12/20/16.

The New Zealand music scene is alive and well...mostly due to Melted Ice Cream, a rejuvenated Flying Nun.  However, it should be mentioned that there are plenty of other outlets for New Zealand’s finest.  Danger Collective Records from Los Angeles somehow has a pipeline.  Roy Irwin’s amazing S.O.D.A. cassette comes to mind immediately.

MINT CHICKS: Life Will Get Better Some Day

Shit has been kinda bonkers lately over here. First, a breakup. Exactly one week later, my main squeeze publication shuffles in such a way I’m left without steady work in about two weeks. Between both of those and since, there’s been other weird bummers and expenses—like, holy cow. Did y’all know how much brake pads average? QUITE A BIT.

I must be approaching my return to Saturn or whatever, too, because a number of people from my past—OK, mostly dudes—have also surfaced. In an effort to be less terrible and/or continue a quest to impersonate actual humans, they all ask about me. How am I doing? I answer honestly: it could be better. Although I know there’s some fucked up expectation or practice in which we really should lie to exes. “Everything is peachy!” “I’m MURDERING life!” “Scientists found oil under my apartment and now I’m buh-buh-baaallin’. Also, Harry Styles and I have a sexual relationship!!” (To be clear, I understand it’s probably not scientists responsible for unearthing new oil reservoirs. That’s for effusive, Texan NRA members, I think.) I certainly don’t aim for sympathy or even continued conversation with these people. I’m just trying to maintain honesty, I guess.

The recent stretch of bad luck is far from my favorite and sure, I have bouts of feeling like a fucking trashcan potato person. But! I feel weirdly optimistic? There was a good amount of my most recent situation(s) that left me feeling unfulfilled. I didn’t get a worthwhile shot. The challenge wasn’t paying off—or wasn’t worth it. There wasn’t the growth potential I want (or need. Not sure yet about that).

So! Life just fucking flipped out. As it is wont to do. Although it doesn’t make much for a flattering story to share with exes—like, I don’t think any set down their phone or Gchat window to immediately stare off into the middle distance and think of me, maybe get a boner—it’s part of the personal narrative. The one in which each following chapter gets more dope.

Because ain’t growth kinda impossible without the scariness? The unknown? The effort and the risk?