#probablywillkeepwriting

Well, I finally gave in and made a blog like my boyfriend said I should. I’m not quite sure of what I should write down on here other than just things that I happen to think about, and in that sense it seems perfectly appropriate. 

I’m 20 years old. White, male, and I’m gay. But those things don’t really matter, do they? In the grand scheme of things (the most cliche thing I’ve ever typed), those identifiers don’t mean shit when it comes to living my life. 

For starters I’m an aspiring author, which is something I’ve wanted to do for mostly my entire life, though recently I’m not sure if I’ll ever realize that dream. 

I find myself thinking every day that I’ll just spend the rest of my life in the work force, waiting tables every night for eternity until I die. Don’t get me wrong, serving is a fairly lucrative job to have. On a good night I can make over $100, and usually I work four days a week. Since I live in Washington (but not SeaTac) I make $9.47 an hour. So on average I make about $400 a week, and then a paycheck of around $250-300 every other week. 

I take the bus to work every day, mostly. And I spend an average of $50 every three weeks on bus transit to get to work, and my commute is usually just under an hour every day. When I write it down it feels like I have such a nice, normal life. But does anybody really want that completely and totally? A life without excitement, only constant and crushing routine, yet a routine that wraps you in a sense of calm and safety. 

I work at a Buffalo Wild Wings, a restaurant that, if you know me, is not indicative of my personality in the slightest. I don’t like sports, I don’t really eat or drink the traditional “manly” foods like wings and beer and shit like that, and I’m not particularly fond of loud and obnoxious crowds that make booming screams of victory every thirty seconds. Yet, that’s where I work. Football season at a sports bar is probably the worst place you can ever be, at least for a person like me.