There's a reason I haven't posted any pics of myself.

Every photo I'm in looks nuanced with the time's zeitgeist and whatever personal melodrama I'm partaking in at that very moment. They scream "That's me when I was going through my idealistic political phase!" or "That's me when I was a Real Ho!" or "That's me when I'm feeling really lost and trying to look like I know what the fuck I'm doing!"

Maybe it's because I've never been in the habit of taking pictures or having my picture taken, but I've never been able to take a picture that captures the essence of who I am. I don't know how to look like me. I just know how to be me. And I don't know how to look like I'm being me. Not anymore anyway. Not right now.

All of this makes me feel like I'm really understanding abstract art. How something that doesn't appear similar to their representation can stir emotions and create effects that mimic those of their representation. How something so seemingly contradictory to its meaning can elicit the same ideas as its idea. That's what I need: a picture that represents me. Something visible that somehow shows as many parts of my personality as possible. A photo or painting or sculpture that provides depth and clarity to Me. Then I can post pictures to my heart's desire and not feel strange about calling them "Me".

If I'm really to uncover this physical rendering of myself, maybe I should try something new: collaborate with talented artists, take nude photos, take art classes, etc.? [Anyone have suggestions?]

Till then, I have words.

Full disclosure

I'm becoming a very transparent, simple person. And that scares me. I've never been the type to be so honest about my feelings and motivations. Or, at least, I always comforted myself with the idea that I'm multi-layered and multi-faceted, and that while one layer and/or facet is Honest, the others are not-as-honest. I never liked the idea of people "knowing" me, "having" me, being able to control me. I looked down on people for being so easily read, so textbook, so knowable. I relished being complicated, unruly, dark, manipulative, controlling. I loved being able to get swept away in the currents of action and reaction, and get involved with strange, illicit, dangerous people and situations - all the while always having the outcome under my thumb.

I took great pride in being able to read people, figure out their weaknesses, and exploit them for my own benefit. I based much of my self on the fact that I am a master manipulator, able to insert myself into anyones' inner circle and get from them what I want and need. My personality was as much enmeshed in the grit and grime of the Lower East Side projects as it was enthralled with the upscale, charmed lives of the Upper East Side. I made myself a part of every scene, every way of life, every way of thinking. I was well-versed in the ways of the world and prided myself on knowing people, knowing facts, knowing.

And now?

*long exhale*

Now I'm reconciling with the fact that all of that was preparation for a greater goal. I needed to see how all of the cogs fit and worked. It was necessary for me to taste all of the strains of personalities and situations. I needed to be confident that I can overcome all that life has to throw at me. That I am able and capable and worthy. That I am, in some ways, better than most people.

And now that I'm at the point where I am non-plussed by any and all situations, where nothing truly surprises me, where I can appraise, acknowledge and appreciate the subtleties as well as the extremes, I am at a loss. What the fuck was all of that for? How can I get back that zest for experience? Should I? Is it better, now that I have come down from the euphoria of sampling as much of life as possible? Now that I must stop studying life in general so that I can concentrate on my own life?

*flinch*

As much as my life up until this moment has been a preparation for "real life" to begin, it was also a severe episode of procrastination. I needed to feel as if something important were holding me back from starting the real deal, the real consequences, the real truth or dare of it all. I needed to feel as if some mysterious and ominous thing were guiding me to find solace in wayward teens and crumby adults. As if fucking up grades is just as valid and good as being a star student (both of which I excelled at). As if pretending to know the answers grants the same kind of merits as pretending to not know any of the answers. I needed to know that, despite the lameness of platitudes, most of them are right - including this: "It is what it is." That one holds true no matter what the "is" is.

Most of all, having seen all of these contrary ways of living, I learned that none is better than the rest, and that that truth is something most people don't know. There is no way of life which is best; only a way of life that is best for you.

I know this for certain because I've seen so many lives made and destroyed, so many decisions turn out for better or for worse, so many different ways to live. And as much as I love all of my experiences and all of the people I've met and all of the people I've been and all that life has to offer, I must now ask myself: What's next? And that question, that question is full of fear and anxiety and loneliness and complications. That question is so easy and yet so difficult. That question is the paradox to end all paradoxes, because I know that whatever is in store for me, I must at once succumb to it and lead my destiny towards it. I must simultaneously know the answer and be dumb to my destination. I must feel all of the pangs and highs and lows and laughter and tears and really let myself experience it because this time it's not preparation. This time, it's not a rehearsal. This time, it's not just a temporary personality or phase or stage that I'm going through.

