Drama-ween

Dear Friends,

As Halloween approaches me, I can’t help but be haunted by Halloweens past. For some reason, Halloween always is responsible for some sort of dramatic event in my life. It usually involves a boy and for whatever reason, being dressed up makes it all the more dramatic. I think the drama started my freshman year because it was the first time I got the “spins” from drinking. I remember laying in my Twin bed in my dorm thinking I was definitely going to die, and it was going to get great press because it’d be Halloween. Then I fell asleep, had no dreams and woke up, oddly alive and breathing. The following year, I dressed up as a slutty Dorothy (she followed too many yellow brick roads) and got in a fight with my then boyfriend about something I cannot remember due to “power hour” if that means anything to anybody… I ended up ripping off his aviator sunglasses (that were randomly apart of his costume but I just remember thinking he was dressed up as an asshole), throwing them on the floor, and stomping on them with my red glitter heels. Then I ran off in the freezing cold (it usually snows by Halloween in Boulder) and I believe one of my friends found me by word-of-mouth that a drunk, depressed Dorothy was running around the Hill. The following year, I wore the same outfit and had a love bite from some idiot I was seeing at the time, which prompted a random creeper on Colfax Avenue to ask me if Toto gave me that hickey. I had to give it to him though, pretty hilarious comment, even from a creeper.

The next year I was Jessica Rabbit – GET IT – and I wore a big, red wig. It was very hard to tame especially while wearing a winter jacket. I would never have the energy for that now. I finally made it down to my favorite bar (not a lot of cabs in Boulder, people) and someone rushed up to me. “OH MY GOD – I love your costume – Are you the Little Mermaid?” WHOA, what? Little Mermaid wears a bikini and has a tail. She’s also a mermaid and I was a rabbit. WTF – were we not all born in the 80’s? She’s literally the only cartoon character named Jessica and she was sexy so I had to be her. But like, to be confused with that Ariel slut was no fun. I guess people only noticed the red hair – in their defense, it was hard to see passed that.

Which brings me to last year when I was dating a guy who begged me to come to his friends’ Halloween party just so he could not talk to me. It was part of his costume – I should have known. He was Harpo Marx, and apparently, Harpo never introduced his girlfriend to his friends because you know, he wasn’t supposed to talk. He just honked his weird horn thing. I can still hear that horn. We broke up the next day.

This year, I am going to be Pebbles Flintstone. I hope I don’t get any Bam Bam jokes or hit on by someone dressed up as my father, Fred – or at worse, my mother, Wilma. Maybe I should bring the stone-aged bat out just as a safety measure.

I wonder why I’m always haunted with drama on Halloween. It’s like I’d rather have a ghost in my house than another dating Hallow-blunder. Maybe I should just be a Break-Up next year. Half of me could be a girl with make-up running down her face and the other half could be a guy drinking beer with his buddies. Oye, as we Jews say. Hope all of your Halloweens are drama-free! Be good to me NYC, please.

Kisses,

Jessica

Pest Control

Dear Friends,

Have you ever hit a point in your life where you feel like you wish you were an exterminator? That’s right. You heard me. I wish I had never gone to journalism school and that I instead went to pest control school because then maybe I wouldn’t have mice and roaches in my $1,300 a month apartment in the city. WTF is up with that?! Also, knowing how to trap and kill pests might aid me in dating. If only I could spray certain areas of my body to protect me from insensitive, non-committal Jewish dudes in suits – lucky floor boards. That would be awesome. I wish I could set snap traps on dates to have them injure themselves every time they lied, or told me that they “never feel this way” about women. Vomit. If only I could speak roach or mouse, it would help me deter bald-faced lies from pest-type men. It’s no wonder why women used the saying, “Don’t be a pest.” This is yet another lesson that my mother never taught me.

I was chatting with my beloved gay friend, Nick, in Colorado who’s known me since I was 17 and lived in a dorm (that attracted cedar bugs and wasps, might I add). I told him I would rather have a serial stalker than a mice/roach problem. At least then I could get a restraining order. Roaches don’t adhere to court jurisdiction, I hear. The best part of the story is that the inept company my manager hires to rid my apartment of pests, is called Dependable. It’s like within a name, they are successfully lying to my face. It’s like if dudes were named, “Just kidding – I don’t actually like you.”  They aren’t dependable – I stalk them so they call me back and tell them exactly what to do because I read up on it on the Internet. Something that is terrible about the Internet is that everybody can be an expert on something if you read the right article that sets you off into obsession oblivion. I have now become an Internet-certified expert on bed bugs (whom I got from a suit I dated in May), roaches, mice detection, West Nile symptoms (not to be confused with bed bug symptoms) and early signs of unavailable Jewish dudes in suits from the ages of 24-35. I can practically smell them walking down the street. They smell like Raid and disaster.

