Forward to the Past...

Okay, it's four in the morning, I'm slightly nauseous from Goldfish and Little Debbie Christmas Tree cakes, and I'm insomnia-ridden. Not because of the tumultuous churning of my stomach, but because a revelation practically t-boned my mind. I am 21 years old and I'm screwed. I say this because there is a very strong possibility that I will not follow the field that my major is in. Every 5 years I change my life course. Blah, indecision. Will I be one of those college students that know practically every professor, what classes are offered what semester, and how to pass said class? Will I be the 40 year old grad? *gag* Graduate school to me pretty much is an extension on postponing the onset of the real world (college itself is the primary postpone-ation). How long can I actually continue on majoring in plagiarism?

Fast forward 10 years. Option A: I will be a successful associate news producer, waking up every day at ungodly hours to deal with my boss, who is "firm, but fair". (Pardon the cliche.) I will put my Starbucks coffee in a steel thermos, fight rush hour traffic to go discover what gang member initiate has held a gas station at gunpoint or what local child has gone missing. Fun stuff. Option B: I will be earning my doctorate degree in something or other. I will be living in a duplex next to a lady with 6 cats, 2 birds, and an iguana. She will cook something that smells absolutely ghastly and I will retire to bed with a gargantuan mal a tete and a 50 page dissertation slowly but surely destroying my life. Neither of these journeys sound fulfilling nor promising...hence my dilemma. Oh, not to mention the fun onslaught of bills that I have to look forward to. What joy.



Oh well. At least I have this as my motivation to continue on.

A Slightly Bipolar Moment...

Have you ever felt alone inside your own mind? Like the thoughts that you possess transcend what you are going through? Like the sheer misunderstandings of those around you bring you to tears? Well I’m there now. All I can do is imagine myself sailing above these problems, above these buildings that simultaneously free me and bind me…people that are meant to be my equal are seemingly fast-moving sugar ants under my feet. I have no idea where to turn. I need some sort of escape. Somewhere my mind can soar with no fear of being judged nor misguided; where I can be myself with no sort of scrutiny. Does such a place exist? Is there anywhere I can find true peace and elude even myself? Where my tears can fall without a sound and I can take pleasure in their silence? It is not the loneliness that instills fear in me; it isn’t the solitude that defines me. It’s the cold. The icy chill of the other side of the bed. The way the lucid water shrivels my fingertips when I’ve been in the shower too long from crying. The heartless echo of an empty room. The “there is someone out there for everyone” ideal leaves me without hope. I have learned that conforming myself to what a man wants is not the way—hell, they don’t even know what they want. My becoming this relationship chameleon only defeated me in the long run. I lost pieces of myself along the way. Does the empty ever go away? Does one finally regain that sense of oneness, with or without a mate? As soon as I thought I knew who I was, my world was once again turned upside down. The in crowd is out, nobody is trying to keep up with the Joneses anymore and what’s silent is sound. Laughter makes my skin crawls like a squeaky Styrofoam cup. Why am I here? What purpose do I serve in other’s lives? If no one can hear me scream, am I really screaming? Or is there just no one ceasing their busy lives to listen to my lamentations. Ecoute, s’il vous plait. How do I know my real friends from those who are using me? For my possessions, for my time, for my body…still trying to find my way out of the maze…

Britney Spears Might Have Been On to Something...

People have lots of definitions about what it means to be a woman. Getting your period, getting pregnant, enduring life-altering changes, having sex...and I've been through all these before 21. So why don't I feel like a woman? Why do I still feel like the little girl whose front teeth were always a little too big for her mouth, but chose to smile anyway? The loving daughter who thought my mother could do anything? Or that misled adolescent that fell in love with a guy who was just a little too old? I still have the urge to tell people that I'm 18 every once in a while. Here I am approaching that age-purgatory between 21 and 30, and mentally, high school seemed like yesterday. I am not butterfly nor caterpillar; not a girl, not yet a woman (circa late-90s Britney Spears). How does an "adult" react to situations such as these? Is there a such thing as early life crisis? Instead of buying a sportscar and getting Botox, should I hop on seesaw with a juice box and take a nap at 2 in the afternoon? In the movie "Stepbrothers", Will Ferrell queried to his psychiatrist how to be an adult. It was meant to be farce, but in me it struck a nerve. Droves of teens and college students desperately yearn to be "grown" and "21 bout theirs". What does that entail? Paying bills? Moving out of your parent's houses? To me it just sounds like a technology blinded generation running, barreling toward a life of monotony. Am I supposed to be excited to join this fleet of "women" where the only surefire ticket to success is an oxymoron--a scripted reality show? When did just being a girl become an insult?

"Hi, My Name is Crystal, and I Am Not a Groupie..."

