Since I have flown in a lot of airplanes, I knew how to tie mask straps around my head. Those flight attendants will always give you good examples, or forward your attention to the card in the seat pocket in front of you. But never did I think that I would spend time with that mask on my face being nearly as out of breath as I turned out to be. I was spending hours upon hours breathing through a mask that was keeping the dust-like particles of newly laid concrete out of my lungs. My feet had since swollen to the size of canoes and had just ended a few weeks of a strike, yet here I was, the masked dancer traipsing around a construction zone as though I was in “The Making of West Side Story: The Musical”. And amidst the craziness of the situation, I was still less than shocked. Here is why.

I walked into the dance studio, a few hours fresh out of my airplane from my extended European vacation. I was barraged with a slew of past Irish Dance cohorts and stomping and banging that could compare to being woken up by the gardener’s lawnmower. As I gave my hugs, I looked over the shoulders to see new faces in Flamenco shoes and long skirts that couldn’t be kept still. Confuse me? I thought I was meant to be Irish Dancing? Unbeknownst to me, I walked out of France and into Spain. I slinked over to the swivel chair so I could both entertain myself with a bit of rotation, and watch as the Spaniards mastered their routines. It had been a month since rehearsals for this show began and I, being the late-comer, was enchanted with the talent I saw in front of me. I suddenly began to see a light at the end of the tunnel. As the dancers finished their rehearsal and the Irish dancers were prepping to begin theirs, I shook a few hands and, in good European fashion, gave a kiss on both cheeks. I was awful at names so the faces were all I could remember. I met the new members of the Spanish side of our show and was welcomed with open arms by a handful of people that spoke primarily Spanish - a problem for me because my foreign language skills rest just northeast of Spain. 

I walked out into the middle of the dance floor and collected my people together. My closest friends gathered around me and quickly gave me the run-down. “We have a bunch done, but you’re doing a ton of stuff alone. So, just walk around until we figure it out,” they told me. Alright - I can do that. Easy enough. I watched the Irish dancers rehearse one of the numbers and there was a gap of space meant for me. The next number cycled through and again, the same gap happened in that number too. I was slowly realizing the magnitude of work I had ahead of me and the insanely small amount of time I had to perfect it. At this point, I had eleven days to fill that emptiness and perform it like I own the world, when the show was technically supposed to open. My heart was racing with the idea of solo time on stage because, like every other dancer, I had worked my whole life to hone my skills so I could finally be the lead of a show. My day had come and it was time to get cracking.

The next few days were a blur of choreography and Spanish. I was pulled aside to meet my counterpart - the Spanish lead dancer, Javi. He had a jacket tied around his unreasonably small waist, that sat a good 5 inches above mine. He towered over me and had a smile that never seemed to fade. I looked up at him as he smiled and said “Nice to meet you” in his best English. “France?” he asked me. “Yes I was in France for the Holidays, but I’m here now!” I replied hoping he would understand me, even with my inability to consolidate words. “Ah yes! I see it,” he replied to me, pointing to his face. I pondered what he meant as I casually giggled, and finally realized - he thinks I’m French (his hand gesture meaning he could see that I looked French). We left to go work on material to do together in a ‘Battle’ sequence in the show and he occasionally referenced my french heritage. “Muchos language! Me Spanish, you French, and todos English!” I played along by maintaining my casual giggle, and continued working on the mixing of Irish and Spanish rhythms, which I found to be inexplicably different. A few listens to Javi’s hand-clapping and overall excitement for the show really knocked the beat into my head quickly and we rallied out a few steps that would prove to be the building blocks of our highlighted number. 

Rehearsals continued on and I picked up all of the choreography that had been taught while I was abroad. I had been working so hard on the footwork almost 6 days a week that I fell victim to a foot injury, pulling the tendon that runs across the top of my right foot - a Lisfranc’s sprain. (As I was continually reminded by my eternally clever and witty friends: “Of course you would injure yourself in some French way.”) Though usage of my foot was frowned upon by doctors and my mother, I had to learn the choreography in tennis shoes and still look professional. I spent a week and a half out of dancing shoes entirely but was able to translate my New Balance choreography to the Irish shoes, that had previously wrecked my feet, when the time came. We had just begun mixing the Spanish and Irish for the battle scene. This was quite the learning experience for everyone because the basic language for this rehearsal was Spanish. I can scream right through an order at Taco Bell, but making my point choreographically was proving to be more difficult than the drive-thru. We attempted a few different steps, translating the Spanish rhythms to Irish sounds, but also creating some form of story between the two cultures. The over-catholicized Irish dancers, arms seemingly tied to their hips, had to somehow give the force of energy that the Spanish gave, who spent every second cheering on their lead. We had a lot of work to do. 

Days passed and we built more and more of the choreography to the point where it was as much as we could do without being on the actual stage. You see, we spent this entire time rehearsing in a space about half the size that would actually be used. The theatre we were preparing for was once an abandoned Toys R’ Us that was purchased by a Spanish businessman with the dream to open a show in Anaheim. He was once associated with Medieval Times and had discussed with us, at the audition, how Anaheim proved to be one of the highest markets for these kinds of shows. The theatre was under construction for quite some time, as one would assume turning a toy store into a thriving theatrical setting, equipped to seat and feed roughly 1,000 people. We were waiting for the day the permits cleared so we could enter the building and start getting used to our new home away from home. 

We were approaching the deadline quickly as the originally eleven days of preparation I had become a solid two weeks. We weren’t aware of when our opening day would be, but we were sure it could happen at any moment. We had scheduled rehearsals for the theatre at the beginning of the week, and those had been postponed as the permits needed more time, but the next day, magically, the permits for non-hard-hat clearance came through and we were told that in four days, there was going to be an audience. We walked into the building, which had yet to be carpeted, lit, or given running water. The stage was a concrete floor that took up nearly one-third of the entire dining area, an area that had yet to receive tables, chairs, or any semblance of somewhere an audience could be seen. The cast was skeptical of the probability of opening on time. We all discussed telling our families of days to come and we came to the mutual conclusion that we can’t plan past tomorrow. 