Sadly, I need to find a nice dude in a suit so that having roaches in my house isn’t so catastrophic. When I was a little, I would just go get my dad if I saw a spider. Now what do I do? My super hangs up the phone on me because he’s old and a misogynist. He likes to put peanut butter out so the mice get stuck on it and scream into the night. He thinks roaches are NBD. At that point, I feel sorry for the mice. I know what it’s like to get stuck in someone else’s peanut butter and scream. You feel helpless, vulnerable, and emotional – for humans, it’s emotional death but for mice it’s terminal. Mice are so weird, as are men who do not know what they want.

Some might say my site successfully deters unavailable (slash all) men from wanting to date me. If only a roach could surf the Web – then I would be an exterminator. Call me Dependable Jess.

Kisses,

Jessica

The Great 50

Dear Friends,

I just saw my favorite movie of the year last night – 50/50. It’s a comedy about cancer, and the reason why it works despite the morbid undertones is that the screenwriter based it off of his life. He experienced a cancer scare, and learned to be stronger because of it. He managed to depict a flawless range of emotions one would feel, and how they would all play out in a daily routine – you must eat, you must sleep and you must try to have relationships with people.

My favorite part about the movie was that the main character became emotionally stronger as he was growing physically weaker. During his time with cancer, he found out his girlfriend was cheating on him – and he was reliant on her for rides to the hospital for chemotherapy – and he still kicked her the ground and told her to F off when she came back. It was amazing that he did not fall to weaknesses when he was so alone and potentially near death. We should all be so strong. He would have rather suffered alone than suffered lying in bed with the wrong person each night. All bodies can radiate warmth but what matters is what is inside – even when push comes to shove – or when life nears death.

It got me thinking about so much in my life – not just my own issues with my health given that my mom developed cancer at such a young age. It got me thinking about how I need a person who is strong, considerate and devoted. My friend told me she was filling out an online dating profile and they asked a question, “What is the most important ingredient to a relationship – passion or dedication.” I told her maybe two years ago, or six months ago even, I would have picked passion. And now, I would only pick dedication. What is the point of a passion-filled relationship between the sheets if there’s no dedication between your hearts? Then I realized online dating is probably not for me.

I guess I’m finally admitting this and I don’t care who sees it: I am ready. I am ready for take-off: I’m in the cockpit, I’m flying the plane and I will only land for someone really genuine and real. I don’t have time for anything else otherwise. During my last break-up a few weeks ago, I asked the guy what he would have wanted from me in the future in a perfect world. We had carried on a VERY casual relationship for a couple of months and I was bored out of my mind. I had passion with him, but no dedication and no momentum. I need momentum – passion without momentum is boring. He told me he wanted to keep seeing me, but could it be “more casual.” I barely like casual attire, why would I be interested in a casual relationship? Nothing about my life is casual. I didn’t casually write a book, I didn’t casually move across the country, I don’t  casually work at my job.  Then, I came to the conclusion that I can have all my wants/needs figured out, but that doesn’t mean the person I’m dating does. It’s always a 50/50 chance but the lesson here is to get out when you know it’s 50/50 – even if you have cancer, even if you are dedicated, and especially when you have passion.

A recipe with one ingredient would always fail – so why do so many people allow themselves to be apart of things that are  single-dimensionally 50/50?

Kisses,

Jessica

The Barbie Room

Dear Friends,

My Barbie Room was the best part of my childhood. Inside this room, on Barbie Lane, everything was perfect. No one had cancer and no one was dying. Kens were monogamists – even though there were only three of them, and there were big Barbie families – the smallest one had three children. The families took turns living in the neon pink dream house. They took turns being doctors, lawyers and models. They took turns loving each other. I always dreamed of interchangeable relationships; family units that would love each other no matter what or in which order. Skipper, the one that had a little button on the small of her plastic back, only knew how to say two phrases on voice commands. “Let’s go to the beach, with Ken and Barbie, on the weekend,” or “Let’s go to the mall with Barbie on the weekend.” Everything was “on the weekend” for Skipper. Maybe Skipper was a Valley girl masked as Barbie. Skipper may have been a slut in other playrooms, but not on my watch.

