Like many 20 – something women living in New York city, I am fondly compared to Carrie Bradshaw by my mom. Primarily, she finds likeness in how I dress (a huge stretch) and my dating escapades. I honestly cannot confirm or deny how delusional this reference is as I refuse to watch Sex and The City. The pilot made me feel ill. I have an incredible talent of finding ways anything and everything can make me feel bad about myself. Shockingly, these glamorous actresses portraying early 30s gal pals in a TV show lead lives better than mine. And so, I turned off the program and rewatched Bojack Horseman for the 6th time – a show which doesn’t necessarily make me feel good, but certainly feels more accurate to how life was, is, and will be.

My reluctance to watch Sex and The City does not deter my mom’s comments, and she’s gone as far as to say that I too should write a blog like Carrie Bradshaw. I didn’t really have the heart to explain that blogs, newsletters, and podcasts all illicit an aura of self pleasuring elitism in a way, I imagine, claiming you were going to “write the next great American novel” once did. [Side note: I have many friends who do the above things and I think you are all great but like…. you get it.] However, I cannot deny that a blog has always intrigued me as it combines my desires to talk endlessly, publicize my stream of consciousness, and do so in a way that requires minimum effort. Most of the people I know who publish newsletters and the like have structure, repeating segments, recommendations, research, and I’d assume several rounds of editing. But I am simply not interested in that. I suppose this will serve more like a public diary than anything else. And I’m sure one Tuesday evening I’ll be struck with a stomach churning anxiety, horrified that I had found my thoughts important or interesting enough to publish, and I’ll delete the whole thing. Which is hilarious to say because I semi-recently read (listened to) a book, “All The Women in my Brain,” by Betty Gilpin which was so heavily infused with self deprecating hyper-awareness – “why should I have a platform? why should you care what I say?” – which made me so frustrated because obviously she ultimately did think she had worthwhile things to say as she wrote and published the damn thing.

So what was the push? Why am I writing this right now? I have never in my life had a measured and strategic approach to a goal. And I certainly have never maintained a disciplined and consistent regime to achieve that goal. All my endeavors have been short lived and they’ve all been fueled by a burst of need to do something. In the fleeting moment of drive, I make horrible decisions; unwise purchases, bad blog name titles, anything for the sake of efficiency and speed. Then, either disenfranchised by these mistakes or the reality of what it would take to make progress in whatever the pursuit may be (learning a language, fitness god, become famous, become hot, learn a goddamn thing, develop a hobby of any kind, find love etc.), I give up.

It is because of this cycle that I am not particularly good at anything. Woah woah woah, calm down, calm down. People lose their minds when I say that. This is not about self deprecation, modesty, or because I come from communities of comparison and high achievement. I’m just not that good at anything. But I want to be. SO BADLY. But do I really, if I am not willing to put in the work? You see the dilemma? And then it gets me thinking… the people who put in the hours, the practice, the focus, are they more resilient? Or is it just easier for them? Omg not me finding two separate victim mindsets. Like “oh boo hoo I am weak and un-resilient” AND “oh boo hoo life is just harder for me.” We won’t dwell here. In fact, I didn’t even want to go here. This tangent is the friend of a friend’s housewarming that you agreed to attend 3 weeks ago and now its here and well…

In all honesty, I have very little desire to emulate Carrie Bradshaw. I’d take the wardrobe and perky tits in a heartbeat, but generally she is not my muse. That role is reserved for David Sedaris. The terrifying thing about admitting who or what inspires you is that you then open yourself to comparison. Please don’t do that. I am not as funny as David Sedaris, obviously. My quirks aren’t quite as endearing. I don’t own as many kilts. But the career of writing about my weird little life and then reciting those stories on a stage seems like a perfect one. And I’ll admit, as I type this, I am reading not in my own voice, but in his. If you are unfamiliar, I beg you take the time to listen to a narration of one of his essays, memorize the tone and cadence, and then return here. It’ll be better that way.

The above text has been written over the course of several months. The intermittent flurries of motivation I mentioned in paragraph three are predictably what have chugged this weird project along. Today, my therapist had the audacity to hold me accountable. I once again was lamenting about all the ways I find myself inadequate and how I have tried time and time again to become a person I’d loathe less. She was like, “have you really tried?” Can you believe that!? She’s right though. I am enemy to routine and consistency, which I think are things I need in order to develop in any way, shape, or form. So I will attempt to do this. I may not even tell people I’ve published this. Maybe I’ll wait til I write something less messy and emo.

For the TLDR, I am using this blog to publish diary-like personal essays. This year I read a book called “The New Me” by Halle Butler. A lot of the reviews complained that the narrator was spoiled and whiney, that there was no plot other than the inner grumble of a pretentious young woman. I loved it. This is to say that I anticipate there to be a lot of whining from a spoiled young woman as that is who I am, and if you have no empathy for that, that is completely understandable, but this may just not be for you.