#idindustries

Let’s title this “Thinly Veiled Self-Hatred” because I’m tired of masquerading as if everything is perfect and wonderful and amazing all the time.

There are hills in the distance that just taunt me with their glory. If I need nature to remind me why I believe in God, it’s those hills, and I want to climb them; I want to conquer them. I want to set foot on every inch of yellow grass, follow every trail through every forest, know these hills so intimately that I can truly call Southern Oregon my home.

I had the romantic thought to go chasing after sunrise photos this morning, running a mile-and-a-half to the top of the universe and facing east just when the moment was right.

But I don’t have the lung capacity for that. And as a small woman, I cannot make this journey alone. Not cannot; should not. “Should” is a bad word on my tongue. It’d be dangerous for me to entertain my spontaneity. I’m too stupid to know how to fight a bear in the forest or a man with a pocketknife. I’m stupid to humor the idea; I’m better off staying at home.

I lapse into fantasy too often; probably a product of my brain not being competent enough to live anywhere above the land of stupidity. Fake it ‘til you make it and that’s as good as it’s going to get. Sometimes I think about the boy I hope to marry, and I put a real name to a real face for the sake of comforting myself while I slip into delusion. In the real world, I want to go see this boy, but he lives so far away. I’d drive down the ocean for him, but the roads get too windy on the edges of cliffs. I don’t have the money to spend on hotels. Could I sleep in a hotel room by myself, anyway? With rusty air conditioners that could catch on fire and running toilets with leaky pipes? I don’t even know how to pump my own gas.

There’s an idyllic sentiment that people in their twenties “should” up and travel before they lose the opportunity to family and career. But I’m held in place by paralysis. God, do I want to be that person who camps out on a blanket under the Milky Way, listening to the sounds of the waves and understanding that I’m only a tiny piece of the universe.

But I can’t.

And you don’t understand, but I can’t.

Genuinely.

No lies.

I’m alone in my room at 5:33 a.m. thinking about how I’ll never escape my self-imposed prison, but at least it’s a sensible price and I don’t mind the setting too much.

Not like I could change my mind anyhow.

But don’t worry. I’ll never forget. Because people laugh when I get cute and flustered but I snuck away twice to cry yesterday because I know I’m never going anywhere. I’m not freaking out and I don’t have a bad attitude. I need a prescription or someone to talk to.

Righttt I said I was going to writtte again

As if fuckboy didn’t message me in the middle of the night hoping my standards would be low enough to send a “hey” back.

It’s not like I refuse to give my heart to another human but it’s sunk pretty deep into my chest, deep behind my ribs, and there’s some metaphorical key that starts a heater to melt some ice or whatever other shit you’re supposed to know about Capricorn.

Hint: I read times on a clock like promises.

Newsflash: I was asleep and you didn’t have permission to go there. But you’re another fuckboy who I’ve weeded out of my life. Insert something metaphorical about my secret garden.

Maybe I’m making peace with a host of societal constructs. Maybe I’m annoyed that my tequila-hungover-self had to see a little red one by your face at 1:30 this morning, because you’re just another bullet on my list of bullshit I have to deal with in my day.

I think too fast.

I think too fast about the things I don’t want to think about. I can’t slow down enough to think about what I want to think about because there’s either zero or ninety, there is not in between. If there is a period of acceleration or deceleration I can’t think about it, because I’m too distracted by the act that I’m caught in. Rapid disassociation happens at one end, stand-still nonexistence happens at the other, and observation happens somewhere in the middle.

I can’t think about what I want to do.

I tell myself I’m going to schedule time to think about what I want to do because that must be the root of all my problems—I don’t have time. I’m too overwhelmed by all I have to do and all I have going on to actually stop and breathe for a little bit. Self-imposed harm by outside forces, like I hate myself so I bury myself in things I can blame on other people and say “but it’s because I’m so nice” at the end of the day. Is this just the way I’m programmed? Is this a symptom of the anxiety or some parental heritage? Monkey see, monkey do, Daddy has a love/hate relationship with his life and I’m sinking into the same patterns.

I don’t want to edit this. That’s going to require me going slow. Too slow. Like how I skip all the slow songs on my iPod when I’m driving because I don’t have time for that bullshit. There are certain songs that start out slow but grow with a perfect intensity to match how heavy my foot gets on the gas pedal, particularly in that spot when I first turn off of 62 onto 140, going from a stop light to the recommended dosage of 55 miles-an-hour.

I’ve taken that road at 80. Not all the time, but it happens.

So where does this leave all those “what I wanted to be when I grow up” scenarios? I don’t fucking know I don’t fucking know I DON’T FUCKING KNOW                 because that would be answering a question that comes to others’ minds so easily, and I have to slow down and think about it for a bit. What am I good at? I can answer that shit. What does my heart tell me?

My heart tells me it’s easier to crawl into bed and watch reruns on Netflix than try to figure out why I’m unhappy in all the facets of my life. Or my heart tells me it’s all a delusion. One or the other. Rapid disassociation or stand-still nonexistence. Everything is perfect because I’m so successful by the easiest standard of success there is to think about!

Let’s not talk about boys. I don’t want to think about boys. Boys live in that land of disassociation where I think I could be in love with someone someday if I ever figured out how to stop being so goddamn selfish.

What is this? What is this? I’m becoming too self-aware.

As my first post on I.D. Industries (or at least the NEW I.D. Industries, considering my other blog was known under such name until recently) I figured I would write about what projects I have going for summer 2012. 

There are three main projects, but really four in total:

*Harlequin, a novel I wrote during my sophomore year of high school, is finally going to be revised and lengthened. It introduces on of my favorite characters, Corbin, and focuses on his life in the music industry and relationship with former bad girl Natasha. 

*Enigma is the yet-unwritten sequel to Harlequin, which basically bridges the gap between Harlequin and a few other writing projects that I have in mind that practically take place in an entirely different universe. 

*Far From Home is my first science-fiction endeavor that I started writing last summer but ended up abandoning when I was shipped off to college. Not only is it (literally) a new universe for me in terms of genre, but it's also an experiment in reverse gender-bending. I typically only write about male characters (I'm not really sure why) and Destiny is my first experiment with writing a lead character of my own gender. 

*And outside of writing, I'm working on a scrapbook about my trip to Florida last year with Future Business Leaders of America. The scrapbook is the quickest/easiest of all of the projects mentioned, so expect to see many of those updates soon. 

Note: much of my blogging about my writing will be vague for obvious reasons. But someday I hope to be able to share my writing with the world, and when that day comes whoever read this blog might be happy to make sense of all of these little cryptic secrets. This blog is really for my own personal accountability in the first place, so I'm not sure if many will read it.... but I thought it would be a good idea for now.