There was Vicki, the beautiful brunette “Doctor Barbie,” who wore short white skirts with matching labcoats. She was a freak in the bed and had four children. There was Jade, who was an older Barbie, of my sister’s era so she’d seen a lot. I always liked Jade, who in hindsight looked more like Homeless Barbie. She was not a looker and I could never wipe the grim expression off of her plastic face. There was Chelsea, who was a hairstylist and quite permiscuous from what I remember. And then there was Kyle, who had great hair but got sent off to war in 1993. It took me six months and two cleaning ladies to get him out of Kosovo, also known as the random twin bed on Barbie Lane (for adults to gaze at me on). Vicki was so glad to have her husband home. Of course, his thigh was hanging out of his skeletal body, a battle wound, but she only had to wait until 6 p.m. when my dad came back from work and said, “I’m home,” and I rushed out of Barbie Lane, through the laundry room and into the hallway. “Daddy, help Ken, his leg is broken.” Even at six, I realized my parents did not get that these Barbies were my family; these were not just Barbie and Ken, they were Kyle, Vickie, Suzanna, and Kelly. They kept me company when I was alone. They kept me safe my entire childhood. But I didn’t expect my family to understand this. From a young age, I censored my family from my pain – I internalized it for them. I always knew my place: little Jess. Little Jess is always scared, afraid, crying, fearful. So the times that I could internalize my emotions, like on Barbie Lane, I felt I should make them believe that Barbie and Ken were just toys to me – I was fine – like the other kids. But I wasn’t.

Barbie Lane was a huge part of my life. It was my escape. No one seemed to notice, or if they did, no one seemed to care. Barbie Lane was when I learned to be independent, entertain myself, and fantasize about what could be in my future. There was always kissing, there was always nudity and there was always love. I sound like a flower child: I’m really not. I was a curious child. I yearned for experience. I yearned for perfection – a life without oxygen tubes in my mother’s nose, and a life without that hideous trachea implant my father had to suction phlegm out of her lungs through.  A beautiful life without sterilized, white-stricken hospital rooms, and a life where paramedics did not come to my home more often than my uncle from Santa Barbara. I dreamed of a life without worry and pain, a life where I didn’t worry about my mom dying every day.

My childhood was like there was always gum stuck in my hair. I could see the gum, and I could feel it, but no matter how many times I cut it with a pair of scissors, it reappeared again. Like some demon kept blowing bubbles in my fine brown hair. So I learned to chew gum at a young age, to contain my bubbles, to restrain the anxiety of having the pinkness get into my light brown strands. I learned to create fantasies that pulled me out of my reality. I learned that home would eventually be where I was, but for now, it was on Barbie Lane. No one could touch me there. And people hardly looked for me there – they would get lost in the mess of chiclet-sized purple pumps, sharp accessories and shiny, metallic Barbie garments. My family would never enter the Barbie Room – they thought it was an unhealthy way for me to spend my time. That I was a loner who would always have difficulty making friends. That was never the case – kids always talked to me, I just didn’t like them. I only liked my kindergarten boyfriend, Sam Pearl, because he was the first frog I ever kissed. The funny thing about fairy tales is that the princess always thinks she’s kissing a prince but more times than not, it’s a toad. In my experience, frogs are good kissers, or else you wouldn’t let them hop around your lily pads, but I did not know this at five – I learned that lesson at nineteen.

Kisses,

Jessica

This One’s For You

Dear Friends,

Today I remember my mother. She has been gone for twelve years today and it still feels like yesterday that I was sitting in my algebra class, and felt my heart sink at 2:42pm. I knew she was gone. I felt her leave the Earth – like so many loved ones report feeling. You know when loved ones are departing, or when they are in danger, or at worst, dead. I have devoted the past two years of my life to her – researching her, writing about her, working on our relationship, and hoping for those earth-shattering, seconds of coincidence where I feel the veil of her absence lifted. Since I’ve moved to New York, I’ve felt her in more ways than one. Most notably, I was walking home one night, wishing I could feel her, and saw something unbelievable to any reasonable human being: the words “Jessica heart Dianne” were written into the cement before it had hardened. It was then on that I came to believe that perhaps my mom resides on 16th Street when she left Irvine, my hometown. Perhaps she sent me that message a long time ago, and I just found it recently. Perhaps she always knew that I’d be here, working where I work, writing my book, dating who I date and being friends with some of the loveliest people I never thought I’d know. Friends that would love to join me in remembering her and support me in all my efforts to covet her wondrous effects. The short segues that pass between us do not go unnoticed, Mom. And they never will.

