Writerlust

Age 0-10: 1989-1999 I was technically born in the eighties, but with only 10 months left in that most vibrant of decades, I missed out on all of the amazing music and culture. I fleshed out in the nineties, however, when boy bands were king and Leonardo DiCaprio was every young girls' future husband. I vividly remember loving Nsync and Backstreet Boys like my life depended on it. I remember sleepovers with hairbrushes as microphones and beds as stages, where we'd muse and debate over what our lives would be like in 10 years when we'd married our favorite Nsync or Backstreet Boy member (for me, Chris Kirkpatrick or AJ McLean, respectively). I also had a complete love of all things seventies' rock as a young kid. I would listen to cassette tapes in my parent's front yard ad nauseum, until the tapes themselves were warped. One of my all-time favorite tapes to crank at top volume (I'm sure to my neighbor's dismay) was the "Hey Stoopid" album by Al

Periodically throughout every single day I find myself battling what are essentially panic attacks about my future. Where I am going from here is such a murky process in my head that I find myself more and more afraid of time's passage. Am I missing out on something important? Am I living life to the fullest? As an overweight, single, twenty-three year old woman who somehow manages to feel all alone in a crowded room of friends, the answer to that first question becomes an obvious and resounding, "No."  But why is that? What is holding me back?  I can't seem to put my finger on it. I can't seem to put my finger on anything what with alarms from my phone constantly leading me hither and thither through my life. I don't have any spark or passion urging me to live my life. I feel like I'm just here. I'm just going through the motions of each day, never feeling a single iota of any sense of purpose.  Is this depression? Is this a mid-l

Originally titled: Pontellier I have an insane and urgent lust to re-read The Awakening...  Edna speaks to me in a way most characters never have. I feel a kinship with her, despite having never been married, never bearing children, growing up in an entirely different region of the United States, living in a different social class, and being of a completely different time period than she... However, she still speaks to me. I feel sometimes that I can speak back to her, she nods and understands my pleas. But she never responds. I can only read of her life, fictional as it is, and wonder what I would do in her dainty shoes. I wonder if she wonders the same about my well-worn sneakers or grey ankle boots... Perhaps. I like to think she would.  Would she still walk into the ocean at the end?