Birthday Number 34

So today is my birthday. A day that, until last year, I was usually excited for. I've always looked forward to my birthdays, even as I grew older and was denied all of those things that make birthdays great: cake, ice cream, parties, and presents.

Nowadays, all I can look forward to is counting how many well wishes I receive on Facebook. And while I appreciate people taking time out of their lives to give me a birthday shout-out, it rings hollow when compared to the festive birthdays of the past. This is especially true this year; being unemployed has robbed me of the spending money to go out and do something fun, and the majority of my friends live in different states.

Normally, I look at my birthday as a day of renewal, a personal new year. I contemplate my goals and spend time hoping the coming year is going to be grand-- only to have those hopes fall short, shattering apart not unlike raw eggs on concrete.

My hopes.

But, while I could never be mistaken as an optimist, I can at least stubbornly cling to the dream that this coming year will be the exception to the epic crap salad that has been my adult life. In the spirit of that dream, I've compiled a short list of lessons I've learned over the last orbital trip around the sun. In no particular order:

9 times out of 10, I can make better food than I can buy at a store. Especially chicken soup.
This one is pretty basic, but it helps to keep it in mind. Barring extreme illness, it's better to take some extra time to cook a meal myself rather than rely on the questionable quality of a prepackaged meal. I'm not Gordon Ramsey by any means, but I'm good enough to produce tasty stuff.

The exception being baked goods. I just... no.

Mine are usually worse than this.

It's better to try and not succeed than not try at all.
2016 has been a humbling year for me. The two big endeavors of my life have been building an acting career and a writing career. Sad to say, my acting career doesn't seem to be happening. When I first got into my talent agency, I was enthusiastic beyond measure. Now two years later, and I've all but given up. I'm not getting enough work to make a continued effort worth it; the last acting job I had was in February. I've had nary an audition since, despite getting a number of availability checks; for whatever reason, I'm not getting the opportunities. Acting is an expensive business; classes are expensive, head shots are expensive, and travel is expensive. As much as it pains me to say, I'm not making nearly enough from acting to continue at this point.

Now obviously that's a kick in my morale balls. But as sucktastic as it is, at least I can happily say that I've given it an honest attempt. The same cannot be said for my writing endeavors.

In my last birthday post, I had declared that I would have my book in publishable condition; it would be edited, test read, and ready to either be self published or sent out to the big publishing houses. Long story short, I spent this past year doing everything but work on that poor, neglected book. Unlike my acting career, I haven't given it much effort, despite it being on my mind near-constantly. I've nagged at myself, berated myself, threatened myself, and called myself all sorts of mean names in order to actually get off my ass and start writing. Which would mean getting back on my ass, since I don't have a standing desk...

The point is, I'm very disappointed at myself, and if I could jump back to September 18th, 2015, I'd actually do this thing and prevent a year from draining away faster than Donald Trumps dignity.

It's easier to accept people for who they are and move on, rather than getting caught up in their drama.
It took a long time for me to get at this point, but I'm here now. As I get older, I've come to realize that I don't have the time or energy to deal with the bullshit. I learned this lesson from dealing with my little brother. I love my little brother very much, and I know he loves me too. The problem is that we are complete opposites in so many respects, and we have nothing in common beyond being blood. Nothing. No interests or hobbies at all. We rarely talk, because we have nothing to talk about.

It wasn't always like this. When we were children, my brother and I were closer than close; despite being older, I didn't speak much as a small child, so my little brother often translated what I wanted to say. Sadly, time and distance as withered that once close bond, and now we're almost strangers.

To compensate, my little brother always acts like a 12 year old when dealing with me; he calls me names, he initiates wrestling matches, and other frivolity. For years, it would bug the hell out of me, because I'm not 12 anymore. So of course I'd get angry at him, and we'd get into fights.

But once I realized what he's doing, I just kind of went with the flow. My little brother has many flaws, and can be a considerable headache to not just myself, but the rest of the family as well. But I find that I don't get mad at him as much anymore. He is who he is, and while I certainly don't approve, I'm not going magically change him. So I'll just shake my head and move on whenever his actions causes grief.

Always make sure you have toilet paper in the bathroom before you do your business.
Learned that the hard way.

Where's your god now?

I'm ill-suited to the daily grind.
If I've learned anything from the three years at my former job, it's that I'm ultimately not cut out for the 9-5 grind. I'm just not. Most people are accepting of that routine, and more power to them. I am not, and I need to stop forcing my square peg to fit into that circle.

That didn't sound as dirty in my head.