Unfortunately today marks the abhorrent milestone that is sad but true – she has been gone longer than we knew each other. Twelve years have gone by since we’ve embraced, talked, laughed or danced in the car together. Most people spend one day, or one week or one month honoring those who have gone too soon, but I chose to spend my professional career doing so. Not to prove anything to anyone, or to comfort myself, but more to carry on the belief that my mother was amazing and generations should go on to know about her and how she came of age – and how I created her memories. Who did my mother love, and where did all of her precious belongings go? It hurts sometimes to wonder as much as I do. It hurts to feel as lonely as I sometimes do. Without a mother, your 20’s are harder than they already are. There’s no one who’s come before you to tell you that everything is just as it should be and even if it is not, then maybe that’s OK too.

The first version of my book was written to my mother, for my mother. And I just realized that yesterday. This next version of my book is written for America, so that everyone else can get to know Dianne Barraco just as well as we knew her. Some of the words and structure might change, but it will have the same title and the same heartbeat. This one’s for you, Mom. It always is and always will be. Let us never forget.

If any of you reading this have a mother who’s living – give her a call, tell her you love her, like her even when she’s unlikable. We are all here because of our mothers and someday we’ll be mothers too. We miss you here on Earth, Mom. But I feel you everywhere – especially in New York City.

Kisses,

Jessica

In loving memory of Dianne Barraco

April 3, 1950-September 14, 1999

The Old College Try

Dear Friends,

When is the college try going to go out of style? Let’s recap from the urban dictionary for those of you who aren’t familiar with lazy, easily discouraged people/majors/projects that mimic that of a college student’s intent.

College Try: Giving something your best shot, even if you aren’t sure how to do it.
Attempting the “old college try” always results in uncontrolled rage and frustration rather than learning. This condition is only augmented by trying to find help in a real resource other than what you know.

Unfortunately for dating, there is no textbook to fall back on. Men who give it the old college try just end up failing because whatever default they have is ineffective. Obviously. Or else 90 percent of Manhattan wouldn’t be single. I don’t consider sleeping with someone to be a success, as a sidenote-  that just skews the data that proves that giving someone the old college try is about real things that could be written about, not things to hoping to debut in a Harlequin Romance novel or the last ten pages of Cosmopolitan (although you know I love that kind of thing).

Why is it that I’m still witnessing the college try well after college? I graduated, universe. Did ya hear me? My ex boyfriend  was the epitome of the college try and so was his mother. She was more like the college fail and for more reasons than the fact that she did not attend one. (I woke up on the nasty side of the bed today). I would like an adult try, or at least a masters try? Grad school try? I’m going for the MED SCHOOL try but I’d take business school too. Something, ANYTHING is better than the college try. College was the easiest thing I’ve yet to do in my life, why do people think defaulting to the effort you exerted in four years of keg stands and late nights is going to get you anywhere in adulthood? I thought we were the generation of master degrees because of the terrible economy. So can I get a more academic amount of effort please?

This affects me mostly in dating because in all other lots in life, I have the control so I can make sure that nothing I do stops at college-par. I wrote a book in six months – that was an adult try, if I do say so myself. I moved to New York City on my own with no job and no financial backing, also an adult try. I worked through issues of abandonment and fear of change because of my mother’s ill-fated death on my own – I would give that work at least a masters try. When I meet someone new, I give it a grad school application try, at bare minimum. Why? Because I don’t hang out with people who I don’t feel at least a little passionately about – male or female. I also know how many mistakes I made in college, when I thought I was trying and realize that as an adult, it takes a hell of a lot more than that. Others would say – this is what being a man or a woman is. You realize you weren’t in other realms of life and now for whatever reason, you are ready, and by virtue of that you put more of yourself into things than a college try. When you find the person you feel like calling back and not blowing off, and apologize for more reasons than because you want to feel exonerated of silly guilt you created, hang onto them please. Don’t give them a college try. Even if little bumps come up. I basically had the social equivalent to a pimple last week, and unfortunately for Mr. Promises who was on the other end of the phone, that zit is still wide open. I basically handed him some cream and said, “Please apply liberally and say sorry.” It went way over his head. He could have zapped it overnight but instead, he made the problem area bigger by being unreliable. Even when you think you’re getting to know someone. Even when you take it slow. Even when you don’t sleep with them. There is always acne and this time, it is so very visible. Maybe I should whip out the pimple cream I used in the dorms and give him a taste of his own college try-medicine. I’m always on my team, and I was on his team, but I got tired of playing for both leagues. Nobody likes a traitor.

