Taken by Fir0002, flagstaffotos.com.au

To tell you the truth, I hate writing for Demand Studios. I hate this blog. I hate this computer. I don’t know why I started this thing in the first place. I’m going to erase this blog once I’m done with this final goal of mine. Because I want a real job. I want a real life. You ever feel like you’re just waiting for your real life to begin? I feel that more than ever now, especially since I’m so close to the date of my departure to Mexico [Feb. 5th]. Still, despite my loathing of this company, I’ve made one final goal that I need to pursue, so I can have money to live on in Mexico.

$500 to be made in two weeks. Two final weeks of hell.

I hope to be rid of this online writing job for good, once I get my TEFL certification. I’m tired of living on my computer. I’m tired of staring at this damned screen rather than talk to people face-to-face. I’m tired of living in my fine yet lonely little bubble. I hate freelance. I hate odd jobs. I block people out of my life because of my fickleness. I can’t create bonds this way. I can’t make friends. I never stay in one place long enough to be real for anyone. This life sucks.

And I’m going to go there, yes, right now, because I’m doing something about it.

Being lost and wounded will swing you out of the mainstream and into your own private abode, a battleground for some, a limbo for others, until you learn to walk again, until you find some type of hope, and feel the warmth of the sun, and listen to your heart beat, and find out what your heart beats for. Find out what your heart beats for, and you’ll find the desire to live again. Follow your heart beats, to the end of the earth, because that’s what you’re living for now.

I had been personally tumbling in my own rabbit hole for quite some time. I’m a genuinely unique individual with problems that, for a long time, I hadn’t even known how to define.

That’s why I picked up this habit, this online writing job in the first place, because I still needed to earn some money, to save up for a dream, that I hadn’t even established yet. It takes a while to get yourself back on track. All the while, shelling out online writing productions on the most innate subjects, but it didn’t matter, because it was a job and at least this online writing doesn’t hurt anybody. There’s no costs, no fees, no pollution, but there’s a headache involved, there’s a pain in one’s ass, literally, as you’re sitting for these long periods of time, slowing pruning in your own desires of living a real life. Well, that’s how it was for me. But. Fuck this shit. Nobody reads this stuff. This stuff doesn’t matter. I’m a writer no matter what I do these days anyway.

At least I’ve taken time to hone down on my skills, heh.

The life of a writer is full of internal calamity I think. My mom’s been writing me emails about how I’m going to fail at this TEFL venture in Mexico. Wish her words weren’t so important to me, but these days, I don’t have many friends who know what I’m going through. I’ve managed to shun the rest of the world out of my life, here in this small mountain town where I’ve managed to forget a lot of my rampage from my past, and instead, work on  three books I’ve written right after graduation, about trying to figure out my life, being adopted and having nowhere to go.

In this rut I’ve let my life be swallowed by, I’ve completed some manuscripts. That’s better than turning into an alcoholic or party-going drug fiend hooked up on heroine. I think there’s worse things than being an introverted, disillusioned girl, of a person who was once vivacious early in life. But something changed, I changed, and I never knew how lost a person could become, in ones self even, to think suddenly, it’d be so impossible to live a life of happiness.

It’s strange, to think about my life. The story of my life had gone and eaten me up, really. My own history has plowed over my present and I feel so unsteady, so vacantly half-alive, after finding the jagged pieces of my life and installing them into a real thing, words that can be relived again and again. It’s such a sad thing to show to the world, my life story, so lonely, so cruelly independent, and it’s because I’m a product of my circumstances. We all are.

But then comes a turning point, that I honestly, am not familiar with. It’s when a person, intentionally decides to change the pattern of their own lives, and walk another path. Far away. Gone to Tahiti, be back never type of thing. And that’s me, throwing it to the winds, chucking my disheveled past into the urban streets of this Western society, that I’ve never really belonged in in the first place, my empty adoption, my half-assed friendships and the stranger of a life I’ve monstrously manufactured, and just leave it behind. It’s insane, but at this point, it’ll be the healthiest thing I could do.

And I know, I don’t know where I’m going. I know I barely know Spanish. I know I’m living in a foreign country and I won’t know anyone. But it’s better than this old life here. Any life is better than no life.

So many people, have these plans in life. But me, I wanted to write. I sat here, in the middle of the storms of this chaotic world, in the vortex of my own hurricane, and when I didn’t know what else to do, I let my fingers dance and it soothed me in such a way, that I found my own peace. I haven’t gone anywhere, with the writing, but at least it helped me figure out the fact, that I can’t let my small, provincial life end here. I still have my dreams. And I still have this damned beating heart and it beats, and I can’t stop it from still wanting to reach out, and not give up, even if it’s been wounded.

