An Introduction of Sorts

I am a writer. At least this is what I tell myself. Because, you see, I write. Actually, that’s a lie: I mean to write. I see the world as I would write it; I write it in my head as I observe it. But to write, and especially to begin to write – is an intensely scary, intimidating proposition. Because writing gives body to your thoughts. It makes them real.

This is my reality. I am a young twenty-something living and working in New York City, having graduated one year ago from a prestigious university with a B.A. (oh, does it matter? It’s a B.A. – if I have learned anything this year, it’s that a B.A. is utterly useless except perhaps to help you get into grad school. Do I even know what I would go to grad school for? Fuck me.) After graduation, I began working as a legal assistant slave at a notoriously evil corporate law firm. I stayed there for several long, painful, sleep-deprived months before escaping to 9-5 land, where instead of dodging stapler-hurling attorneys with little-man syndrome, I spend hour after hour surfing the internet trying to find some purpose to my existence updating spreadsheets. Although I have managed, in the course of about 10 months, to change not only jobs but industries and move across the city not once but twice, not to mention all the emotional trauma which I’ll share in later entries, it is remarkable that my boyfriend (“Boyfriend” from this point forward) has not up and left me, seeking someone a little more, um, stable. So Boyfriend? Thank you. And also? I’m sorry. For all the insanity, and now this blog. Please forgive me. I have steaks in the freezer.

But what I really mean to say is this: that for the entire year I’ve had a compelling urge to chronicle my clichéd life experiences. I usually tuck it away and pretend it’s not there. I engage in other productive activities, such as cooking, working out, and drinking, to distract myself from what I really want to do. Because please, God, a blog? You can’t be serious. These days I wouldn’t be surprised if my grandma had a blog. But as I said: I think I am a writer. And if I ever want to break out of cubicle purgatory, I may just have to start acting like one.

And so, dear readers, it is with a stiff gin and tonic and a forgone gym session (my mom, if she is reading this, is shaking her head in disapproval) that I finally put fingers to keypad. Welcome to my world.

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April 19, 2008. Uncategorized.

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