I've come this far and I know this much: No matter how your life is, it is possible to be happy. The human condition allows for shades of emotion, defense mechanisms, contradictions, ironies, and lies. There is a way to find happiness in the most mundane, the most sinister, the most wicked and ugly stations of life. There is a glimmer of truth and beauty everywhere, and it is within these specks that joy is magnified and our lives illuminated and enriched.

Unfortunately, we are merely mortal and unable to appraise all that we encounter. We strive to discover a place within ourselves that is truly and purely lit by joy. Most people don't think this place exists, but I am certain of it. I'm done with trying out different ideas of who to be and how to be. I'm through with attempting to figure out who I am. I know who I am, and now I have to weed through the parts of my life that don't fit in with the person I've become. I must cut away the people I've amassed who know my phases but don't know my real face. I must place my bets on myself and trust that all of this was not for nought. That I know what I'm doing. That I'm working towards a great unknown which is worthy of me. That I am capable of mind-blowing, amazing, wonderful happiness.

*****

I'm broke and without a day job and not making much money from my night job. I haven't paid my credit card bills in months. My credit is shit. My love life is non-existent. I have reached a point in my life where I really and truly must be in a loving, respectful and committed relationship in order to have sex with someone. The people with whom I spend the most time - my coworkers at my night job - are the only people in my everyday life with whom I can't/won't be my true self. There is still much I must do in order to receive my bachelor's degree. And there are letters I must write to apologize to people, to let them know my side of the story, to show them that I would like my memory to elicit happy thoughts in their minds. There is so much for me to do.

And yet, despite the fact that all of the black-and-white would dictate that I am unhappy, discontented with my reality, and lacking self-reliance or self-determination, that couldn't be farther from the truth. This is my reality. The one that I carved for myself. The one whose details I painstakingly distressed over. The one I want. These are the problems I'd rather have. These are the latent joys that I plan on uncovering.

I'm just working it out. In my mind. To myself. Without disclosing much of anything to anyone. While being a good friend and sister and daughter. While being the best person I've ever been. While putting people first and not resenting anyone for having to be put first. While letting others do some self-actualizing without trying to exert control over who they become.

This is the progress that I've made.

Life is Beautiful

I'm sitting in my new apartment. My roommate is at her 9 to 5. I've sent out my resume to a few places, and I got a couple emails back confirming that I have an interview at a staffing agency this week. I'm writing up a storm and thinking up ways to be a better student, sister, daughter, dominatrix, friend. In that order. I'm about to cook lunch, write some more, clean up the kitchen, hang up curtains, do laundry. I'm drinking an entire bottle of cranberry juice because I toked up a couple of days ago and I might have to piss in a cup to land a job. And I feel good. So. Very. Fucking. Good. School's gonna work out and work is gonna work out and domming is gonna work out and writing sure as hell is gonna work out. I'm fixing things with my father and I'm keeping in communicado with my brother. My mom's being supportive, and I've been able to lean on her and depend on her. My friends are absolutely amazing. And, by the looks of things, I'll be able to buy Christmas presents this year.

*deep exhalation*

Like a prized dick, I have to take this all in. Experiences like this don't come around too often.

I'm [Not?] Yours

Rob and I held hands. I looked at him, and was surprised. He wasn't the same man I'd been pining for. Something had changed.

I don't know what changed. I'm not sure how it happened. I don't know if it's temporary. But, yesterday, after going through the motions of mine and Rob's usual interaction, I had to acknowledge that our pattern felt empty. Void of any emotion besides nostalgia and friendship. Expired. And Rob looked different to me. Literally. Figuratively. He was different. He is different.

I told him this as he walked me to the bus stop. "I look different?" he asked, incredulous. "But you moved out two days ago."

"I dunno. You just do. You... look... different."

"Good different? Bad different?"

"You... just... don't... look like you."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't look like the man that I was in love with. You don't look like the same guy I'd hoped would turn things around and validate my love."

He nodded slowly. "Oh. That sucks."

And it was true. Somehow, the chasm between us had grown. I'd been emotionally distancing myself from Rob for a long time, but it was all the more evident last night, when I'd realized that his mom knew things were dead and done between he and I. When I no longer felt the need to nag him about his lack of a job. When I acknowledged that Rob has his own little swagger and he's attractive, but sex would only be sex. There would be no making love. Not anymore.