Rehearsal began in the Lobby of the building where there was a large wooden floor laid on top of cement. We needed to use it for size reasons alone, but also because the stage was meant to be installed that evening. We noticed there was a thick dust in the air and it was increasingly dry and hard to breathe, so out came the masks. A gracious assistant brought us all masks to help us not be breathing in small particles of cement and it became the first fashion trend to happen amongst the group. With all of us masked up and ready to go, the theatre began taking shape at an alarming rate. We walked onto the newly laid stage, bounced around, looked at the lighting rig, and also where the audience would one day be. Excitement filled our veins and we began practicing some of our steps on the stage. The countdown was three days and we began running full numbers on the stage. There was a massive plastic tarp suspended from the ceiling just at the end of the stage that blocked our view of the audience. We were always curious what it was looking like on the other side of the tarp. We wanted to see the chairs and tables pop up one by one and watch as the stairs got their lights - but we had work to do, and somehow, we had to get this show together in three days.

Day two approached and we were still dancing on stage with the masks on, waiting for the demon dust to settle. A few of us had lost our voices, a few others were close to medically insane, but what was to come really threw us through a loop - 4am lighting rehearsals. Lighting rehearsals are notoriously the worst part of opening a show. You are required to stand in place, in most of your costume, so that they can arrange the lights in a complimentary manner. These things, especially with Spanish in the mix, can take ages, if not eons. We stood there, slowly losing our minds, in our formations at 3am hoping that this number can be easily lit so we can go home, get our decent night’s sleep, and come back for another 11 hours tomorrow. But there was another problem, there was another inspector coming the next day - which is the day we were supposed to have our first set of guests. Local hotels and newspapers and investors all were invited to our pseudo-opening night, but if the county inspector didn’t think things were up to code, well, we’d have some explaining to do. 

We spent all of that day on edge, not knowing whether or not a show would happen. We had two run-through’s scheduled before the show for the audience: one for blocking, and one with costumes. The blocking rehearsal started far too late for a dress rehearsal due to an issue with the fire alarms constantly being on. We had a continually flashing light and warning message playing for about 4 hours. If you want to know something that slowly rips away at your sanity, this is your ideal place. We couldn’t find a quiet place, or an area not enveloped in cement dust, so we settled for sitting on the stage watching other numbers rehearse, occasionally snapping photos of us in our stylish masks we had grown so accustomed to.

Suddenly we heard word: we were on for tonight. In just three days, this building went from unapproachable, to fully operating dinner theatre. We aren’t sure exactly how things went down, but we are still contemplating if someone lost a pinkie finger as collateral. (We often joke about our lives being protected by the mafia. We haven’t been assured enough to believe its entirely untrue.) We tossed our costumes on and heard that the audience was lining into the seating area that was slowly being dressed throughout the day - just enough to sit the roughly 70 people viewing the dress rehearsal/opening night. We were finally through the rehearsal period. All of those hours worked; all of those injuries, language barriers, and moments of sheer insanity. We completed the daunting task of putting on a show, and now it was up to us to keep the show running and stable.

So there we were: onstage, lit, and performing a show we were relatively sure wouldn’t have happened for another week. It all came together somehow, through all of the crazy that went down. Yet, with all of the crazy behind us and all of us just hoping the show would happen, we wouldn’t have guessed that the crazy would just keep peeking around the corner at any given notice. I have never experienced anything quite like this show, and I know that with every day that passes, something new, interesting, and possibly mind-blowing occurs. That’s entertainment for you: you never know what is coming next until the inspector says, “clear”. 

And yes, we kept the masks - just in case.

xx.

You know, there have been times in my life where I have felt like I hit a fork in the road. I have found it incredibly difficult to choose paper or plastic, debit or credit, left or right. I have been confronted with a plethora of situations that, whether or not they deserved it, I have dealt with in a far more complicated manner than necessary. Maybe my brain is just wired the wrong way or maybe I have a complex where I can’t just think of one, for lack of a better term, solution. Yet, with all of life’s conundrums, I have never found myself at such a fork. I have never been teetering on such uneasy ground before. Just when I thought yes or no receipt with my gas was a problem, I find that life has so many moments to challenge you that are beyond explanation.

I wanted to attempt to make this as light-hearted as possible, because I made a promise to myself that this blog was meant to be a way for me to expel my positive energy in situations less than noticed. Yet, in light of recent events, I have to bring the tone down, as I don’t think I’ve ever been this internally upset in my life. Details are not important. Those who know the details know, and those who don’t will read this dying to know what happened, and maybe in time you will, but for the moment, just read along and understand that I am writing this simply to put my brain in writing in as therapeutic a way as possible. 

I wake up every morning in a routine that has been all I have known. This routine becomes the first part of my day to knock me down. I have been shaken of my habits and it has made me a constant reminder of what isn’t. I slowly gain my voice and my limbs begin their slow awakening process enough for me to walk to the kitchen and see more remnants of this routine. I can’t make toast without even a single situation racing through my head. I meander back to my room, sit in my bed, and the routine that has been tossed in a box, shaken about, and dumped to the floor is in pieces scattered across my brain, attached to even the tiniest crumb on my carpet. In an attempt to clear my brain of constant activity, I do my best with my extensive DVD collection of Sex and the City and Will & Grace. 

You know those moments where you talk about the things in the “back of your mind”? Well, I have no more of them. Nothing is in the back of my mind anymore. Every memory in my head got front row tickets to the screening of “Eternal Sunshine of Kyle’s Mind.” The impossible task of imagining my memories and attempting to siphon out the ones that are no longer is draining in the least. But there is Kate Winslet, stuck in the back of my mind, chained to my skull as though she refuses to leave - like a crazy Greenpeace patriot attached to the last remaining tree in the world. 

My strength lies in validation. I siphon through these memories, routines, whatever code name you wish to attach to them, and make validations. My heart is strengthened with knowing that in some way, I will be okay - that maybe its the times in life like this that really shape you for the next chapter. That’s what I’ve been told my whole life is this bullshit that will rain down on you is there to shape the path you will take, shape the way you make decisions, shape the way you handle similar situations in the future. It is meant to give you the balls you need to survive. I have seen people close to me come through nearly mirrored situations and not a scratch. A few scars, but nothing visible. But that’s the thing is where does one stop and decide where the line is? What makes the line between the nicks you get from shaving and someone taking a machete to one of your arms? I’ve always said I can’t just cut off an arm, but who can? Who has the strength to just instantly lose something so valuable? But to that effect, if you cut yourself deep enough when shaving, a task that is not supposed to be difficult, that could lead to your downfall - though I’d hope that if you’re able to patiently sit through this blabber about metaphors you’re able to shave properly.

It’s a situation that is irreversible. I’ve nicked myself plenty of times but I never realized that all of those little cuts that never bothered me when they happened would eventually take the place of that machete. I could cover myself in bandaids, but that only makes me look like I’m trying to hide a problem - not create a permanent solution (for those who have that problem, attempt an electric shaver). 