Kisses,

Jessica

Flood of Emotion

Dear Friends,

I lived through the first (I think?) NYC hurricane. At first, I wasn’t bothered by it. I thought, hurricane on Madison Avenue? Come on, now. Who cares. Mellow out. But half of Manhattan closed up, boarded up and was sealed to the eye of the storm. There’s something about seasonal meltdowns that cause me my own flood of emotions. I’m sure it will get worse tomorrow, as I’ll be “Castaway” in my own tiny apartment especially made for Keebler elves. It sucks for me that I’m normal people-sized. I’m packing the last six months of my life away into boxes, bubble wrap and whatever random Scoop bags I can find. Not for the hurricane, for my upcoming move.

With every hurricane, there came a flood of emotion. Being inside all day with cabin fever, I realized that I am embarking on a new fever in my own life. The fever and passion to strive for something more with 100 percent awareness. I am smarter than when I first moved here. Hell, I weathered a non-scary yet threatening NYC hurricane. I feel the bravery expanding. The storm surge might be over but the flood will continue. Floods are essentially expansions of too much fluid, right? And today, sitting here, it’s not my tears that are flooding, not at all, in fact it’s the flood of possibility I see in my life. Things are looking up for me professionally and with my book, and with friends and dating, and besides the fact that I don’t have an apartment for 3 days from now…I could not ask for more. The storm is over. The calm has set in. We are all okay.

NYC freaking out over this hurricane felt normal to me because it was indicative of my own fears. I’m the girl who starts screaming before the roller coaster begins. I cry before the main character dies in a movie. I freak out because there’s a potential reason to. I hate the adrenaline rush of things and so I brace myself and prepare for the worst. And that’s exactly what Manhattan did yesterday. Perhaps for instances like hurricanes or earthquakes, it is healthy to freak out. But as far as my life goes, it is not. The unnecessary stress before the bottom line is useless. And when is the bottom line? When is something ever really “over” enough to freak out about? Life is constantly changing. Constantly flowing. This hurricane taught me to freak out less because sometimes in the light of something terrible, something great happens.

Here’s hoping, NYC…

Kisses,

Jessica

Meaningful Nothings

Dear Friends,

You know what’s a better description for the word, coincidence? Meaningful nothings. That’s what they are. Coincidence sounds so scientific. I get the essence of the word – coincide – a coincidence is when two otherwise unrelated things align in an odd occurrence of solidarity. They are little messages from the universe saying, “Hey, what’s up guys – here I am!” Sometimes it’s a way of people from beyond giving us living people a message, I like to think. And sometimes they are just nothings. Superfluous, meaningless, heart-wrenching nothings. Is it a sign, you might ask, or just a mere coincidence?

This time of year, more than ever, I think of my mother. I think of her struggles and choices as a woman. I think of the strong person she was in my life and how she loved me unconditionally. She lives on my block, you know. It says Jessica heart Dianne in the cement on my street. Pretty cool, right? I’m leaving it though. I have to. I am scared that it’s a bad move – that leaving Jessica heart Dianne Street will hurt me more than benefit me. It wasn’t until last Saturday did I notice that my mother died exactly 20 days after my birthday. We are ever-connected by the number 4, oddly enough. My mom always had a thing about numbers.

My mom passed away on September 14th, 1999. Nearly twelve years have passed and I am beginning to forget. That’s why I wrote the book, that’s why I think of her as often as I can and talk about her as frequently as possible.

Luckily, it is tougher for humans to shake the memory of emotion, rather than physical memories. I can’t remember where I had dinner ten years ago, but the mashed potatoes were amazing. I can’t remember what it was like to be in a relationship with my college boyfriend, but I remember feeling loved, excited, and happy. Coincidences can evoke these emotions; that’s why they are important for people to take notice of, and then let go. I can’t remember why exactly I was so struck by someone, but I can feel it in my soul. I can’t always remember being in the same room with my mother, but I remember what hugging her felt like and the way her green eyes could light up a room. Eyeliner never complemented a woman more.

The Butterfly Groove is the my love letter to our relationship that never quite budded, and the intricacies in which I’ve had to get close to her from beyond the grave. When I think of my mom, however, I do not picture her in the ground. I picture her everywhere. And sometimes, our souls still collide, I know they do. And that’s when my mom hands me a coincidence. She’s here to tell me she gets what I’m feeling but can’t personally deliver the message so she coincides what matters to me most in life at that moment (that frequently changes, mind you) and makes it special by being random.

