This is my 50th blog post. I am in a very different place than I was on my first. So, I will spend this time comparing and contrasting my feelings on February 5th when I layed in a pile of my filth and crumbs on my futon as I alternated typing out complaints about my inability to watch Chuck in 3D and searched for medial jobs on craigslist. Now I sit in my parents’ newly purchased massage chair surrounded by plates crusting over with last night’s adventures into my parents’ refrigerator typing on my parents’ computer that is connected to my parents’ new flat screen television as I listen to Cry Me a River on my parents’ speakers that don’t distort sound into a mix of treble and treble. 

Fuck pride. I love living with my parents. 

Fuck that. I love pride. 

I went into my childhood town to buy some groceries for the bday dinner I’m making for my father tonight and in order to take a promenostalgia. I started at the health food store that I worked at for six years, charged a fun drink and a ginger chew to my parents’ account, and walked to the pier. There I skipped some rocks and laughed about the fact that a child had asked her father “why that lady was walking on the side of the sidewalk?” to which the father responded “I think that’s a man, he’s just wearing flower shorts.” I like my paisley shorts.

This is the experience I had nearly every lunch break for six years. Skipping rocks affords me the opportunity to think about all the things I hate. What I thought about today was how much I hate that all my friends are getting married. And by that, I mean that a few key friends are in long term relationships that will inevitably end in dearth/marriage. I also have two weddings that I am invited to this summer, and though I love weddings conceptually, I am dreading every second I have to spend with friends who have found “happiness.”

I’ve never truly believed in marriage because all I see of married couples is people who have very few friends outside their spouses. That means that when one dies the other becomes that weird old person who shakes their way down the sidewalk with a cane and crazy eyes trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy and integration into society by being outdoors among others. 

Back to the compare and contrast. February 5th: I was excited about the prospect of a job interview with a company that I knew very little about. Now: I’m worried that on Friday – my first day of work – I might not be able to work the whole three hours in a row that is required of me.

That’s the thing about married people. They must answer to another person all the time and therefore must always have a job to feel like they are holding up their end of the bargain. Not me. I’m planning on spending at least 40% of my adult life unemployed hoping that the other 60% of my life leaves me with enough money to make it through the months I feel like sitting on my ass pretending that watching old episodes of Life on Mars is research for my next/first novel. 

On February 5th I was cold. I refused to go outside because outside involved dressing myself in what seemed like dozens of layers and braving the winds of the midwest. Now I’m able to entertain myself with the Tivoed episodes of TV shows I’m not that interested in that my dad thinks are up my alley, so I convince myself that it’s not worth going outside.

When you get married, you feel guilty if you don’t have a productive day because when you get home there is always someone there judging you. I like coming home to myself – I may be a very harsh judge on others but I am excellent at rationalizing my laziness by calling myself an artist.

On the 5th of February I at e three meals that consisted of cheap corn tortillas and whatever shit was closest to molding in the fridge. Today I snack on organic Black and White Kettle Corn before dinner where I will cook a beautiful peanut noodle stir fry for three. Tomorrow I will not have to worry if I have food enough to have three meals and yesterday I had seconds during dinner. Those were not statements I could have made February 5th.

When you start living with a person who you supposedly care about, you start having to have stuff. Stuff includes food, materials, and comforts. Then you can’t selfishly complain about how we aren’t socialist. Then it becomes a selfless act of beauty. I’m not interested in that type of self-aggrandizement. When you live by yourself you are able to sit uncomfortable, hungry, and bored and not be bothering anyone else – therefore not feeling guilty. And guilt is the only feeling I can’t live with. Not feeling guilty in a marriage seems like a lot of work. 

That was the first time I’ve written that phrase in a blog entry. I feel it’s appropriate to do on my 50th entry. I’m not sure what it symbolizes, or what metaphorical representation I am pulling off and figuring that out also seems like a lot of work. Instead I have spent my time reading over the past 50 ramblings I’ve posted on the internet deciding which ones are my favorites and which ones are underrated (They have less than 15 views, and I think they deserve more) and categorizing them as such. (You will notice that there are two new categories listed at the bottom of the page for you to click on.

If I was married, I wouldn’t have the time to write 50 blogs, instead I’d have to have sex, enjoyable conversations, and a constant companion. All that seems like a fuckload of work that I am unwilling to do. I’ll sit in my pile of crumbs from the previous week’s meals masturbating and talking to myself, thank you very much.