Man, you’re always trying to f*cking find yourself

Growing up is tough dawg.

We split a bottle of wine at dinner. New Zealand Sauvignon blanc.

‘Always go new world for a white wine,’ I say. ‘God that sounds wanky,’ I immediately apologise. My friends laugh. They are good people, though I am still trying to find my feet around them because I fear vulnerability like it’s out to get me.

I miss my friend Eunice. We used to go to bars with plans to go dancing later, but would get wrapped up in conversations about books and boys and writing and being Korean and the dancing rarely happened. We met through men we no longer speak to (she was the best thing to come out of that relationship) and though we’re an ocean apart, her conversation and Instagram are a constant source of dopamine for me.

I recently finished my novella. I tried not to navel gaze, (Navel gaze, naval gaze, naval gays? There’s word play in there somewhere, somebody else will phrase it better than I) or at least keep it to a minimum. One can get bogged down in their self reflection too easily. It’s a quagmire. I can sorta see what Narcissus was on about. Does that make me a narcissist too?

My friend James thinks I keep myself too busy. ‘When do you have time to contemplate when you’re so busy?’ He asked once. I laughed at this—it’s the most he ever made me laugh—but I think he was serious.

I contemplate too much though, I’m always fucking contemplating. Or contemplating fucking. I can never catch a break.

I miss going to house parties. Sitting on floors, on sofas, on counters with people I barely know, hazy faces from 10th grade drama or home room French. My best friend once stepped in someone else’s vomit while wearing her lucky socks at a party. I was in the corner, stone cold sober, drinking chocolate soy milk straight from the carton. My tongue tasted like cigarettes which I was still growing accustomed to smoking.

My lucky socks had badgers holding bouquets on them. I got them from the Strand bookstore in New York. I later decided they were my unlucky socks after some minor inconveniences occurred whilst I wore them. I have no clue what happened to them. Lost in one of the moves maybe.

I’ve been writing in transit a lot. On trains, in Ubers, in stations, in the smoking areas and toilets of bars. Snatching the moments in between to try and record, fossilise these moments.

Trying to think through beer is like thinking through molasses. I’m trying to stop intellectualising happiness like I’m gonna be quizzed on it later. As I get older I understand that you need to take happiness when it comes, stop questioning it, asking if you deserve it or when the other foot will fall. Where did I learn the assumption that good things can’t last?

Waiting, sitting, writing, watching. There’s sun today for the first time in a good while. It’s glorious. I can see how it gives life. I feel myself come alive after so many days under the grey.

My heart is split between a lifetime’s worth of places: Between the orange bricked school I went to for 10 years where I learned about Odin and Michelangelo and pin hole cameras; where I learned to play volleyball and play nice and how to get what you want through hard work and an acerbic wit.

It’s split between my best friend’s childhood bedroom where we took coconut flavoured weed chocolates and listened to Mac Demarco on her turntable that always broke. Where I had my first hangover and my first good New Year’s Eve.

Part of it is nestled in the hands of the first boy whose heart I broke. I don’t think he wants it but he’s stuck with it, much as I once tried to pry it away. I regret that one, but I’ve done my penance and I’m learning to forgive myself.

Part of it is hidden in the pages of books, my first love and the most consistent; battered Penguins, beloved children’s series, glossy 20th anniversary hardbacks, cheap paperbacks scavenged from free libraries in the Annex.

Part of it is with the small black cat nestled beside me, her green eyes sleepily watching my fingers on the keys; her ears, little velvet triangles, twitch slightly whenever I hit a key too aggressively. (In high school my crush told me off once for how angrily I typed; ‘What are you so mad about?’ She asked. I could only shrug, embarrassed, and try to soften the pads of my fingers.)

Part of it is on the way to Newcastle right now, with promises it’ll be back soon.

It’s been a weird few months but the light at the end of the tunnel is coming up quicker than I expected. I’m doing ok, thanks. A lot of days I’m doing even better than ok. Square my shoulders, crack my knuckles, unclench my jaw. I told you I always land on my feet. Lighten up, man.