I didn’t leave the house today: a memoir

Are you still allowed to call yourself a writer if you don’t write regularly? I always thought that writing was something that was part of my identity and who I am so it didn’t matter if I wrote a lot because I could always pick it back up easily. It was my “thing”. It is my “thing”. I just need to find a way to get paid to do my “thing” or at least something to supplement a life and then I can do my thing on the side. Ugh okay, new word now. At least according to a Buzzfeed quiz going around Facebook I can still identify as a writer even though I haven’t written anything of note in ages. Okay, it’s only been a couple months and it’s been a couple years since I’ve had sex yet I still think of myself as capable and willing to have sex if the occasion arises (it never does). I don’t really know why I started this blog, I suppose because I’m a writer and I’m supposed to be writing something and a blog seemed like a logical fit. Or perhaps because some of the jobs I’ve been applying for have wanted to know if I have experience using WordPress so naturally I lied and said yes. So now I’m seeing what the fuss is about but honestly it doesn’t seem that hard. Maybe life is like that. It seems hard and terrifying and like a shout into an abyss to take a leap of faith and fall into adulthood but once you’re there, you open your eyes and see it’s not so bad. Plus now you can have ice cream and pie for breakfast and no one will give you grief about it.

Okay, honestly I don’t know the first thing about being an adult still. I live with my parents and didn’t leave the house today. My attempts of searching for jobs consist of me sitting on my MacBook Pro (that was a gift from my grandmother) scouring job listings on websites and shooting off resumes with two or three different tweaks depending on the position, while watching hours of Sex and the City and Boy Meets World reruns. I hardly ever see friends anymore and when I do it reminds me how my savings account is drying up as fast as California’s water supply and I’m about to issue my own state of emergency. I’m just waiting for my substitute teaching gig to work itself out and hopefully I don’t hate it. I’m so terrified that I won’t be able to do anything. The only thing I feel like I’m good at is writing and I’m not even that good at it. I am just good at ranting and sometimes people find it endearing. The truth is I’m so afraid to fail that most of the time, and especially lately, I don’t try at all.

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