This is a personal weblog. The opinions expressed here represent my own and not those of my employer. My opinions are subject to change. I reserve the right to argue with myself later on down the line when I've learned a lesson or two.
I think this is Los Angeles Business Casual…since there are heels AND athletic gear.
Jacket: Rapha; Jeans: Levi’s; Shirt: H&M; Necklace: Francesca’s; Shoes: Rack
Anonymous said: You better write something soon, lady. Sothenshe is giving you a run for your money.
I want to. And in not posting, I have written thousands and thousands of words. But nothing I want to share. Things about my relationship, things about my job, things about things I can’t share because of my relationship and job. Worries and disappointments, hopes and wishes. But do you want your boss reading about how you think you’re in the wrong industry? Do you want your boyfriend reading about insecurities you should just talk to him about? Do you want your friends reading that you’re having a tough time without turning to them first?
I used to just write and post. They were thoughts, fleeting emotions, reactionary tales of woe and joy, but now, they mean something. Every Thought Catalog piece is immediately followed by a phone call from my mother asking if I’m “okay”. Writing was like forcing yourself to throw up after a night of binge-drinking. I got it out of my system and the bad vibes were gone. It was my therapy and now it isn’t. Now it’s a benchmark of likes and a means for other people to monitor my thoughts. So instead of writing, I get on the bike. I think through things on the road instead of the page. One could argue that the solution here is to stop caring what people think, but that’s pretty foolish. When people say you “shouldn’t care what other people think,” they’re only talking about strangers, acquaintances, and jerks. You should care what the people you care about think. It would be a little weird to be dating someone or to love someone if you genuinely didn’t care what they thought about you. I care. And that’s why I post less. Because I care about causing my mother more grief. I care about worrying my boyfriend and my friends. And to be frank, I care about how it affects my life in general. These aren’t just journal entries anymore - they’re character testaments that people can hold against me for the rest of my life. That’s what the Internet is now. A reservoir of things for people to hold against you forever.
Someone wrote me an anonymous question saying that she got shit-faced and kissed a stranger at a bar, then went home and cried about it because she had a boyfriend she loved - they had been dating for awhile, I can’t remember how long. She wanted to know if she should tell him. I wanted to say absolutely not - you made a dumbass mistake, and you should probably take a serious look at how much you’re drinking, and not make your wonderful boyfriend miserable by telling him you’re an irresponsible idiot. And be a really fucking good girlfriend in the meantime. You know why I didn’t post that answer? Because I was worried my boyfriend would think that by advocating that advice that I would do that, get shit-faced and kiss strangers without telling him.
I used to not think about who was going to read what I wrote, but now I can feel it over my shoulder. A teacher clicking their teeth as I fill in one bubble after another, becoming increasingly suspicious of the validity of my own feelings, gaslighting myself, explaining away one emotion after another. The experience was shitty and the writing was even worse. I didn’t want to post anything that wasn’t beautiful, revelatory, meaningful. And the things that were safe to write about, were they things you would care about? Do you give a shit about how I’m changing my diet? About how I accidentally called Finn by Alistaire’s name and started crying when my boyfriend pointed it out? About my paintings? Please.
I can’t write about my brother for sake of my mother. I can’t write about my heart for sake of my man. And I can’t write about my dreams for sake of my job.
Maybe sothenshe is giving me a run for my money. But let him. He fell off the Earth for a minute there, too.
I just want to be a good daughter, a good sister, a good girlfriend, a good writer, a good rider, a good person. I want to be better than I am. And I need time to quiet the worry so I can rally the strength.
God, I love this song.
I promise I’m writing something eventually.
God, help me - it’s baseball season.
These women were my home once. They just get better and better.
Just kidding. THIS is my jam this morning.
Well, here’s my morning jam.
What an honor.
I am in heaven.