All metaphors aside, I have a newfound emptiness inside of me. There is a part of me that is no longer there. I have attempted to fill it with a multitude of things before, but it’s a seriously specific shape. My brain is trying to work out the problems; my heart is trying to work out it’s own problems. I can’t seem to get them to work together. I’m in a constant court battle for custody of how I’m feeling, how I’m thinking, and how I want to react. So much has happened; so much has passed. I feel like the time I spent creating this routine wasn’t for anything but growth, and maybe it’s time to find a new path to grow with? It’s an answer that will come with time. 

In the mean time, I’m sitting here going through my life as though it will have eternal sunshine, with a few spots here and there. One thing I know is certain, my mind will never be spotless. My memories and my routines have shaped this person I am - more so than I can even realize. I’m sad. I’m different. I wish there was a way to take the problems and sift them through a colander, but they will always be there unless you change the recipe. There is no solution except time, and for now, my heart belongs to patience and hope. Maybe those routines will return. Maybe more memories will be made. The problem with maybe is that it’s a fork in the road. Maybe this way, maybe that way. It’s one of those maps that you won’t know you went down the fork’s path until you’ve already started - and I just hope that the path I take has the sunshine my life has always had. 

xx.

As far as I was told, through those numerous chats with friends in high school, you know, when you’re all trying to be genius and edgy in English class: life happens in chapters. When you’ve reached the end of a chapter, the next chapter begins where the last left off, with a plethora of new experiences while still maintaining character plot lines and integrity. I had settled well into this idea when I finally discovered that my life isn’t so much a generic, run-of-the-mill storybook you can grab at Borders, but it’s like those books you ordered from that monthly book order form in 3rd grade - the ones where you read through the chapter about the girl who is solving the mystery of the lost homework and upon finishing the final line you’re given the option to hop back a few chapters if you think she will find it in the closet, or hop forward a few chapters if you think she will find it in the refrigerator. Now, I haven’t misplaced any homework, but the idea of the book’s format is really inspiring my life these days.

Four years ago, if you had told me I would spend a year of my life Irish Dancing professionally, I would have lowered the dosage on your morphine drip. I wouldn’t have believed that I could hop back to that chapter of my life, or rather 10 chapters, that I spent feverishly competing in Irish Dancing or skipping social outings because, yes, I had dance class. Yet here I am, strapping on my hardshoes everyday performing in two shows in the past year, one of which was in a state low on my list of places to visit. I lived through my Virginian summer, doing the job that instigated my unexpected return to Irish Dance, and upon arrival home to the lovely and weather-stagnant California, I found very few opportunities that didn’t involve Irish Dancing. I was told about an audition for a show that I was unsure of because of the heavy Irish Dance involvement, but was convinced with the promise of a multitude of styles that would be included. Living off of unemployment checks, I pretty much went to this audition hoping that the Irish Dancing gimmick was going to be my in and at the end of the day, I needed a job. So with my celtic cohorts at my side, we parked in the noticeably empty parking lot and walked into the ballet studio they had rented for the day. We walked into a room that had just about 10 people stretching and cautiously eyeballing the new competition. Instantly, we all knew that we were the only Irish Dancers in the room. We didn’t rest on the idea that maybe we instantly got the job by default, so we put jazz shoes on and stretched amongst ourselves. 

A plethora of accents walked in the door, all speaking a multitude of languages. Really it was just Spanish and English, but with a few crazy accents thrown in the mix it seemed like a UN convention was just next door. With that, a leggy brunette with an oddly mixed Russian/Spanish accent taught us a few combinations that were ranging from modern dance to spanish influenced, all for a panel of clearly wealthy businessmen. We really couldn’t get a read on the situation. When us Irish Dancers had a moment to do a jig or two for the ‘panel’, we would bring in our iPod, plug it in, and dance for them to anything from Riverdance tunes - as I’m not an avid collector of Irish Dance music - to Michael Jackson? Yes. The king of pop was now providing me with music for an Irish Dance audition. 

Bewildered and a little dizzy from such a fast and odd audition process, we sat in the room waiting for news. A shorter man with slicked-back gray hair that had a lively curl at the end walked to the center of the room, clearly expecting us to remain below eye-level. He stood there telling us about the job, his past experience in entertainment with Medieval Times, and how that some of the people in the room needed to lose weight if they wanted to get this job. The further he went into the talk, the more you knew about him: Shiny white teeth, a sharply tailored suit for his squatty figure, and the ability to say exactly what he was thinking. He thanked us for coming to the audition, all 10 of us, and said we will receive an email in about 3 days with news - yes or no - and as we all filed out of the room, hoping that 72 hours would feel like 5, he walked up behind me and wrapped his arm over my shoulder. “You are very, very talented. We just need to find a way to get your more hair,” he said, rubbing the spot on my five-head that once was an active hair-growth epicenter. Shocked and afraid, I said “Yep. Genetics weren’t on my side, but I’ve got a nice smile!” 

I didn’t really attempt to win him over with my slowly receding hairline, but rather my willingness to work, and the idea that I was the only boy Irish Dancer in the room that day. We left with our eyes wide, not because of the odd audition we had just encountered, but because we could not believe that in all of 5 minutes he had called half the room fat, and me bald. Was this who we were about to start working for? Well, 5 days later, a fashionably late email surfaced in my inbox that began with a “Congratulations!” Suffice to say that I got the job, along with the rest of my Irish Dancing cohorts and the other skinny, hair-growing folk that were in the room. We weren’t sure exactly how to read this job offer, but we took it with the idea that someone wanted to pay us to dance, and for that we were thankful.

About a month passed and we hadn’t heard much news from them. With the intent of opening for Christmas, I was already a little terrified because I had pre-existing plans to jetset a little before I settled back down - which is so unlike me.. - and I had actually gotten nervous that with my being gone for the better part of two months, I was not a contender for this job anymore. That month of waiting became a month and a few weeks and as I was boarding the BART in San Francisco, I got a phone call. “We wanted to check and see if you’re still available to be a part of [the show].” I replied honestly, “I’m completely available after the holidays.” I was then told that they would get back to me, and really no news came my way until the choreographer emailed me, about 3 weeks after that phone call, saying rehearsals start December 17th. At this point, I was well into my European vacation, part four. I was spending 5 weeks in France, with side trips around Europe - all of which made me nearly unreachable. Yet, the emails that came supported my late arrivals to the rehearsal process. Could this job be that flexible for me? 

