Hooplah.Org A Story of Graceful Stumbles

Last Place in the Lone Woman Race

The progress I've made on my 2008 New Years resolution so far can be summed up in two words: "epic fail." I wish that were different, but I'd be wasting my time to keep making promises about how "I'll try harder", and "this time I'll really put forth an effort" - it's been what it's been, and most of the time, it was nothing at all. It's hard to believe that it's already April 1st, 4 months since I attempted to start my journaling crusade, but I'm glad to be the hell out of March and coming into the warming weather. Considering how this project has been going it's actually pretty ironic that I choose to finally make a post on April Fool's day I just wish I felt more like the prankster than the fool. With each day that passes I don't know why I make something as simple as writing more elusive than it needs to be.

If I ever do want to get back to writing on a regular basis (which, IMO, would be kind of awesome), I should probably start off with being a little more honest: my intention for journaling again isn't because I want to document my life, restore my peace of mind, indulge my hibernating creativity, or any of the other earthy excuses people have for further polluting the internet with egotistical steams of consciousness. In fact I'm not sure if I was ever in that state of mind, and if I were, it was likely brief and the odds are good that I was high as a kite in Michelle's dorm room. Despite my true motivations, I still reaped the benefits as though it were for the sake of my creative flow; the older I get the more I appreciate having these archives to look back on that I otherwise wouldn't have if I had only a pen and a for-my-eyes-only paper journal to do the job. I doubt my entries would have had near the detail and enthusiasm if I knew that I was the only one who would read it.

When I was 17 and 18, a large part of me felt like I was a pioneer of the internet onslaught - I was helping push the world wide envelope of internet publication, however small of a contribution it was, and somewhere along the way I got to find out who I was and figure who I wanted to be. In short, it was this period of my life that I saw myself as A Pretty Big Deal, shamelessly self absorbed, and reasonably difficult to deal with if I was ever some other emotion than "calm." It was this period of my life that I became comfortable with not having many friends, and of those that I did have, I adapted the habit of keeping them at a distance that made whatever role they played in my life optional. I never would have admitted this at the time, and even now it's not something I'm proud of, but my writing enabled me to become my own best friend in a very unhealthy way. It gave me a way to glorify myself and sadly it was probably the most content I have ever been with who I am. If I take a step back and really compare what was pushing me back then to what is tugging at me now, it's essentially the same man behind the curtain it was just so much easier to pay no attention to all the ugliness when I was younger.

It was after the Summer of 2002, during the years that followed where I spent my days with only a computer to keep me company, that I misplaced whoever it was that I knew myself to be as a teenager. Well, "misplaced" is probably a poor choice of words: aborted is more fitting, as I was struggling to become a better person at the time and somehow I was able to not only gain the perspective to see what needed to be different but also the courage to change it. It's only at moments like this that I miss that person, that girl who wore red boots every day and lived for Alanis Morrissette, and it makes me wonder if I did the right thing to her.

So, to finally get to the point: I want to continue to use this space as a tool to prove that I'm smart and more interesting and that somewhere, deep down, there a tiny bit left of that Pretty Big Deal. However, this time I'm not trying to prove this to myself I want this so that the important people in my life can see that this side of me exists. It's something I feel I need to accomplish but I also need to find a way to do it differently; I want it to be something I can do casually, without it consuming me and changing my perspective, but it seems as though I can't find the passion for it without the self absorbed agenda. Where once this was so easy it is now a constant source of worry and struggle; can I no longer even bullshit how interesting I am? Does it really take that much time out of my day to sit and write down what I think? Does it matter if he can read what I write as I'm typing when he's the one I want the most to read it after it's published?

I sit here, again and again, struggling and straining to put the simplest ideas into words. So much effort and so far there is nothing to show for it. I wonder what is wrong with me when I already know the problem(s), and I wonder why I waste my time when I already know why I do. Then I kick my own ass for the shortcomings I've long sense accepted and persist to keep trying even though I know the odds are good that I'll fail. In short, I'm torturing myself and I know I'll continue to do so until I get it right. I just don't think that I ever will be able to again.