Observations

"The street where I grew up"
Went to get the mail and
saw a dead squirrel, two
women walking big dogs
and talking about the people
whose lives seemed more
exciting than theirs, a man
on his porch swing going
back and forth with wishes
and regrets, the neighbor
who always waves hello, and
I sang a song in my head about
the repetitive steps of dreams.

"First Love"
These girls
sit
and wait for the familiar
Bing!
Ba-da-bing?
Jubilation trepidation,
the beating of their hearts
and the relentless
hoping
dwelling
excruciating
pain of having to wait
until, again -
No. No. No.
It wasn't
what they heard in their heads.

"Freedom"
I bought a pink stuffed
bear
and gave it to the little girl who
stared up with those eyes, so
the next time you tell me I am
not who I am supposed to be just
answer me this:
Why do I always miss the bus even
when I show up exactly when I am
supposed to be there?
I can't even begin to
bare
the burden of someone
else's messed up schedule.
For god's sake the next time you
need somebody to
water the flowers while you're gone, ask
the responsible bald eagle who doesn't take
cream or sugar or any of that fake crap.
It's better to be safe
than unapologetic.

"Changes in the Weather"
This storm is making our jobs a heck of a lot
harder than the boring, clear paved roads of
a cloudless sky. Flurries never fall straight or
predictably and with this wind I can't see a damn
thing. I seem incapable of not running around just
completing tasks. When the sun comes out it is
inevitable not to feel the pressure to get out, futile
to attempt avoiding the pleasure of a beautiful day.

Diary of a Millennial

You don't have to believe in yourself all of the time, you know, it's ok to be this normal kind of person, uncertain, jumpy, hyper-critical of who? You, of course. Nobody else. Everybody else is doing just fine, amazingly well, actually, in your eyes. You've had a full week of actual productivity, or that's what it feels like, and now you're worried because you're starting to feel a little too sure of yourself. Three interviews in a row and look at you now, making money. It's like you're a real-life-actual-member-of-society, substitute teaching for engineering technology, three charming teenage boys designing things on computers in front of you, not needing you at all, but enjoying the fact that you're here instead of their geeky teacher who they will grow into some version of in the future, enjoying that it's you instead of him because he is not nearly as impressed with their clicking-around-making-random-shapes on some program called Solid Works as you are. Because you don't understand what the hell they are doing. And you let them alternate between clicking around on Solid Works and clicking around on some game with big tanks shooting things because being the cool sub makes you feel appreciated in some small way and that is of the utmost importance to you, to be appreciated.

You go back and forth quite frequently, telling yourself silly affirmations like, "You'll be ok, lots of people struggle in their 20s," or lambasting your failures and shortcomings with a brutal lack of empathy, yes, a lack of empathy for yourself, because lots of people struggle in their 20s but not in the lame ways that you have. Then you step back and realize how entirely selfish it is to think this way, that your own life and thoughts and things that have happened to you consume so much of you. But what else can? Your thoughts are always with you.

You stepped into the office on Monday with vague confusion. "I think I am in the right place. Am I?" You were. Please, have a seat. You got to read the entirety of David Foster Wallace's commencement address, This is Water, before he called you in. Balding already, he shouldn't be. Jeans. A flannel. You found being interviewed by a person in a flannel to put you at ease. Actually, lately, being interviewed does not seem to bother you at all. What's the worst that can happen? You know that for you, the worst that can happen is different than it is for most normal people. Ironically, this makes you interview quite well, and the chances of the worst happening - a job offer - tend to go up dramatically. The woman having a meeting with him before your interview had one of those appearances so strikingly different from what her voice indicated (you listened to their whole conversation, her voice sounded vibrant, confident, energetic) that you are still pondering it, thinking of a description of her you could tell people. She wore gray knit sweatpants. You have never considered wearing gray knit sweatpants to a workplace. Too daunting. What would the people think? You think it is ballsy. Maybe everybody does. She had mousy brown hair - uncombed - glasses that might fairly be called spectacles, and she was about 100 pounds overweight. You admired her. She was just in there agreeing to the terms of her new position, a house lead, her working hours to be from 7:30pm-9:00am. You do not yet realize those would be your hours, too. The interview is about to begin. The way he asked the questions was in the most un-obvious way ever. He would mumble, run his hands over his head, chatter repeated apologies for making you wait for so long countered with defensive assertions of his tiredness and only the second month on the job and hectic, unorganized pile of work he walked into. Then he would start muttering things about the clients you would work with and all of a sudden in the same monotonous muttering tone of voice a question would be presented and he would go silent and look at you expectantly. Oh, there's the first question! You've been waiting for it. "What do you think this job will be?"

You come home from these interviews on some cheerful, pleased-with-yourself sort of high, giddy with the notion that somebody could think highly of you. The next day this all comes crashing down with the reality that somebody expects something out of you. And you are not sure if those expectations are entirely a possibility for you to fulfill, what with your arsenal of self-doubting internal chatter, which has become quite prolific since you graduated from college almost two years ago.  

You pack up your bag and go to the rec center where you swim for an hour with that persistent monologue still in your head, stroke-stroke-breathe, stroke-stroke-breathe, feel your arms pulling you more than your legs propel you, try to consciously kick at the same time as you breathe, turn this into a metaphor for your life, feel ridiculously clever, chuckle at yourself, blow bubbles up to the surface of the water, press your fingertips firmly on the wall when you've finished your last lap and stand up. It's quieter now, because you can hear other people's voices.

At night, you get some sort of peace talking with your boyfriend, telling him you don't know, probably you are not the kind of person who can work night shifts. He thought it was ridiculous because he knows how you are in the middle of the night, afraid of everything, so it was impossible to imagine you taking care of other people at those hours. You want to be tough, but there is the little voice that tells you that you are not. You toss and turn for hours and will yourself to not take the sleeping medicine, not tonight. That can be your tough thing for today.

In the morning you drive to your interview or your substitute teaching job or Walgreens to get that prescription, wherever, and if just the right song is on you start believing in yourself again. Just the right song makes you feel like you can do anything. You aren't where you thought you'd be at 24 but you're not sure where you thought you'd be anyway. You want to help people. You like craft beer. You're good at writing notes to people you love. You have legs that can run or ride a bike or hike a mountain and whenever you do these things you do them with a smile. You love your family. You want to be the kind of person who thinks things will work out in the way they are supposed to work out. You are intuitive, passionate, and ernest. You are a millennial.