy picture. Every morning getting up for a good coffee and a day full of exploring. That's what I wish my life could be all the time. Routine does more than bore me. It irritates me. It makes me feel fucking weird. I don't know why. Any therapists out there wanna pick at that? I hate going to the same restaurant more than once when so many restaurants exist in the world that I haven't been to. I like trying different looks, hairstyles, outfits, pattern and color combinations. I don't like to waste my time doing things that I've done already. The idea of having one distinct look, or being a regular at a diner, or having the same schedule week-to-week is gross to me. 

Traveling is an opportunity to observe people in an environment different than my own. It's a chance to try different cuisines and restaurants. I can see buildings, parks, cafes that are unique to that city. Get a feel for a way people live. 

I did all this in San Francisco, but for the first time while traveling I felt oddly at home as well. I visited a couple friends from high school, who despite lengthy times apart, we always have a sense of familiarity and accord. My friend, Hannah, took me around to see places and people that had meaning to her. And we had moments of novelty too. Like our last night there when we were hanging out at Lake Merritt and a crowd of fire dancers formed. Hannah and I tried out some fire dancing tricks, while my boyfriend, Doug, took pictures. The adventure mixed with the closeness of being with people I love was a recipe for momentary bliss. Not free from the pain of the world, but able to exist within it.

Spending ten days straight with each other was something Doug and I had never done. I was curious to see what would happen. In the beginning we bickered a little bit, trying to defend our independent personalities on a trip that meant a lot to both of us. Each of us wanted it to be everything we'd imagined it to be. And when our expectations conflicted, things got rough.

Throughout our adventures, we grew to understand each other deeper. Minor disagreements became something to giggle about. Differences were something to respect and care for in each other. I began to enjoy wandering through record stores or chatting over a cold beer—things he wanted to do. And he enjoyed hiking and museum wandering, which I had set out to do. Letting go of the selfish and controlling expectations opens you up to more experiences, and the delight that comes with them.

We watched the sunset over the Pacific Ocean from rocky cliffs on a beach. We walked around the Mission, looking for the best Mexican food. We went to record stores, museums, and aquariums. Saw the mighty redwoods. Went swimming in a foresty lake. We sang Elton John songs and show tunes at a piano bar with a man named Courtney (if you're out there, Courtney, we miss you). Gazed upon unforgettable views. 

That brings me to July 24th. Riding in the sky, above most of the rest of humanity. Thinking about what I'd need to do within the next year to start a different life in San Francisco. I ruminated on career ideas that would still allow me time and energy to write, but maybe be more lucrative than delivering panini. Yoga instructor—culturally appropriative. Flight attendant—still in the service industry, just in the sky. Funeral director—okay, maybe that's a really good one. 

Through my contemplation, John Denver and Mama Cass serenading me, and my gaze cast out on the clouds, I realized something. Anything I do in life, there will be struggle. Life's problems are like demons. They'll chase you wherever you go. With time, the demons would catch up with me, even in San Francisco. Battling them—not running—is the only real way to overcome them.

I have a lot of shit I need to cope with. I can and will write many more blog posts on all of them. Whether it's negative thinking patterns I need to overcome, or the practicality of supporting myself, or things I want to accomplish in my life, it's a part of living. 

The sooner you realize that every single person in the world is fucked up, the sooner you will find happiness.

I know this to be true, and still I struggle with it. I want people to live up to my unrealistic expectations. Happiness to me has always been some far-off thing that will be attained when everything goes perfectly.

Overtime, I've learned to abandon that thinking. But it's hard.

It's not as simple as excusing every shitty thing a person does. You have to draw the line somewhere. Certain things are inexcusable.

So I've seesawed between being too understanding and somewhat of a pushover and being too demanding and somewhat of an asshole. I'm different things with different people. Sadly, I've been more stern and less forgiving with people who are the most loyal to me. Counter-intuitive, yes. But I'm a weird-ass spiteful little human being.

So living a forgiving and understanding life has proven to be a fragile ecosystem. One I keep effing up on the road to balance. Something I found helps is deciding who to be loyal towards. You find your select group of people—family, friends, significant others, pets. And you defend them to the death. Even when you know they're wrong, you still defend them. But maybe tell them their wrong in privacy. Just so they never pull that shit again.

Really though, things are rarely about right or wrong. Categorizing the intricacies of life in such a way leads to a lot of stress and a lot of unfulfilled fantasies.

Think of being caught in the middle of two friends who are having a dispute. If you've ever been torn between two people, you know that neither are usually one hundred percent wrong or right. Disputes usually come from misunderstandings. Or they arise when two people see one situation in different ways and can't reconcile it with each other.