My dreams aren’t complete. They lie virtually undiscovered, saved in glass bottles upon bottles cast to the ocean, preserved in romantic thoughts of when I was a child. Somehow, those ideals, that become so silly and trifling as you become this “adult” in the world, have still been able to reach me, after all of these years. It seems these dreams might have defied its own physics, its own barriers of parables written in the sand. And I know this has nothing to do with my blog, but alas, it has everything to do with this hazard of a clothesline I created for myself, bearing my naked underwear to the public domain. But I haven’t been as open to anyone here or in real life.

So I’m conducting my own blog suicide I guess, at this point, where one old life dies and a new one begins. This is verbal diarrhea pasted for anyone to mock or leisurely zoom through without a care in the world. This blog is my failure to produce anything real in the world, as a virtual podium I stand on, screaming, “My name is Stephanie and nobody cares! I have over 200 articles published from Demand Studios and the writing is incredibly dull!” Not worth screaming about right? Not worth a blog at least. No, whatever blog I start on from here on out, will be outrageous.

Whatever I do from here on out, will be outrageous, because that’s the kind of life I want to lead.

Because I’m bent on a new subject and a new chapter in my life. I am destined to soul-search just a little bit more, and hop the great barrier of my own limitations, on my own. And this adventure isn’t gallant. It isn’t smooth nor luxurious, I don’t have iPads or iPods for that matter, or hip gadgets for explorers of the times, travel writers with a legion of writing to showcase their talents, or fuck, barely enough money for tamales. But you gotta start somewhere.

Babies aren’t born professionals. Middle-class life has its ups but people in this gray zone don’t get to play with breakfast on a silver platter. Basically, all I’m saying, is that I had to work somewhat hard, to be the screw-up I am. I’ve had the opportunity to attend a 4-year university and graduate with a BA in Science in Journalism. I got my foot in the door to success, but then I kept making bad choices, fickle attempts at what I thought would bring me to success. The problem was, nobody told me how to pursue a life of happiness, just as nobody taught me how to play music.

I couldn’t figure out, for the life of me, what the hell to do with myself. I worked. I studied. I apprenticed. I interned. I’ve some barely golden invitations to be something more, like an internship for Science Magazine, but I flagrantly shot that to hell, through avoiding emails, and instead, I chose to work a series of highly insipid part-time entry level jobs, and freelance work in companies, and hell, this was all hard work, I tell you what. It was hell.

But it was only because I was trying to find myself in all of this madness. Even in the middle-class, even with a college degree, even with a semi-charmed life where my parents are still married and have a college degree, and my dad’s earning a 6-figure salary, and they’re always there whenever I’m stuck in a ditch in the middle of a highway because I had incidentally decided to go on a random road trip to San Diego, choices in life will lead you to your destiny.

My choices in my life led me to this “Fickle Life of Freelance,” to this utmost and waste-of time blog, idly wading in the nexus of a gap in the Internet Matrix, tooling around with ideas, little goals, in-and-out of my life as a nomad, here in this small town, this small town that I’ve covertly named, “Mystic” in my books. I think, thank God I wasn’t rich, because during this odd point in my transitional life, I probably would have wasted thousands of dollars on my own. I can truly imagine the failed business attempts and shipwrecks I could have built like an empire.

God help the people that are lost in the world. I’ve now gained compassion and empathy for us all.

And there’s no faking what I’ve become. I’m a jagged piece sticking out from the grain, rough around the edges, but give me time, and a little more ocean, and maybe I’ll get smoothed over. Maybe someone will love me for who I am. Maybe my writing will mean something someday. Maybe I’ll figure out the nicks of this writing situation altogether.

And by God, I hate this blog. I would burn it if I could. Throw it into a bonfire, trip on acid, do anything to get me out of this damned rut. This is my rut. This is exactly my rut and at least I can define it now, so I can destroy it.

Life is an unsure and erratic place brimming of unfulfilled dreams. But that’s what keeps us all doing what we’re doing I guess. So God bless the past. Make us work for what we want. Recreate us into better people. And help us shape our own legacy, our own life story, that we can pass down from generation to generation, to raise the bar for the youth, and encourage them, that they can. Adventure is believing in yourself. And it all begins, with life anew.