I arrived home January 11th. The next day, I went to my first rehearsal with my hardshoes and jetlag in my dancebag. The rehearsal process seemed to be well on its way. With me not really knowing much of anything, I sat aside and prepared myself for the upcoming process of opening a brand new show. I never really understood how unprepared I was for such an undertaking, but I can tell you this much: I wish now that I had bought a spanish to english dictionary and a washing machine.

xx

The length of my summer, and surrounding months for that matter, have been spent in the foliage-filled state of Virginia. I never really imagined myself as a Virginian - shockingly enough, the past 22 years of my life were spent not even considering Virginia as a viable residence for myself. I have lived my life in California and have been trained in every aspect of social decorum and mannerisms to identify with locations close to beaches, places that allow sandals as allowable day-to-night wear, and cities that are clearly visible from any of the surrounding fifteen freeways. My arrival in a state where these norms were challenged was only the beginning of my unimaginably ridiculous and entertaining summer. I packed my two suitcases and my carryon and tossed myself into an airplane bound for my new home.

The first night of my arrival, I found myself being driven through a snowstorm. I flew from warm, climate-controlled Orange County to what may as well have been Antarctica - I was definitely not appropriately dressed for such a weather conundrum. I arrived at my humble abode in the middle of a seemingly adorable complex. Yet, after closer examination and a few hours of lurking around, I found that the inhabitants of the Stratford apartments were less than satisfactory - especially when it came to welcoming the new gay (it must have been the short shorts and v-neck that tipped them off). There was a chunk of men in white tanks, jeans exposing at least 2/3 of their underwear, and gold veneers sat conspicuously around the mailboxes - as though they were waiting for government funded checks to pay for their fourteen children to get ice cream. Across the parking lot was another man having a heated debate on his cell phone, walking aimlessly around and ignoring the general rules that are mutually understood in a driver/pedestrian relationship. Just in case, I double locked my front door - which also helped from keeping the smell of weed from wafting into my apartment from across the hallway.

The benefit to living in Stratford, apart from the ridiculously low rent, was that a hefty amount of the people in the show I am in also chose the financially friendly apartments. Spread around the complex, we took five apartments and made them home for the next six months. Conveniently located closest to me, 401B became the instant go-to apartment - this being because they had furniture. My apartment was bare for the first few weeks as I slowly accumulated a few specific items strategically purchased to increase storage. I had a cubby system for the dailies (underwear, socks, and pajamas), and utilized the closet for the items that needed to be hanged. My collection of every colored v-necks swarmed my closet and my newly acquired twin air mattress became my sanctuary. I matched my bedsheets to my bathroom towels to my cups, dishes, and pans. I was living in a sparse environment, but I was not about to consider a way to get a queen sized posturepedic back to California - that couldn’t be deflated.

Virginia continued to smack me in the face with culture. I never realized the difference in culture a mere coastal change could make. I started questioning the state when I took my first trip to Target. I had just gotten my car from the lovely, burly men who lugged it across the country for me - not without incredibly sufficient compensation - and was ready to explore my new home. I left Stratford and ventured to the main road just outside and drove past every chain restaurant one could think of, which were sandwiched in between the most massive collection of waffle houses I’d ever seen in one glance. There would be Ruby Tuesdays, followed by Mama Steve’s Pancake House, followed by Wendy’s, Arby’s, and the Astronomical Pancake House. My biggest problem with this road, though, is it’s unbearably unnecessary speed limit of 25 mph. I’m fairly certain that there was absolutely no reason behind making this low of a speed limit past the idea that driving slower past food makes tourists hungry and more willing to stop in for some pancakes. This was the first time in a long time I had actually needed to consciously think about how slow I was going and why it was taking me 15 minutes to move three feet.

After my drive down Richmond Road, I made my way to Target by passing through a forest. Most Virginians - or even east coasters - would disagree that the bountiful amount of trees surrounding the city doesn’t qualify as a forest, but alas, it is. The general consensus, created by myself and my friend Kirsten from Phoenix, is that if you look at a tree, and then past the tree to another tree, and continue to do so without seeing the end of the mass of trees, that qualifies it as a forest. For people who come from the city and the desert, if trees aren’t strategically placed, it’s a forest. This forest devoured the road for about 3 minutes before spitting me out again into a new area called New Town, that was clearly the Williamsburg attempt at a living development: apartments above, retail below. This is a strategy most major cities have come to love because of the use of half as much floor space for two necessities. It’s an adorable little area that I love because it reminds me of the prefabricated lusciousness of places like Irvine or Mission Viejo, where all of the buildings and houses were chosen from a catalog and built in 3 days. 

Target was just past this lush little village and it’s presence was refreshing. It brought me back to a place with realistic speed limits and predetermined foliage placement. I left Target and made my way back home, a way that would have taken me a third of the time back in California, and realized that this is where I was going to be for 6 months. This was my new home so I’d better get used to it. I had to get accustomed to not-so-fast-food, a city with only one chipotle, drivers who think speed limits are biblically important, policemen who will stop you for chewing gum on the wrong side of your mouth, but most importantly, a place that houses some of the most fantastic people I’ve come to meet. 

This summer reignited my Irish Dance passion that was set on the back-burner a while ago. Not necessarily because I was Irish Dancing, but because I was reunited with friends, met new amazing people, and we all shared that common interest. Virginia may have proven to be an anomaly of places where nothing really makes too much sense, but I have been able to live it out with a handful of people who each brought something fantastic to my life. I spent 7 months in Japan with people from all over the world, being able to explore cultures, customs, and languages. Now, I am given the opportunity to do the same within my home country. The cast of Celtic Fyre is a fantastic group of exactly what Virginia is for - lovers. Virginia has created this adorable little family full of wit, skill, and the occasional alcoholic, and without this amazing experience, I wouldn’t have been able to see what hidden treasures Virginia has to offer - going 25 mph in the middle of the forest.

xx.

It is common practice in my apartment to set the alarm 30 minutes prior to when a proper wake-up is actually needed. The 30 minute buffer of time in between proper sleep and time for productivity is a blissful place that mirrors the place a soul flies through before heaven - the waiting room just before the pearly gates with Take-A-Number machines and cots. I appreciate every second of my deep slumbers - I like my Rapid Eye Movement just as much as the next overworked and under-rested working class citizen - but sometimes having the ability to be both asleep and conscious is really a gift that can only be given, never stumbled upon. I like the idea of having aware alone time and there is no place more comfortable than a cool room and a faux-down comforter keeping me nice and toasty while I lay motionless with only the slightest smirk on my face.