When you're in the middle of something and you want to be loyal to both people, things can get rough. But it can be a great tool for growth for all parties involved. If you have the ability to see multiple perspectives, you can reach out and be an agent of resolution.

There comes a time though where someone may exhaust your loyalty. You may have had their back, but they haven't had yours. They've broken your trust and hurt you. Cut them out of your life; it's not worth it.

It's not worth keeping people around that you don't trust. It's true that every single person is fucked up in their own way. But some people's way of being fucked up is not okay. And that'll stress you out. Because it's too much energy to tell someone who doesn't care about you that they hurt you. And it's too much energy to see someone's point of view who will never see yours.

Whispers, solemn and wise. They tell you mostly that you are wrong. Especially when you're doing what you really want to do. It's bad for you—or bad for everyone else. Even though you've never fully wrapped your mind around bad but you know you don't want to be it. Except in sexual fantasy. But even then, the whispers cast their judgement.

If you've ever tried to converse with them, you may have found something funky. They're in your head, but they're not your voice at all. And that doesn't make you mad. No—thoroughly human. But that might be one and the same.

Shhh. Be still and listen. It's your mother or your father. Your pastor and your teachers. It could be god. Or the devil, if that's how you like it. Your nosy neighbor or your bitter friend. The parents at your child's daycare. Maybe even the person who does your hair. The coworker that wants to be the boss. Could even be your spouse.

Hello, voice of shame. Tell me what you want from me. Because you surely don't know what's best for me. You barely know me or my finances, my aspirations or my faults. You don't know how hard I try or when I need a break. And you certainly never know what I'm happy. If I'm mistaken and you do, then you must be trying to sabotage me. For every time I stumble on euphoria [stumble—because there is no road map] you whisper that I'm wrong. It's leading to doom and it's my own damn fault. So tell me what you want from me. Is there something I can do that will satisfy you until you go away? A perfect way for me to be—a Promised Land up ahead? Guide me there. And if you can't, come out from behind your goddamn curtain.

You tell the whispers right, but they never seem to go.

They say you have too much pride, but in privacy you don't have any at all. You feel like nothing about you is prideful. Everything is shameful. Right down to your smile and the way that you walk. So you bite your lips and slump yourself over. The smaller you make yourself, the less they will see the truth.

Somehow the whispers convinced you that truth is wrong. Love, happiness, and everything good only comes to Perfect People.

You can be a Perfect Person too. By casting the the rays of shame outward on the world around you. See how others are flawed? They deserve to wallow in unhappiness. I mean, you are, so they should too. You make a simple comment. It belittles them; elevates you.

Dear Future Self,

Are you happy? Do you know what happiness means yet?

What have you learned in the years since writing this? What changed you? How many defining moment have passed? Have you seen a lot of pain? Have you let go of a lot of shame?

I don't want you to give up on your dreams. But if your dreams change—for fuck's sake—don't carry on out of spite. Or out of fear that someone will say, "you once said you wanted to do *this*. What made you give up?" Changing your focus is not giving up. Give your fire room to breathe. I hope that it's still burning. Because your fire is your virtue and your vice and your defining quality that's been there through all of time and space. But your fire could burn for anyone or anything. I just want to be assured that it's honest, sincere, and worthy—whoever and whatever it is.

Who are you?

Do you know?

What's important to you? What would you fight for? Or do you want to fight at all? Are you at peace or in turmoil? Is it what's best for you?

Who are your three closest confidants? What do you tell them and what are your secrets? Are they kind to you? Do they love you?

Have you been able to define love? Or are the parts still coming together, like an infinite puzzle? I hope you still feel the warmth and excitement. I hope you can balance it with practicality. I hope you don't feel alone, but I hope you love yourself first.

Where in the world are you? Where do you call home? What do you call home? Who do you call home? Is home comfortable, safe, charming, and unique? Do you want to be where you are?

What goals have you accomplished? What are your proudest moments? Who was there to share in them with you?

What's your style like now? Are you still a bad bitch? I hope so.

Remember me and these days fondly. Remember the good friends, the laughter, the travels, the late night talks, your support system, your favorite homes, your inspiration, your moments of pure bliss. But never forget the sleepless nights, the lost friendships and the people who broke your heart, the fights, the tears, the shitty jobs and shitty apartments, the confusion, the fatigue, the distrust, the insecurities. It was all important.

strawberries will go mad left out in the sun who cares and just feels guilty? senses are warped like choking down oatmeal for your own good because you haven't eaten in three days time

strawberries don't keep too long when the flies rub their front legs together someone else has to pay the price. which is shameful and obscene but an ivy vine can't grow on nothing you were still up to hear the first morning bird sing and to see an iridescent film of light traipsing across the greenery. closing your eyes doesn't stop time. you can either see the beauty or not— but it's been a struggle to know right from wrong