I almost forgot how much she loved me. Isn’t that sad? I read one of her notes that she wrote to me when she was on the ventilator and it was like a dagger to my heart. I never meltdown about her, but I did. She motivated me, she showed me how to write and how to charm people. But most importantly, she taught me how to be a lady somehow, as a child. All of those nothings as a kid I can recall, were actually meaningful. And I know that was no coincidence, my mom was planting seeds in me that have recently bud. So thank you, mom. For all the seemingly meaningful nothings turned me into a woman and most proudly, your daughter.

Kisses,

Jessica

The Panic Button

Dear Friends,

I just had my first walking through lower Manhattan meltdown. It was a good one too. For some reason, on a Monday there were tons of people out and everyone seemed to be looking me straight in the eye. All those dark, enigmatic streets you hear about in crime stories dissipated into over-lit scaffolding and well-lit corners. Must have been Guiliani.

I had gotten a goodbye text from someone who should have been superlatively unimportant in my life, but turned out being someone who made a huge impact. This person probably meant well, but just has no f-ing clue what he wants out of life – and what he wanted out of me. And he still doesn’t. He’s a person who thinks my question-asking is over analyzing. He’s a person who evidently doesn’t get me. Me and over analyzing are one in the same. He was the person I finally learned not to let a relationship go too quickly, and also the person who showed me why. Others had just left it a mystery – but he made it crystal-clear. I feel like dating these days is all about attention-getting. Who’s going to miss the other person the most, who’s going to be the coolest with dating around, who’s going to crack first and say, “I think I might like you.” Who’s the weakest, most honest soul? Suddenly it’s not about the brave person who is in touch with their feelings, but about the person who can contain himself the most. The most closed off person “wins.” I refuse to live my life that way. And I’m done having closed off people in it. Mostly, I’m done with being in people’s lives who don’t know what to do with me. Who care about me, but don’t know where or how to place me.

My grandmother has this panic button that she can press if the world gets too scary for her or begins to be hazy. I wish I had one. I wish I could press panic and the paramedics would come solve my problems for me. Instead, all I have is the Empire State Building to gaze up at, and the humid, soggy city to protect me. Will it? I guess I’m ready to say it: I love you New York City, do you feel the same? Are you ready to be in a relationship with me? Don’t text me late at night or say something fleeting when I’m emotionally vulnerable that makes me forget how rough you are with me sometimes. And don’t change our dates for dates with other California girls. Love me back. I hope you do.

Kisses,

Jessica

Don’t Put All Your Eggs In One Basket

Dear Friends,

“Don’t put all your eggs in one basket,” my mother used to say. This is an expression I never really understood until like, yesterday, because I don’t own a basket, nor do I pick my own eggs, and also, I’m Jewish, so I always kind of thought this was a taboo Easter reference. I guess it’s not. Would you like to know what this catch-phrase means? It has withstood centuries. I bet Abe Lincoln used to say it at the White House, along with Laura Ingalls Wilder on her farm, Nancy Drew on a haunted showboat and now Miley Cyrus. It means…keep your options open. Do not settle for one thing when you have a lot of things (eggs) to offer. Since I’m a woman, I ironically do have a lot of eggs to offer. But I don’t think that’s what this expression is saying.

It’s saying don’t put all your hopes on one job, one man, one apartment, one friend, one sister, one anything. Don’t rely on one thing to make everything go away, or one thing to revve the engine. It turns out life is about options. When do the options fall wayside, though, and suddenly it’s evidently clear what single thing to depend on? Is it true what they say of New Yorkers? Are they constantly job searching, apartment hunting and dating multiple people? Who blows the whistle, and why? And more importantly, if we are told not to put all of our hopes and dreams into one basket – how are we at all prepared to make a final decision? The job. The man. The book deal. The apartment. The feeling. It’s unfair, I think.

If we are raised to be so independent, how do we know when to be semi-dependent on these things? If you have the answer to the question, please comment, because I certainly don’t. I’m trying to be one with the universe, and to “feel” things out through good vibes or not. Because otherwise, we’re all screwed. I don’t have ADD and hate making decisions. I don’t even like social media except for my own website. How will I know?

What’s next? Don’t put all your eggs in one person? That seems to be the theme of my generation, but hopefully not yours. All I can say is, go buy yourself some eggs and contemplate how many options you constantly have. I wish life was simpler with less eggs or more baskets, or something.

Kisses,

Jessica