The night before a morning wake-up buffer is one that requires both planning and skill. Presumably, the day has been approximately 47 hours long and my muscle groups are noticeably throwing up their white flags. I will get home and spend the next few hours staring at my computer screen, attempting to get my brain to a place that is both stimulated and relaxed - better known as Facebook. Once I have worn the “command” and “r” buttons to the point of no recognition, I close my computer and nestle myself under the covers and attempt to find my first of many sleeping positions I will find myself in throughout the night - I have always found it odd that my sleeping body can find its way into so many different comfortable positions without my brain having any hand in the matter. Once I find the golden position, I find a soothing song on my iPod, something in the early Goldfrapp or Zero 7 genre, and set it really low, but loud enough for my sleeping ears to be audibly nudged and force my brain to slowly regain function. I will set my alarm with the 30 minute buffer period in mind, and set my iPod into the stereo for a volume test. The volume test is key because the beauty in waking up early just to sleep is in waking up calm - the opposite of waking up 10 minutes before you have to be at work and suddenly you’re superhuman and can get ready in 6.5 minutes, including having your bagel toasted, cream-cheesed, and wrapped in a paper towel for easy access on the drive. 

After a few volume attempts and test runs - this involves me playing the song at the exact point at which I assume I will wake up and putting my head on my pillow to see if I can hear the song, enjoy the song, and not be bothered to turn it off at the first instant it plays (I like to enjoy my alarms sometimes) - I dim down my digital clock face, roll into the predetermined ‘start sleep’ pose, and begin a staring contest with the inside of my eyelids. I follow through the stars and tunnels that we saw as 4th graders that pressed slightly on their eyes when they had their heads down for Heads Up 7 Up. I fall into my night’s slumber and await the soothing arias of Zero 7 that are to come in approximately 8 hours. 

Sleep is incredibly valuable to me. Never have I been in so many films, seen so many landmarks, had 17 arms, flown storks to Angelina Jolie’s house every 15 minutes with a new African adoptee. How we were wired with the ability to dream and be entertained in our sleep is something of a masterpiece thanks to whatever or whoever was in the “brain” department at Humans ‘R Us. I greatly enjoy being able to cross the Serengeti without actually having to buy a plane ticket. Unfortunately, every dream comes to an end when the alarm goes off. Just in time, 30 minutes early, my brain quietly fills up with some low-fi and I reach over to throw my clock across the room to nicely but properly smash against the adjacent wall. After my momentary lapse in judgement - I had equated my alarm clock to a terrorist for half of a second - I tap the alarm off button and begin my 30 minute trip into half-sleep land.

During this period of pseudo-slumber, I am much more aware of my surroundings. Occasionally, if laundry day is around the corner, I begin to think about the chores I need to complete in the remaining hours of the day or which ones I will save for another day. Yet, most of the time, my mind focuses on the warmth of my bed and the comfort in knowing I get to sit here for 28 more minutes and not be worrying about what I have to get done. I can feel the pressure shift in my classy air mattress as I move my legs to find a cooler part of the blankets. My hands are generally tucked underneath my pillow beneath my head. I can hear the sounds of neighbors walking around, La Cucaracha blaring from the horn of a car in the parking lot outside, or the sound of nature just outside of my bedroom window. I try and remember what it was I was just dreaming about. I remember something about a stork, something about African children, and something about collagen-free lips - and shortly after I decide it must’ve been less than important and dream up some new fantasy, maybe this time with George Clooney.

As my 30 minutes of ponder and calm comes to a close, I begin to anticipate when the time will come. I peel open my left eye just enough to clearly read ‘8:27’ on the clock. “I’ve got another 3 minutes of this, and then I have to make cereal.” Suddenly, with the thought of ‘Oops! All Berries!’ Cap’n Crunch just a few short minutes away, I get excited for my time of solitude to be over so I can munch down an oversized bowl of cereal before I leave for the day.

‘8:29’. “It’s just under a minute now. Make these last few seconds really count.” So I close my eyes and recap all of my dreams. Big-lipped storks carrying George Clooney to Africa where babies are going to adopt him. Where did that dream come from?

Suddenly, I hear the rest of my Zero 7 song just where I last left it - as though the 30 minutes of time I spent feeling the warmth of my blankets and resting my brain, with the exception of my African Clooney dreams. It’s time for me to wake up and face the day, and now with the minutes spent calmly relaxing in bed falling further behind me as they progresses, I am able to wake up feeling refreshed and ready for the cereal goodness that is about to tantalize my tastebuds. I go through the day knowing that I spent 30 minutes of time on absolutely nothing. There needs to be time in the day where one can just not have to have a single worry, have a part of their life be a stress, have someone interrupt them, or have any form of variable annoyance. My 30 minutes I spend with myself in the morning is time spent on my own accord. I make no major decisions. I feel comfortable knowing that for that exact moment, I have complete control and clarity over exactly how I am feeling. It’s relieving to know that there is always a place you can just exist for yourself, and that all it takes is 30 minutes - come to think of it, 45 wouldn’t hurt either.

x.

The twin size air mattress I’m sitting on I purchased brand new as a means of getting a good night’s sleep while settling into my new home in Williamsburg, Virginia. It was a temporary solution to my inability to properly fit a full size mattress and corner couch set into my 2 checked bags - they only allowed me 140 pounds total. Naturally, I made it comfortable by buying a bedding set that properly fit the slowly growing decor of my home - a blue and green theme magically occurred when I found towels that I liked. This air mattress slowly became a sanctuary for me. The first week in Williamsburg was spent with excess free time and a slew of stress that was bombarding me and the only place I could find comfort in my new apartment was on this air mattress - though I did make it incredibly inviting via good choice in blanket fabric and impeccable color selection. It was the only thing in my room that made me relax, sit back, and think about what had passed and what was yet to come - that is because my only other options were the floor or my two suitcases that had seemingly exploded due to overpacking and my inability to edit unnecessary outfit choices. I saw this air mattress as proof that I have come to an interesting place in my life where I have evolved from the cub scout who would rather chew off his left foot than share a tent and mattress pad with an annoying prepubescent male teenager who can only see Britney Spears for her sex appeal and not her artistic achievement, to an adult who needs nothing more than an air mattress and an appreciation for the intangible. I have come to the understanding that with life comes the learning experiences that will further shape the person you are. 

