When I was small, I used tears for barter. I’d heave screaming into my pillows trying to get my way. It didn’t work, of course, but I learned the power of my mind. I could work myself sick, exhaust my body in screams, tighten my face and muscles like fists. I became my worst enemy. It’s called a tantrum. I did it for so long, I forgot what was troubling me in the first place.

I’m not small anymore, but I have my share of tantrums and fits of feeling small. I still have those spells where you get so worked up you forgot where you even started. You need to take a step back, a breath, a walk, a square alone to figure out where you were headed. Check back with your compass, give it a flick and make sure the needle still moves. Or maybe it’s just PMS.

I’ve been doing things, and saying things, for so long. I’m not sure I really believe them, or just accept them as fact because I’ve been doing and saying them for so long. Chicken egg salad.

Sometimes I offer up words I really believe, words I can say with tears in my eyes, smiling. But they’re just words, and I’m good with them. I can convince myself of too many things, and then convince the world and every man in it that I believe the words. But that’s what they are, words, ideas, feelings… they’re temporary. Action, jeez, we’ve all be there. Said that, done it. It’s about time I stop fcuking talking. Talk talk talk. I over think and talk too damn much. Just shut up already, will you. Jesus Christ.

I feel foolish, lonesome, and a little lost. Like, I know my way home. I’m just not sure my home is where it ought to be. I’ve never left New York. I’ve never moved to a city where I didn’t know anyone. I never tried to go to graduate school for writing. I stopped drawing. My dreams have kind of stalled. And it makes me cry, at my desk, in my glasses, sitting Indian style, typing it on a laptop, and posting it like it doesn’t matter. But it scares me. I don’t want to lose my dreams. I don’t want them to become some crap ass rooster wallpaper that curls and fades from the sun. Maybe I settled into this spot too quickly. I do love my job, and my friends, but something is missing. A part of my soul is not breathing. I’m not 100% fulfilled. Is anyone, really? Ever?

It’s funny, my mother wanted the house I grew up in because she fell in love with the bathroom wallpaper. Then, after over twenty years, she learned to hate the plumbing, the smells, and her life in it. It makes me so sad that she loved that house and her life in it, but then looked around and wondered how she got there. She convinced herself of too many things. Or maybe she convinced herself out and just stopped trying… cause we all know, it takes devotion and loyalty to keep looking at that same wallpaper every day of your life. I’m my mother in more ways than I want to be. I’m my father, in every cerebral way. And I’m a mix of confusion between the both of them. I love that wallpaper too.

I know what this is… it’s me feeling sad and alone. Well, darlin’ it’s temporary. It’s only a place to begin. You will be fine, and dazzling as you always come out on top to be. So go ahead, play your sad music and let Linus lick your tears, cause tomorrow is a new sunrise, with new friends to make, new things to try, and a chance. Stephanie, you will find happiness, cause it’s in you… wherever your home. It’s funny that I can laugh even when I cry. I will be more than fine. I just have to live in the moment, even if the moment is shitety. Honestly, kid, this can readily be fixed with a Hugh Grant film, a blast of air conditioning, and a pile of down comforters. See, isn’t that nice? Yum. Tea, why not? I’ll leave the chicken egg salad for someone else. Tea sandwiches anyone?