Even though I'm able to acknowledge and identify these feelings, I still haven't internalized them. They still don't feel real and true. I haven't accepted them.

There's a certain kind of satisfaction in knowing that I've moved on. There's relief and sadness at our relationship ending. But there isn't any disappointment. There isn't any anger. There isn't any remourse. Or regret.

This morning, when I put on VH1 at my new apartment, Jason Mraz's video came on, and I felt a stirring in the middle of my chest that I haven't felt in a long time. It took me aback and it took me a while to figure out what it was. Even now, until I wrote that sentence, I don't think I knew exactly what it was. I just knew that it was familiar and full of adrenaline and passion and fire. I just knew that it has to do with timing, with the way the world is, with the fact that it's Election Day, with my new place and my emotional distance from my last big love.

It's hope.

I'm hopeful that I have finally learned how to have a successful relationship. Not necessarily successful in that it'll be the last love relationship I'll ever have. Just that I've learned how to love and how to be loved and how to end things when either isn't happening. I'm hopeful that being with Rob has taught me more about myself and about what I want in a partner. I'm hopeful that today, Barack Obama will be elected, and a small part of my beliefs will be personified and actualized by this man being the President of the United States. I'm hopeful that the world - my world - is becoming a better place.

The Baby and the Bathwater

Don't mind the words in the picture. It's the artistic rendering of the two women that's appropriate in this case. One's scared, the other in control. They appear familiar to each other, with a certain amount of time spent together.

Or maybe I'm just projecting that last part.

For the longest time, I've been heeing and hawing about my social circle. Not my entire social circle, mind you, but the women that I call my best friends. We grew up together and in the process, I've grown apart from them. We don't communicate often, and we hardly see each other. And yet, I find myself applying the term "best friend" to two of these women, instead of revoking that privilege to the entire group.

It's strange, how it happened. It was like breaking up with a lover, even though we'd only had a platonic relationship. There were the usual trappings: not wanting to elongate a cycle that may or may not be vicious; feeling anxiety and frustration at the very thought of dealing with her; doubting the validity of our relationship. And it took years to come to this conclusion. In true break-up form, I'd been deliberating this break for a quarter of the time that we'd been "together".

But we were different people. We had vastly different priorities. And we didn't trust each other.

That last part is what really did it.

Her boyfriend (who's a douchebag that makes her cry all the time), and his best friend (who'd tried to hook up with me - and failed), told her that I'm a liar. And she believed them. She didn't defend me. She didn't communicate with me. She just started being hostile and calling me a liar. Via text. Because, ya know, if she spoke with me in person or on the phone, she might realize what a complete bitch she's being, and that would contradict the numero-uno supreme rule of her universe: Her boyfriend is everything good in the world.

And it hurt. Badly. To hear her call me a liar. To accuse me of - get this - telling people that I own more property than I really do own, and that I have more degrees that I've earned. Not only is it completely and utterly uncharacteristic of me to lie, but if I did lie, you'd think I'd be more creative. Or smarter about it. Why would I make such outrageous claims to someone who could so easily check them out? And why oh why would I ever lie about status and wealth and education? At least, why to them? I've never been one to care about status and wealth and following trends. I mean, hell, I'm proud to tell you that I shop at discount stores and that that dress of mine that you covet was bought at a thrift store. And why the fuck would I lie to them about my education/ Are they gonna give me a six-figure salary?

All of this bothered me. So. Much.

I mean, sure, I'd already had my doubts about her value to me as a friend. We don't vibe anymore, and other than our past, we share nothing in common.

But I'd looked forward to seeing past that and finding a few moments where our synapses click and hum to the same beat, at the same time, in the same key. I'd looked forward to those inevitable moments of familiarity when you look at your friend of many years and go, "That's why we're BFFs." Before any of those things happened, she accused me of being a liar, refused to talk things out, and said that she'd only speak to me after I admitted to saying things that I didn't say. On top of that, she had the gall to act as if she was doing me a favor, with an air like, "Just be glad I still call you my best friend - even though you're a liar."

Fuck that.

Fuck our relationship.

Fuck sisterhood.

Fuck our history.

In my world, loyalty is mutual. She's proven herself disloyal, and I'm too wise to believe that I'm losing something of value by throwing her to the curb. Don't get me wrong; I ask myself all the time about the repercussions of these events. Will the other two girls treat me differently? Will I lose them in the process? Do I regret telling her, "If you don't trust me, then we don't have a relationship?" [NOTE: The same words that my father said to me right before I left my folks' place and became estranged from him.]

