sometimes funny, occasionally nude.

Mostly, I'm a writer.

I'm Too Old to Know This Little

As we do, I spent my 20s figuring everything out. It looks like I'll spend my 30s realizing none of it was correct.

Seems like hackneyed wisdom that as you age you learn exactly how much you don't know. I suddenly feel like I've never had an original thought in my life. Even the things I've been feeling have all been felt before — usually by 20-year-old girls.

Worse — on the scale of tween angst, that is — I haven't found the right outlet for it.

I know the medium. I'm a writer. But I don't know where to put it.

I miss MySpace blogs, Geocities pages, LiveJournal... well, I would. Except I never used any of those. I so should have. I was totally that person in the aughts, but I had no idea. I'm finally becoming the girl I could have been at 16. But now I have to do it on Twitter, Instagram and Squarespace... where Gen Z and the businesses hang out. Why didn't I get on the internet before businesses figured it out? It was such a cool place when I was exactly the right age for it.

Now, we have Tumblr for angsty teens and 20-somethings who have too many feelings and want to share them in anonymity. But I couldn't pretend to belong there at 31. It seems embarrassing, like all the dreams I have that I'm back in high school naked and can't remember my locker combination or which class I'm supposed to go to next.

I've been having that dream for the past 13 years; I continue to age and still wind up back at my first day in a new school full of teenagers.

I'm a bisexual girl who hates the label (not "girl"; fuck off being mad about that word). At the same time I want to stamp it on my forehead, so no one ever mistakes me for straight again.

I'm a poly girl in a monogamous relationship.

I'm an artist who comes off as "thinking" and "analytical" in every possible personality test.

I never want kids, but I cry sometimes when I haven't seen my niece in too long. My head belongs in a coastal city, but my heart skips a beat at the scent of a Wisconsin tavern.

(See what I mean about this angst? That sentence reads like it's straight out of a 13-year-old's diary — if she were an early alcoholic.)

I only recently realized I was probably in an (emotionally) abusive relationship back when I was the right age for a MySpace blog.

In 31 years of trying, I still haven't figured out what to do with my hair.

Maybe my forehead stamp should just say "not straight." Its existence would probably allude to a lot of the other stuff.

This should end hopeful, like I guess I'll just keep trying until I figure it out. But I'm too old for that. I know I'll never figure it out.

When You Can't Get Out of Bed

Surviving Florida: Sunshine