-

I woke up with the windows open. There was a breeze that pushed them from resting much closer together throughout the evening - a means of temperature control via mother nature. The alarm was always the same - a strict 7:30 wake up time, with a strict 8:00 get out of bed time. The half hour was left at our disposal. The options of falling back to sleep, searching the sheets for the warmest areas, or discussing the day ahead were just a few from the list, though because of our empty stomachs, we decided to discuss what was on the menu. I had never properly cooked a meal that went past that of a simple pasta. I never identified with any cooking related individuals like Rachael Ray or Ina Garten, nor did I tend to surround myself with Wolfgang Puck types who would much rather stay in and start the stove than make an adventure to a local restaurant. I stuck to my Kraft crowd and learned how to boil water, in case I ever needed something that wouldn’t work in the microwave. Today, this would change. As goodbyes were said for the morning, I knew I had a task ahead of me. I was given detailed instructions on the contents of the refrigerator and what exactly was preferred to be on the final plate. It seems to be no daunting task for most, but slabs of chicken, raw and angry, were staring back at me once the door to the fridge was unlatched. Immediately, I cracked open my laptop and researched the best way to cook a chicken, learning the in’s and out’s of what seemed to be the most difficult task of the day. I spent the days surrounding this one continually proving my proficiency in adulthood, so failing the task at hand made me scared that I may lose my gold star. I had to do this perfectly. I quickly hit google and made sure that I was finding information from a source that wouldn’t lead me to serve up heated tire tread - I needed a proper recipe that was both delicious and delectable. I scoured the internet and found my golden recipe - chicken cooked on a pan. The simplicity astounded me; the ease enticed me. I quickly gathered the minimal list of ingredients from the cupboards and tossed together what seemed to be a legitimate meal. I properly cooked the chicken, leaving the center warm and moist, cut it into small bits and mixed it among a bed of spinach topped with Balsamic and Parmesan. Magically - I had become the chef I had never known was living inside of me. Through the situation I had found myself in - using every opportunity for positive impression that I could - I finally extended my chef’s arm and expanded my knowledge of the kitchen outside of the blue box. I had finally begun my culinary adventures and it would prove to be an aid for my dietary endeavors for ages to come.

-

I was sitting in the break room watching Never Been Kissed for presumably the 14th time as the 7 month stint was coming to a close. My tiny, skinny, and incredibly Japanese cell phone had been abusively silent all morning because the main noisemaker of the device originated in an altogether inconvenient time zone. I had just begun what would be the most expensive and life-altering experience my life has encountered, but all I knew is that I wanted to be better. I was content with my hands, my feet, my fantastic - almost revolutionary - behind, and my smile, yet I had discovered that the muscular body I had at the height of my Irish Dancing career had been set aside and was slowly disappearing further and further into the past. The two guys to my right were those who influenced me in the manlier ways - showing me video game football, being content with eating 17 Corn Dogs, and performing multiple “straight guy” tasks on a regular basis. There was a pair of Perfect Pushup handles and a bag of McDonald’s - both of which they used and overused while I was busy chatting the girls up for the latest gossip. Yet, while waiting for my next skip to Neverland - every half hour on the hour - I decided to forego water cooler chat time and attempt a Perfect Pushup. I knew that my desirability points would rise the more taut the edges of my Deep-V’s would be. After five pushups, I was spent. I rested, and gave it another go. Ten. My arms were shaking, my chest was pumping, and finally, my phone buzzed across the room on the table, red light indicating that the time difference was finally easing up on it’s inconvenience factor. My heart was racing with excitement to share with this individual that I had officially “worked out”. This cycle of ten Perfect Pushup’s per day continued, and followed be back to the states where I located a weight training facility and attempted to fall into a rhythm of sporadic workouts. I had been inspired to focus more on my body. Obviously, the outside is only the wrapping paper to a fantastic present - the kind that you’ll find close to the top of the list that was turned in just after Thanksgiving by a needy preteen with good taste - but I was now growing into the idea that I can build a better body. I was beginning to see changes in my physique that I enjoyed and was finally seeing the adult in me blossom, rather than be muffled by my earlier inability to motivate myself enough to care. I was growing more everyday and learning more about my body, and that would eventually show me that I can take control of the things I want to change and leave alone the things I don’t.

-

To be continued.

xx

There are about 16 boxes sitting in my living room. One was the one that is my Martha Stewart christmas tree’s home for 11 months out of the year, and the others are the ones that encapsulate all of the christmas cheer this house will embody for the next three-quarters of a month. There are tons of gimmicky little dish towels with an embroidered santa, close to a thousand bulbs missing that incredibly important paper-clip-adjacent hook so they can be comfortably hung on the branch of my plastic tree, and a plethora of goods that are set around the house to invoke the spirit of christmas - like a polar bear in a red sweater that we have sitting at the entrance to our Kitchen. It is these little artifacts that live in the garage for most of their lives that somehow enhance our little christmas experience for what seems to be a consistently shorter time every year. The fake snowflakes and yard after yard of slivers of tinsel - that we find hiding in our carpet well into April - are hung for only a month but somehow it is a ritual redecoration that we seem to do every year.

There is a fascination with the ritualistic aspect of preparing for christmas. Whilst unboxing ornaments with my mother a few days ago, the TV was set to the classic jazz christmas music that I grew up listening to. She sprayed Bath & Body Works air freshener - Spiced Cider scent - in the room because it smelled like ‘Christmas’. We slowly took out box after box of ornaments, reminiscing about the holiday seasons past that have delivered some remarkably unique ornaments. It is almost traditional for there to be a yearly ornament with our name on it. This, to me, feels like an optimists countdown. It celebrates every year that I have celebrated a christmas. Ideally, when I’m 80 and have 80 “Kyle” ornaments to put on what I’m assuming will be a tree made of holograms and antigravity, I will be able to look at each one and think, “Oh that’s right. I did celebrate christmas in 2011.” Some other ornaments to mention are one I made when I was 5 comprised of tongue depressors, star macaroni, gold spray paint, and a photo of me in my Kindergarten classroom. I’m wearing a tee shirt with the Looney Tunes roadrunner on it - which proves to me to be incredibly christmas appropriate for a 5 year old who’s teacher must have said, “Here’s macaroni, gold paint, paste, and 40 minutes of grading and quiet time for me.” The ornaments hung on our tree are not only ones of color coordination and strategic planning, they are symbols of the life we have lead to this point. Each one is tied with some form of memory - and that attached memory determines whether or not this ornament should be where the pretty gold ones are, or excommunicated to the land between the tree and the nearest accompanying wall.

