The Wastepaper Basket

Once again, I’m writing in the chicago airport. I’ve lost track of how many times it’s been this year- coming from london, to maine, visiting home and now again– I guess I can count, that’s fucking four times. But it’s nice to be able to lose track of this, at least for a minute.

I’m shamelessly throwing this together, bored out of my mind in my five hour layover. My dad has never really know what to do with me, but we’ve recently found out that the one way he can show affection is to take care of me while I’m travelling. Not only did he use his work miles to get me home, but he changed my flight after knowing (before I did) that there was no damn way I was going to make it. It’s an odd thing, having him s a dad. You learn to see the tenderness in the weirdest actions. 

I finally have a reason for witing so sloppily, and posting it without editing. (Mariah wrote me the other day, begging me to please, please let her edit for me. I know she’s reading this right now– I’m so sorry for the grammatical mangling that’s about to occur) I understnad this probbaly doesn’t look much different than a usual piece, but I am RACING to my imaginary deadline. After weeks of backlogged blog posts, we’ve reached an end. This is mostly due to how much of my energy has gone into the book. (this is going to stop being boring in a second, I promise) I’ve been challenging myself to finish it before the year is up, and that end goal is looming over me in my sleep. Not only have I run out of blog posts, but my social media is an absolute desert lately. There’s sort of a thrill, a little bit of a challenge, trying to toss stupid idea together to post. Yesterday’s little gem even earned a singular comment: “What does that even mean?”

If this wasn’t far enough of a hole, I also decided that I would be beginning a series on instagram, with absolutely no planning. If I’m going to be forced to give up my hold on this year, you betta beleive it’s going to be kicking and screaming.

All this rush has drien me to the point of distraction. I’m glad to go home. I’m glad for Christmas–  I need my tiny brain to be shaken back into cheer and gratitude. 

I’m glad to be going home.

It’s been a year since I wrote my first piece. A piece written in december, in the absoulte peak of my meloncholy. It was right before I finally gave up to go back to the states, when I was still teetering on the edge of confining myself as a childcare provider for precious years of my life. I had longer hair. I was horribly and dully sober, constantly. I was writing my favorite screenplay. Lving in london, going on adventures, and absolutely hating myself to the bone. I remembering thinking “Am I going to keep having these aventures as an insufferable person? Don’t good things come to decent people?”

I wrote poetry about following strangers in the city, about falling in love with men that were too old for me, and I watched an unhelathy ammount of The West Wing in a short ammount of time.

It’s going to be 2026, and at long last, I shaved my head. Right now i’m wearing the stupid hat. (The evil part of me does this so my mother can see it, because I know she hates it so much. This year has made me happier, but less enlightened) At the moment the hair’s grown out, and I’m toying, as all baby queers should, with the idea of getting a mullet. My last haircut was in octover, in my parent’s dining room. I asked for it to be done with our dog’s barber shears.

I’ve never been so happy being so mediocre. I never get a year that I can look back on with pride– I’m always comparing myself to some diviine self, some beautiful, semi-fantastical being that I know I can never be. (If i was exactly what I wanted to be, 100% of the time, I know I’d be completely insufferable)

December 2025. I am horrifically unemployed. I write regularly– I’m brave enough to show my face on camera. I deleted the dating apps– I’m finally finishing the novel. I’m thinking about trying out community college– I’m saving up to move to New York City. I’m talking to people that I was keeping at a safe arm’s length, and I’m now wounded by people that i would never expect. What’s more– I have friends. Somehow, in 365 days, i have friends.

It’s hard to describe the loneliness of 2024– the loneliness of being just on the outside. About hearing from people from your hometown maybe once a month, knowing they’re talking to a 12 year old version of you. They love you– you love them. But it’s not being alive. That existence was basically recreational necromancy.

I wish I could have told myself a year ago the small, mundane joys of having friends. During one of the inevitable phone breaks I took while writing this, I see that one of these new friends has sent me something to look at – “Gosh, I should look, she’s sent a few and I don’t want her to think I’m ignoring her.”

During Thanksgiving, one of the new friends called me out of the blue– next month she’s doing my portfolio so I can apply to modelling. 

Every morning I wake up and send the Wordle to another friend.

I have people to call– people to write to, to talk to, to hear baout movies and job applications and rent air-bnb’s with. I got invited to my first part this year. (It was full of very sweet people that I didn’t know, so one of of the friends took me out back so I could get stoned and relax. After that I was a fantastic conversationalist. My only worry was that everyone was noticing how much of the cheese board I was eating…)

I have a long way to go. The phone is still eating my brain away, and I really need to get a damn job. Next year I’ll plan my projects before I dive into them. But either way– I feel like I’ve been a real person. Not just a good spot, because as sure as the depressions are, the good parts do come back around eventually.

There’s something beautiful and profound that should be said, but what it is, I’ll let you fill in the blanks. I told my Mom I’m agonistic and the world didn’t end– Dove and I called the other day, and they didn’t say a single wrong thing. For the first time in years, I could jsut be their sister– and now I’ve got another person to hurt for. I’m so grateful that I can just be worried about them– that I can just care, and do my best, and stop giving a shit. After this? I’m probably going to think about buying a pack of cigarettes from duty free and get way too nervous about it. (don’t ask me why, we’re working through it)

I’m a basic little bitch. I’m a scared 22 year old wearing a cowboy hat because I noticed people are nicer to me when I put it on. I still feel like buying my own beer is exciting, and I’m not even going to get into my love life. I am, and probably always will be, a midwestern farm girl who dreams of the big city.

I think what I’ve realized is that wherever I go, I’ve found a home.

That’s something to be proud of.

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