To Everything, Turn Turn Turn

My friend, Sura, thinks that it's because I'm "too cool." SoHo Suit thinks it's because I'm a loveable but temperamental (READ: sometimes very cold) bitch. I think it's because I may or may not have hit some pseudo-godly plateau of zen.

But anyway, I don't get bothered by things.

Not really, anyway. Things'll annoy me, people will piss me off, I will inevitably become angered at the world. But do I get bothered ? No. "Bothered" has this lingering connotation, like I wake up in the middle of the night and really smolder about something or another. Like my orgasm is interrupted by some memory that won't leave me alone. Like my vocabulary becomes limited because I'm using too many brain cells on some problem.

I do not fall prey to those sorts of ailments.

At least, that's how things usually go. This week, I was just plain bothered by everything. And I mean EVERYTHING.

Things that usually make me smile, people who are my favorite in the world, situations that I would usually derive pleasure out of - I just couldn't stand any of it. I was rude, stubborn, immature, bitchy, egotistical... I took to my computer and wrote for hours on end, and luckily, my internet access was limited at home, so I didn't have too many distractions. I wrote and wrote and wrote, ad nauseum. (Due to all that sitting and writing, I'm sure that I'm pasty and out-of-shape, but that's okay.)

Today I'm forced to take a break from writing in order to drive my mom to her doctor's appointments, and it feels really good to not have to feel what a dozen imaginary characters are feeling. It feels good to talk on the phone to friends, reconnect through text with friends, complain about the general state of male-female-relations/the war/the rising price of gas and cosmetics and everything else with real-life human beings. It feels good to have conversations with trusted individuals and put my mind at ease about a number of thoughts that've been plaguing me this past week.

For one thing, I've noticed that I've been starting to feel something that's akin to envy. I wouldn't know for certain if it's envy because I've never felt that. (I've felt instances of school-girl jealousy, but that's an entirely different bag of tricks...) But the more I write and the more I elaborate on the feeling, the more I realize that it's really misplaced regret: I cannot help but feel a twinge of longing when I meet someone who will probably succeed in the opportunities that I passed up. And even though I had valid reasons for passing them up, and even though I don't know/think that I would've been happier per se had I taken up those opportunities - I dunno. I think I just want those opportunities to still be available to me. It's like seeing your ex with someone else. Even though you're happier where you are, a part of you still wants them to want you. Or, at least, find you attractive. (<--As I'm writing this, I don't even know if I still subscribe to this feeling... Hmm...)

In a strange way, writing this short story collection is helping me re-evaluate myself and everything that I know. So is the process of writing letters to people I've wronged, and the task of writing out queries to literary agents*. It's incredibly liberating, to set all of my knowledge down on paper and stake claim to who I am as a person. At the same time, however, it's incredibly daunting. I know that I'm actively improving myself, but I'm a little afraid of what I might uncover. I'm a little embarassed about the conclusions I might make.

Maybe I'm just so enamored by the intensity and excitement of getting caught up in the process of becoming something, that I just feel (felt?) odd having gotten somewhere. Maybe, no matter what the vantage point, or how beautiful the scenery, I'll always crave the open road, the roll of experiences, the chance at doing something else.

Anyway, I have to fill up the tank. I need a new skill set, new ideas, and a new repertoire if I want to get to someplace else. Moving to southeast Asia, publishing a book, and learning a couple more languages seems just the ticket...


* When I was 17, I wrote a socio-political novel - novella? It's 150 pages. I dunno what that is - in one day. This past week, I revised the last 1/3 of it, and even though it's nowhere near my best work - my writing style has improved and altered substantially in the past 6 years - I figure, what the hey? Every retarded idea under the sun is getting published. Might as well throw my 6-year old hat in the ring, right?