The process of cleaning out the boxes, decorating the house, and christmas day’s post-present-opening clean up is enough to really feel for those who leave their red, green, and white lights on the house all year long. Though I don’t condone any form of this behavior and the sight of Icicle lights in July makes me want to shove bamboo under my fingernails, I can understand that there is just too much work and not enough celebration with christmas. It’s allowed that Disneyland and Michael’s and Target celebrate an early christmas, often starting to set out santa hats and egg nog well before Thanksgiving, but for someone to be seen staplegunning or hammering their box of lights to their roof trim on the week of Thanksgiving gives them either a pretentious tendency or they’re simply uninformed on the unspoken protocol. So, where is the middle ground? When is too late? It seems as though with each passing year growing deeper and deeper into the 2000’s, we are experiencing a smaller and smaller decoration window. I believe that once december gets into the double digits, it is well time to have your decorations in full force and really show those electric companies what damage you can do. It’s a shame that there are still a multitude of boxes in my living room surrounded by a mess of morbidly breakable glass balls. I would love to have my christmas tree decorated, but I found it much more appealing to write about it.

I think during this time of year, there are 3 jobs in which I would find most profitable. First is any company that sells their product at Target - though I would never consider Wal-Mart to be acceptable by any means. I think with the Black Friday madness that this country so feverishly looks forward to, there is some money to be made hidden by two for one’s and buy 6 get one free’s. Second, Starbucks. There is no denying that the christmas time holiday beverages will even turn a Caffeine phobe to purchase a Gingerbread Latte or Peppermint Mocha. The draw of such a delectable treat, topped with any “limited time only” sort of situation really encourages the debit card right out of the wallet and the liquid coffee goodness right into one’s soon to be jittery hands. Third, disposal companies. Can you just imagine every family buying roll after roll of holiday wrapping paper, tearing it off millions of presents every year, and then all of that garbage creating a mountain of crumpled paper and ribbon that could assist anyone on a trip to the moon. The workload they must endue has got to rack in some killer overtime, holiday pay, and some form of pity money. There is no way that those guys go unnoticed as they toss our leftovers into some landfill somewhere. They get some killer compensation and that is money that anyone would take.

As I continue to rip open box after box of holiday decoration for their proud display over the next 3 weeks, I constantly ponder what will come of this ceremonious unpackaging, repackaging, and storing. Will there be a day someday that somehow obliterates the need of christmas decorations? I find that there is nothing I need more than my 5 senses to be satisfied with the Yuletide. I need to see, feel, taste, smell, and hear every part of christmas I can, because it only comes once a year, and that only gives me 12 more months to think up what will be on my “Kyle 2010” ornament.

x.

I tend to find myself traveling a lot more often than I used to. Before, I would use my Irish Dancing competitions - that were unbelievably randomly placed around the world - as a means of seeing the country I live in. I have jigged in places as random as Nashville, Denver, and Boston. This, however, didn’t satisfy my hunger for travel. Once I left the tan, sequined, and ginger world of Irish Dancing, I was at a stand still until years later during my hop abroad to be a twelveish year old pixie with an affinity for adventure and a strictly asian fanbase. This ignited such a fire in me that I found myself seeing more of the world than ever. My multiple hops across the atlantic have proven to be more than educational, but lifechanging. This, my friends, is just one instance in which my life will never be the same.

The French are known for their slightly off-the-wall traditions - at least to us Americans. We are not first in line to eat frogs or snails, consider cheese edible for every daily meal, or, especially, use any form of public transportation. That aside, it seems that us Americans are raised with the idea that the French will eat just about anything and somehow find it a delicacy. This is a respectable feat as the idea of popping a boiled snail onto my tongue to enjoy the succulent flavor and balloon-like quality it bears has seemingly avoided being of any interest to me. Yet, I found myself in the most impossible of conundrums: the family dinner.

I was staying with someone I had spent the past week desperately trying to impress. Initially, I was lacking in that department, but once my personality flourished and my clever quips and impossibly delectable wink followed suit, I was basically a shoo-in for what would turn out to be an unexpectedly amazing relationship. With the foundation of the aforementioned growing sturdier by the day and my willingness to impress strengthening with every instance, I was finally faced with the challenge any American would have ran screaming from.

I walked into the apartment that was full of the smells of hours of cooking, several cheeses, and the wicker furniture that filled the living room. We spent the day traveling through what seemed like a thousand borders and countless toll booths until finally it was time to comfort my tootsies and sit down for what I had been told was a particularly special dinner in my honor. Americans rarely have the chance to sit down and have authentic meals with the French. I don’t know what I had in mind, but nothing really seemed to be what I expected. I was thinking of food I was craving: Chicken, Tacos, Godiva. I wanted everything I hadn’t had in the past week. Yet, when I arrived to the apartment, my incessantly grumbly belly was shivering with nerves because the table was set for much more than the good old fashioned hamburger.

There were four empty plates surrounded by a slew of small bowls filled with an array of good ranging from olives and salami, to some form of paté and seafood from an unknown source. I sat down at the dinner table, engulfed in strictly French conversation that was being projected so as to get the message to the kitchen. No matter what conversation topic was being conversed, I knew there were no french fries that were about to fall on my plate. I reached over to have a quick bite of salami - I love a good salami and I knew this was probably going to be one of my palate cleansers. As I chomped down my single slice of salami, a godsend came. My glass was filled with a gorgeous golden champagne and topped with a floating cherry. This, my friends, would be the lifesaver.

So as food started rolling out from the kitchen, I noticed the array of utensils at my disposal. From the outside in, they started small and intricate, as if they were once used by a dentist or neurosurgeon, and morphed into a more recognizable fork. The first plate that arrived at the dinner table was far beyond what I had ever expected. No hamburger, no chicken, no Taco Bell - Not that I actually believed that these would be served - but Oysters. It seems small and insignificant. “Oh, they’re an aphrodisiac,” some might say. “They’re a delicacy.” But my friends, you must understand: these are not ordinary oysters. They are French Oysters.

I pulled one to my plate. I watched as the three people around me slurped and scraped and oiled and swallowed the giant sea-booger. I had no clue how to approach this, so I followed suit. My cohort to my side began assisting me vocally:

“First, take the fork and scrape off the sides. Good. Now, use your knife and cut where the oyster is connected to the shell. Good. Now, pick it up with the fork and eat it.”

I was completing this edible obstacle course step by step because the last thing I wanted to do was seem unappreciative. I was in impression mode. I smiled the entire dinner even though the conversation sounded like a random array of soft “j” and “s” sounds. I had a sip of champagne whenever I felt the need to give movement - I didn’t want to seem like the odd foreign exchange student at the table, so I let the alcohol loosen the nerves a little whenever possible. I was step by step finishing the prep for my oyster when it was time for the last step - ingestion. But, before my first bite, I was given a word of advice:

“Make sure when you have it in your mouth, you bite down on it very hard and very fast so you can make sure you kill it.”