The point is, I need to start looking outside the box, because the inside of the box is filled with the rancid scent of farts from a group of lactose-intolerant obese men just returning from an orgy at Baskin Robbins.

Time to fuel up.

And finally:
No matter what I want to do in life, I'll have to work for it.
Since I wasn't born a member of the Kardashian clan, I'm just going to have to accept that nothing is going to be handed to me on a silver platter. That includes any sort of success in this writing thing. A big part of the inertia this past year involving my book was that it would actually require work. Well, that and the crippling self doubt.

Ugh.





I want to give a big Thank You to everyone who has stuck around and actually read my blog over the years. I'm always pleasantly surprised whenever I receive feedback, criticisms, and well-wishes. I appreciate you taking the time to read my silly rants.

An Ode to September

*Warning: Don't let the title fool you. This isn't an actual ode, because I'm a terrible poet and wouldn't dream of inflicting my poor attempts on you. I'm an asshole, not a fucking asshole.

September is a weird time of the year for me. It has been for as long as I can remember. For most, it marks the end of the summer months and heralds the beginning of autumn; the air picks up a certain crisp chill, and the leaves turn from their normal verdant into vibrant shades of orange, yellow and brown. And of course, I can't fail to mention the fall scents:  decaying leaves and fucking pumpkin spice everything. I'm sure all the white girls are rejoicing as they slip on their uugs and make their way to the nearest Starbucks for a steaming cup of pumpkin spice vomit.

When you see these everywhere, it's fall.

For me, September has always marked the beginning of an onslaught of ironies. I find myself anticipating it with a surge of excitement, but also a deep seated dread. There's joy that comes from watching the beautiful colors erupt from the trees, and sadness because the warm, carefree summer months of my youth are gone forever. And of course, the fall means that winter is right around the corner.

Yes...

September is also the month of my birth, and thus marks the beginning of the end of another year of my life. As time goes by, I tend to stress out more and more about my birthday. Not because I'm inching closer to the grave; I tend towards the philosophical when it comes to aging and death, and try to look at it as a journey rather than a frightening cessation of my earthly existence.

"Keep telling yourself that..."

Rather, the thing that stresses me out are wasted time and missed opportunities, of which I'm sure there are countless. As my birthday draws near, I can't help but reflect on the past year, on my accomplishments. Or lack of accomplishments as the case may be, because I haven't done a damn thing that would warrant celebration. Just more of the same: struggle to pay the rent and bills, get enough food in my stomach, and dodge the student loans, which are more persistent than Pepe Le Pew on the trail for pussy.

Pepe and his pussy...cat. Jesus, that's just creepy as hell.

Now that September is here, I find myself contending with the conflicting sensations of despair and determination, agony and elation. I'll be 34 this year, which is pushing me firmly into the middle age category. That's frightening to me; my teens and twenties are firmly behind me now, and I can safely be referred to as a thirty-something. Gray hairs have begun to creep into my beard like weeds, and I'm certain that if I hadn't started shaving my head years ago, I'd be going bald now. At this point, people my age are supposed to be firmly entrenched in careers and families; I'm still working low paying jobs and I can't remember the last time I wasn't single as fuck. Both my younger and older brothers have families of their own, complete with children. Me, I haven't been on a date since I entered my 30's. 

BUT, humiliating and depressing facts aside, I also can't help but get excited about September. After all, it's my birthday! Sure, instead of presents and cake, I get gray hair and old age, but it's still my birthday. And let's not forget that a new year means the opportunity to do better than last year. It's the chance to set down some goals and possibly work on those goals. Hell, maybe even complete a few of them. 

In short, it's a beginning of sorts. I just hope it isn't the beginning of a mid-life crisis.

I certainly don't feel any older than I did since last year, or the year before that. The fact is, I have to remind myself that I'm not in my twenties sometimes. It doesn't hit home until I witness something that firmly slaps me in the face and sternly remarks, "You aren't a kid anymore. Deal with it." 

For example, a few weeks ago, I was sitting on the bus, headed home after lollygagging downtown. Sitting across from me were a small group of teens. I was struck with just how much time has passed since I was in high school. There was a certain youthful exuberance about them; their every motion seemed to jolt with a hidden electricity, as if sitting still was impossible for them. It was refreshing to see, and also disappointing, because it wasn't until I was presented with a demonstration of that energy did I realize that I lacked much of it. 

That isn't to say that I'm hunched over on a walker, gasping for air because I took five steps. But I can recall, long ago, moving and reacting to stimuli in the same manner. Now, unless I'm in the grip of an emotional response, I can't seem to muster that same level of energy. High school was 16 years ago, but it seems much longer.