I can't claim to know what the future holds, but I can say with confidence and honesty that no matter what happens, I won't regret it. I've reached a point in my life where I trust myself and I trust that I'm making the right choices.

Control Freak

It's 12:30 on the Sunday after Halloween, and I'm sitting at Cafe Enduro with my friend and fellow website-writer, Deena. We haven't seen each other in a couple of weeks, and today there's business on the agenda. In hopes of luring more traffic to The Musing Broads, I've enlisted my friend, Hunter, to help jazz up the site.

Now, lemme tell ya: when it comes to technology, I'm pretty much a retard. I mean that. I'm slooooowwww. I'm pretty sure that in the next couple of years, I'll be more up on it, but right now, I know nearly nothing about the internet, the new technology available on the market, and how to jazz up a website.

But I know people, so I don't necessarily need to know shit anyway.

I'd set up the meeting a couple weeks before, and I'm peeved because I feel unprepared. Deena, Anna, and I haven't made a plan about what we're going to talk to him about. Our schedules clash, our communication sucks, and I'm frustrated. I've been calling and leaving voicemails. I've been texting every other day. And here we are, on the day of the meeting, and all of the topics that we can talk to Hunter about are suitable for a telephone conversation. He doesn't need to come meet us. Hell, I didn't have to roll out of bed at an ungodly hour on a Sunday to schlep over to Prospect Park - not when my to-do list is running a mile long.

As I'm seeing those words go up, I'm thinking that I should maybe write this in my private journal. The one that people don't read. The one that won't hurt anyone's feelings.

But I'm not gonna. I'm gonna post it up on here.

Why?

If my therapist asked me that question, I'd probably tell her "no harm, no foul". I've already expressed these sentiments to Deena, and I'll surely express them to Anna sure enough.

What about others' opinions of them? Of us, The Musing Broads?

That's a bit trickier to answer. I fully believe that our actions and words are influential, and that communication is always a form of promotion. There's a reason that people speak the way they speak and use the words they use. It might be because their agenda is to "blend in", or it could be because their agenda is to "seem smart", or it could be because their agenda is to "seem different". Whatever the reason, there is always an agenda.

Right now, though, the agenda of my words is to promote the fact that I'm trying my damnedest to do right by our website. Moreover, I'm trying my damnedest to do right in every other facet of my life. I'm concurrently working on a short story collection and two novels, and looking for freelance writing gigs. I'm job hunting for a 9-5. I'm working my ass off and improving myself as a dominatrix. I'm cleaning and nesting at my new apartment. I'm communicating with professors and writing papers that were due soooo long ago.

And I'm not saying that I'm the busiest person on the planet, or the best, or the one who should get more credit for her actions. What I am saying is that I communicate. I let you know my motives and my goals, I ask if you're down with them, and then I make a plan. I expect people to follow the plan.

I haven't always been like this. In fact, like I've been telling my new roommate, JC, this is a new development. Two or three years ago, I was good at looking like I was meticulous and constantly on the ball - but looks are deceiving. Now that I feel in control of my life and my future and my surroundings, I feel good about things. I don't feel helpless. I don't feel scared. I am fortified with the knowledge that I choose my own problems, and the ones that I have are the ones that I want.

I've taken to cleaning and sorting and scheduling and always being active. Even when I'm daydreaming, I'm doing it actively. I multi-task every chance I get. I always keep in mind how much time I have, what I'm supposed to do, and how much is in my budget. I'm running on almost all cylinders.

And I'm really hoping that I don't annoy too many people in doing so. I don't mean to cause anyone discomfort or distress. Simultaneously, and because I will do almost anything to avoid causing anyone discomfort or distress, I don't give a fuck if I do. I'm doing my best, goddamnit. If I ruffle some feathers, then so be it.

My. Life. Is. So. Fucking. Awesome.

I'm finally making bank as a dominatrix. I'm thisclose to landing a 9-5 that I don't hate. I moved in to a new apartment that is AWESOME, i.e., close to trains, affordable, with the awesomest of awesome roommates, large, and in New York City. My health insurance is kicking in and I get to use it in a couple of weeks when I visit a gyno that's been recommended by a close friend. I can finally start paying off my credit card debt. Wondermazing and HOT men and women are knocking on the door of my pussy. Family and friend ish is working out. Life is good.

Just wanted to brag.