The look on my face was unrepeatable. Never have I been required to simultaneously eat and kill my food. I expected this meal to be far past the eulogy and well into the separating of the will but I was now becoming this oyster’s John Wilkes Booth. My conundrum still stood. I was in impression mode. This oyster wouldn’t beat me. I was in France and holding live seafood in my hand ready to make a delectable kill. It was almost an adrenaline rush. I slammed the creature into my mouth and bit down as hard as I could. A watery, salty, presumably ungorgeous halfeaten oyster was now becoming a part of my digestive tract. The taste of ocean and a slight bit of sand remained in my mouth until I took a swig of the miracle juice - champagne to the rescue.

I had defeated what I never thought I would be able to. I owned that oyster so hard, I could sense the others shivering in their shells. I took a bite of salami with some cheese to have a bite of food that was both familiar in texture and obviously long dead. The family urged me to continue eating and so, being the brave soul that I am, I continued to eat three additional Oysters. I was not overwhelmed with the feeling one would get on a romantic date or after a box of chocolates and some Shiraz, but I felt accomplished in that I had defeated a new cultures incredibly different meal customs. I was becoming more and more european by the minute. That is exactly what happened next.

The hostess darted to the kitchen with the empty trays that once housed the family of molluscs that would be sadly absent to the Walrus and Carpenter’s next get together. She returned with the most obvious of famous french dishes: Escargot. I had been mentally prepared for a new and exciting dish to come dashing from the kitchen so the sight of snails in front of me wasn’t nearly as heart-stopping as the array of oysters was. The extraction of the creature from its creamy and pesto-y home proved to be the most difficult part of the dining process, getting a sloppy, splattery mess all over my plate, napkin, and hands. I found that these creatures provided an altogether different dining experience. Chewy in texture and potent in flavor, they proved to be a halfway decent way to end the meal - though, after 3 glasses of champagne and excessive concentration, the final dish could have been cow brains and I probably would have been convinced it was delicious.

The evening continued on into desserts, with macarons and the champagne-soaked cherry, and the conversation continued to be buzzing - even though I still haven’t understood a single word. I found that the experience of dining with the French was a pleasant and educational experience. I learned about the eating habits of another culture, the flavors and textures I can stand to encounter, and I also learned that champagne is both a great icebreaker and distraction from something you may not want to see or taste. I couldn’t be more thankful for the dinner and previous and following events of that trip to France, though. It lead to my second and third trips back to visit and experience even more of the culture I find myself identifying with more and more - minus the oyster part, that is.

I may not have found oysters to be the delicacy that they have the reputation of being, but one thing I know is for certain: when in pain - champagne.

x.

I have an addictive personality. I’m not psychotic, nor am I nose-to-mirror every night before I stare blankly at a fuzzy TV screen talking about the different people from space that talk to me through it, but I find that when I like something, I tend to like it. This is something I do not find to be an issue. It must be the positive person in me, but I find it to be charming. I have the ability to adore many things at once, equally. Much like I play the same one song over and over until I am able to correct the singer in their lyrical mishaps, I also tend to overshare intimate details of my personal life via Twitter, and am not shy to overload my Facebook with what could be rounded to roughly 3,000 photos. I have found that there are always new things to love and new things to enjoy, yet the old ones still remain just as prevalent in my life as the new - with the exception of the travesty that is MySpace. I find new ways of entertaining myself through my free-time-filled days that tend to be as empty as a 20-something’s halloween candy bucket.

I have recently been on a health binge. I swap cookies for spinach salads and chips for carrots. I have been happily prancing down the aisles of Fresh & Easy looking for the next deliciously packed box of mixed fruit that I can have for dessert, passing the cake mixes and IV’s of lard - though the latter of the choices seems to be less seen at Fresh & Easy these days. I eat what I buy, and if I buy bags of carrots and green beans, I will be able to see to the Moon when I’m 80 and have enough fiber in me to clean out a Trichotillomaniac’s shower drain. This, to me, is a positive. I love the feeling of carrying around less and less weight in the places I feel I can see it. I love to have the occasional deep fried chicken and fries, but for the most part I find that cooking my own meals and creating new recipes is really quite adventurous and fulfilling - something like the Indiana Jones of heathy eating, minus the monotone outfit and testosterone.

I am painfully, almost harmfully addicted to my cell phone. It connects me to the world. I tweet feverishly, so much that it must be making birds jealous. I am an active supporter of adding “Facebooking” to Websters as a legitimate verb. I think it spawns from the childhood I had as an only child. I was raised in my room, never with an imaginary friend, but always with the things around me as my friends. I loved being transported to places just by looking at something. I could turn my driveway into a rollercoaster with the addition of a skateboard that I only ever used to sit on and peddle with my hands - the Flintstones could only be so jealous. I was also that annoying child that would procrastinate his homework by doing a dance show on his front lawn for all the Cul de Sac to see. I have always needed to be connected with the people in my life because I never really had them growing up. I am really just making up for lost time and my friends are filling in for my metaphorical siblings - something I will continually appreciate and abuse.

I love seeing the world and have been so fortunate because I have seen more of the world than many people see in a lifetime. I love to go to new places and explore countries and environments that are different than my own. Nothing makes you see your own world more than leaving it. I tend to hop the pond as often as possible because it feels like a breath of fresh air. The plethora of reasons I have for leaving the country all boil down to one emotion: Happiness. There is no real explanation to the feeling I get from having authentic French cheese over French conversation or tea and crumpets before a trip down to Parliament. Seeing so much culture is more than addicting, it is lifechanging. I can’t help but want to continually see more and more, which tends to burn a hole in my pocket that a 747 could fit through, but thankfully I have a seat booked on that flight.

I am addicted to things that often come with scrutiny. Health food is taunted due to its inability to totally regain interest over McNuggets and Diet Coke. The connection to the outside world is questioned due to it’s technical means, though I do come in contact with humans when my battery is low. I find that there is nothing more I can do than live my life under what scrutiny it may or may not encounter, and no matter how insignificant the scrutiny may be, it all spawns from a place that I have never dared to enter: the negative.

My addictions are my own. I love them dearly, tuck them in before I go to bed, and never suppress them with medications or stabilizers. I let them flourish in my happy world of Will & Grace reruns and European getaways. Something tells me this is a set of addictions that will be with me for a long time - or at least until I figure out something else to tweet about.

x.