Maybe someone could explain this shit to me, because apparently, I'm just not getting it. There is no reason to be a groupie over anyone except Jesus Christ himself. Quite frankly, any monkey with a finger and a screech can sing into an autotuner, but not everyone can walk on water or feed five thousand with five loaves of bread. Yet, I digress. First of all: groupie-(n) an ardent fan of a celebrity or of a particular activity, as per dictionary.com. Although this is it in a nutshell, I feel they should amend this definition. Many groupies, of the rap persuasion in particular, will do ANYTHING to grasp even a minuscule piece of this "artist's" attention. Please. I am not personally prepared to remove my underwear that probably cost more than dinner and throw them on a stage to be swept up with confetti, gum, and whatever trash may be up there. Neither am I prepared to air out my dirty laundry in a tell-all confession that may be a New York Times Bestseller but irreversibly brutalizes my reputation and my psyche.

I recently met a guy, who claimed to be a big-time producer for Slip-N-Slide (whether he was or not, I don't know. Don't really care). He was feeding me hella crap about all the cars and houses and shit he had. The thing was, he was used to women falling all over him and being his...you guessed it. Groupies. Me? Not even, bruh! I don't know why I was not born with this seemingly innate female characteristic, but then again I don't ask why I wasn't born with 12 fingers either. And sidebar: this guy was not the cutest either. It was one of those rags-to-riches stories where the kid who was teased in high school gets a little money and self-confidence, swag if you will, and proceeds immediately to the nearest cool kids' table. Spare me, guy. Looks like if you take away the clothes, the diamonds and the cash-induced swag, I'll take the monkey with the autotuner.

Best Friend or No?

How the hell do people get caught up in such situations? Friends with benefits...or maybe more than just friends without benefits? I'm so lost. This person is someone you talk to everyday, think about everyday, but is not your significant other. Not even close. You can talk about your genitalia without talking about sex. This person knows that you have someone, and will even listen to you vent about your here-today, gone-tomorrow relationship. So is this dude my Jersey angel disguised in gentleman's couture? How can one put such a complicated situation in a box? Or slap a cheap label on it? Or do you even want to? I was once told that I was the only girl he talked to on a regular basis. How do I take that? He's one of the only people I can talk to about my problems without being judged, debate the most recent political foolishness with, and understand my dry, sarcastic sense of humor. So what damn box does this relationship go into? Maybe I can put it into one of those butter cookie tin cans...

"Life Has a Funny Way of Sneaking Up on You..."

Well, hot damn, I looked up and matured and I didn't even realize it. Crappy life situations have the capability of making one grow up incredibly fast. For instance, I had an incredibly awful indoor track season because of "extenuating circumstances". When these circumstances were taken care of, it changed my life. I came to the conclusion that some people are completely satisfied with being mediocre...and I am not one of those people. It's funny how I used to tell people I looked up to things just so they'd get off my back; bull that just sounded good. Now...I don't want to just talk...the desire to be a "do-er" is so empowering.

Then again, there are situations that manage to get the best of me. For instance, my attitude is horrible. At first I used to voice my harsh opinion the first chance I got, be it toward a superior or otherwise. Controlling my snide comments was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Trying to deal with your own trite characteristics, once its been brought to your attention, is one of the most difficult things to do. However, I'm still not dealing with it in a healthy way; instead of me voicing my opinion, I emotionally shut down. Okay, and that is the end of Dr. Phil's section in this blog. Talking about feelings gets me depressed. Blah.

I also realized it's incredibly easy to listen to other people's bullshit and let it get to you. A friend of mine recently asked me why didn't I get married to my boyfriend and we'd been together for almost 5 years. This thought festered in my head until it turned into anger and distrust. I gave him an ultimatum: marry me in 6 months or we're over. This was an incredibly idiotic mistake on my part. This turned us against each other and made us not even want to get married. Moral of the story: don't let anybody deal with your bullshit...except you.

to be continued...(I always say that and I never do...)

What Have We Come To?

Just watching the meniality of today's so-called "reality shows" is disheartening. It seems there is not a shortage of young, oftentimes college educated women, who will subjectify and compromise themselves for the sake of being on television. Engaging in uncouth activities simply for money or for the sake of being on a nationally syndicated network, my question is: what image does this portray of women to the younger generation? Or more importantly, the world? Apparently, this terrible image has no sense of age, ethnicity or background. The million-dollar pop star can be just as catty and emotional as the ghetto hoodrat from Brooklyn. This is, simply put, FRIGHTENING. These syndications are getting unfathomably rich because of shows like Flavor of Love (seasons one through like, 17) and the equally nauseating Rock of Love. These women drink, engage in lesbian escapades and dispel all morality and self-respect within the span of a month or two. The most eye-opening show for me the the recent VH1 reality show "A Real Chance At Love." He took two women who had grown close in the house as comrades, turned them against each other (whereas a debacle ensued), and then picked NEITHER OF THEM. Then, the women, both struggling to maintain a long-ago-forsaken sense of dignity, picked up the pieces and left the show quietly. I don't understand. Producer choose shows that audiences will follow faithfully to gaze blankly at the television set to chatter about what drama happened on the show the night before. What happened to talking about other dramas, such as House or CSI? Let's not even talk about how this means the death of the public programming. Where else am I going to get a full documentary on the migration patterns of geese of the origins of a supernova? Damnit.