I wanted to be a writer. Go to NYU or Carnegie Mellon. Maybe UCLA for something. I wanted out of Virginia. I wanted to live life and just…find me. And I wanted to write. I’ve always loved writing, almost as much as I love talking. I’d thought about social work as well. But I wanted to go to where the action was. I wanted to be surrounded by people as creatively driven as I was/hope I still am. I was always the creative one in the family. My mom says I was her wild flower child. (In spite of being born in 1989.)
I didn’t do any of that though. My dad got sick and I felt like I needed to stay close. I also fell in love with Mr. G. I think if just one of those had happened I still would have left. But instead I used one to justify the other. It’s ok to stay for a guy because I need to be here for my dad anyway. And even though my mom stays things will be ok with my dad it’s not like I’d be throwing my life away if I stayed to be close to him because I’ve got this great guy. I’ll still have a personal life. Aside from the fact that our move further down South proved me right about my suspicions about my parents (she’s a workaholic and my daddy gets lonely, my brother is an asshole), I don’t think it worked like I’d planned it. Have no career and I haven’t really done anything meaningful with my life. I gambled and on days like today I feel like I lost.