Things I Know to be True Today

I know that no matter where my career leads me, I want to make people feel beautiful and connected. That there is this sweet sense of innocence when the sixth grade boys would ask, “Miss Mac, can you turn that song up please,” as we would all jam out to “Stressed Out,” because they somehow relate to it. Every day I am confronted with the fact that one of the best relationships, and one of the most defining, shows up at my door step every single day and I am constantly navigating letting it take its course, or packing up and running like hell. Because like most things with humans, it is scary as hell to let someone in and care for you. I know that the last ten months have brought me two of my best friends, both of their names starting with an L. I am the small portion of my community that chooses humanness over money; this summer alone, I have been screwed over twice by people promising job opportunities and financial security, in which I have spent dozens of hours prepping my stake in the charade only to be left with a small balance in my bank account after the bills are due. I suspect that social media is trying to mismanage all of our romantic relationships. And that we all aren’t fucking up as badly as we think we are. My daily planner has the names of a different girl from yesterday until Tuesday for a FaceTime/Skype date, because sometimes you are really freaking lucky and your tribe shows up for you when you say, “hey I am really struggling being alone this week.” Having an identity/quarter life crisis at twenty-two isn’t all that bad, and actually does happen (just ask my therapist). Sleeping under the stars for five days does more good than not. For the past several weeks I have been dying to write again. I feel it when I am running or driving and all I can think about are words. Yet, when I go to write, the blank white page tricks my mind out of it. I know that I am trying. I am absolutely doing my best, even if my best varies day to day. I know that I am okay. And just for good measure, I should say it again – we aren’t all fucking up as badly as we think.