Wish I had more time.

I wish I had more time to do a lot of things. I’m too fucking busy these days. Between school, working in the lab, working at the park, being president of a club, doing homework [or thinking about it], meetings, eating, sleeping, showering, having a social life [or trying], commuting, breathing, thinking…I just don’t have enough fucking time to write.

And it pisses me off.

[C, I don't know how you do it. You manage to post sometimes up to three blogs in a day! And long ones. Where do you find the time??]

Anyway, I want to write more. I just can’t seem to. I want to write, even a short short story, about yesterday when a I got hit by a bike — while I was in my car. The dude had the balls to ask if I wanted to “check it out” — like his rolling into my 1997 Rav-4 could have done any damage. Notwithstanding the fact that he ran into the front passenger quad panel, the same quad panel that was completely destroyed when that elderly Japanese man unwittingly opened his car door into oncoming traffic [AKA me] this past March. Never got the panel fixed, but I think it gives The Rav more character [like it needs it].

I want to write a short story about my first pack of cigarettes, purchased last week on a whim with a borrowed eight dollars. Yes, cigarettes cost that much in Massachusetts. Coming from Tobacco Country, that seems a little much.

Incidentally, I have 9 cigarettes left. I don’t know why I’m smoking. It’s both disgusting and delicious at the same time. This horrible dichotomy is intriguing, though. How can I like and hate it so much? I must look ridiculous, but I do fit into different social situations. I even had a guy bum one off me, while I was waiting for someone. Standing on the corner outside the South Station T stop, a man walked up and said, “Excuse me, you don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you?” I had been asked for lights before, but never a cigarette. I wasn’t even smoking at the time. “Actually…I do, ” I replied, with a smile. “Funny story — this is actually the first pack I’ve ever bought and I’m 25.” He asked why, but didn’t seem as amused as I would have thought. Ah, well.

I want to write about the self-revelations I’ve been having lately. My need for affirmation. And why that pisses me off. Don’t think I’ll ever not need affirmation, but I am trying my fucking hardest to just do what makes me happy, not wait around for the rest of the world, and just say “fuck it.”

I want to write about my life decisions. Clinical Ph.D program…or MFA in creative writing? Or neither? Do I even have any talents either way?? Holy shitballs. Fuck. Sure, I can tell a funny story about
that time I sneezed on that guy’s face, or when I found maggots growing in my kitchen cabinet, but what does it mean?? Besides getting me two dates, is this blogging doing me anything, besides telling weird and most likely embarrassing and stupid stories to the average of 23 people who visit each day??

Maybe. Who the fuck knows. Right now, I don’t care.

Just wish I could write more.

Never Enough Time…or The Panic Was So Far-Reaching It Could Be Described As Widespread

You know, there’s just never enough time to do all the things I have to do and all the things I want to do. So I either put off the former, stress out, get anxiety-ridden, and feel like a loser…or put off the latter, and feel unfulfilled and like a loser. Both results in me feeling like a loser. Why, oh why, can’t I just be independently wealthy, and spend my days reading, writing, crafting, drinking coffee, and enjoying the great city in which I live?

One of the things I want to do on a regular basis is write. Since I made the decision to actively do so [in my quest of becoming a "writer"], I’ve made leaps and bounds in my prioritizing “writing” and putting it near the top of the list [even above "laundry" and "gettin' money from my hoes"]. But I haven’t enough time in the day! I don’t even get it. I work all day, come home, watch a tiny bit of television, check my email, then all of the sudden it’s time for bed! No time to write, unless I drink massive amounts of coffee and/or alcohol, and don’t sleep…which I’d do, but my youthful face would suffer, I fear. And I like being 25, yet still passing for a teenager. It gives me hope for when I enter my 30s [which a jerk I work with reminded me is not too far off].

So, specifically, I wanted to write about my most recent experiences at a concert. I began writing the story a couple days ago, so finally, here it is:

The panic was so far-reaching it could be described as widespread…

The concert tonight exceeded any of my expectations, the few that I had. I met Steve, the tour manager [or so his business card read] at Fenway on Wednesday. He offered me tickets to see Widespread Panic on Thursday night, so how could I refuse? Free concert = awesome. My roommate and a friend said they’d come with me, and we met at the Bank of America Pavilion down by the Boston Harbor at 7:00. Will call didn’t have me on “the list” so I called Steve, and he brought the four tickets up [and my roommate called the situation "dodgy"]. I only had two friends, so there was an extra ticket that my roommate promptly sold for twenty bucks. I said we couldn’t sell a free ticket, but he’s Irish and doesn’t follow normal rules.

When we got inside, the scent of marijuana wafted through the air. With ten-dollar beers in hand, we laughed, joked, and chatted while Widespread Panic jammed on stage. Upon drinking the second alcoholic beverage, and as the sun finally set, we stood up and joined the throngs of hippies dancing in the aisles of the pavilion, moving their bodies without inhibitions. There was no way we could refuse the call of the music [especially a ten-minute jam of Bill Withers' "Use Me"] and soon we, too, shook and gyrated like the white people we are. The dancing was contagious! And actually, quite fun. Even the cute four-year old girl with glasses was running up and down the aisles, jumping and shaking about. In the bathroom, my friend and I encountered the ballerina-turned-hippie, who demonstrated her years of ballet study with a glissade and an arabesque before flitting her way back to her seat.

At 10, a we finally departed and made our way to Hennessey’s near Faneuil Hall for an awesome 90s rock cover band that jams there on Thursday nights. The bar was so hot that during the band’s break, I turned the fan that cooled them off to me and stood in front of it. Unfortunately I got too close and my hair got stuck in the fan. A helpful bystander cut off the fan and we dislodged the majority of my tresses, leaving only a small chunk of my blonde locks in the fan — I told the band’s singer it was a special gift from me. Some Sam Summers, shots, and shaking it later, and we were on the move again to J.J. Foley’s for more drinks. At 3am, we were finally in a cab to go home. All in all, a good night of music, dancing, drinking, friends, and fun.

See, if I had more time in the day, I’m sure that story could be better. But at this point I’m just happy to have a minute to sit and recall it, let alone the time to type out my memories about that night.

Maybe one day I’ll either: 1) win the lottery, quit my job and have time to write all day, or 2) meet a hot, rich, amazingly sensitive and brilliant older man who will pay all my bills and I’ll quit my job and have time to write all day.

I’m pretty sure that I have a better shot at winning the lottery.