Day Three: Happy Birthday, Squidward Tentacles!

I never have and likely never will understand the purpose of New Year's Eve. For some reason, in the mind of everyone I talk to, the grand and magical evening that is expected to end the year with fantastic memories, and bring the next digit in with promise of new changes is always completely underwhelming. In reality, it is usually a drunken evening filled with stupid hats, equally asinine TV specials, and a mediocre good time. To add to the bland flavor of the holiday, the only thing certain as the new year rolls around is that many, many people will spend January 1st with a massive hangover. Forgive me for not being strongly enthused about much but getting out of work two hours early.

Then, of course, there is the little matter of the sadistic "New Year's Resolution". Although the start of a new year brings with it a light feeling of new leaves, turned pages, and all that jazz, I can't help but wonder how much dedication people have who need to wait until an entire year of their lives has passed before they can resolve to change something about themselves. How many people wake up in November or December and say, "I hate that I smoke, that I'm overweight, and that I bite my nails. I'm going to fix it all in January!"? That sure looks like a prime cut of Grade A procrastination to me. I'll admit, I'm probably so critical of the concept because I am notorious for creating lists of improvements to make upon myself and failing miserably after a week of lukewarm effort. I guess there's something appealing about choosing a meaningful day to make a major change, but the likelihood of a specific date motivating someone enough to actually follow through on an ambition they wouldn't normally succeed in seems like a pretty steaming pile of bull to me. I don't see anything particularly moving or inspiring about the first day of a new year. Sure, it might say "Congratulations, your planet has lasted one more year without being hit by a meteor or imploding upon itself", but is it really that interesting to celebrate?

Sure, people enjoy celebrating a new year in their lives as well, but isn't that what birthdays are for? I don't see how celebrating another birthday -- not of our planet, even, but of our calendar -- is that thrilling of a prospect to people that they will create new goals and stretch to reach new heights in their personal success. This year, I'm not celebrating the start of a new year. I'm going to drink to celebrate the birthdays of J.D. Salinger, Paul Revere, and of course Rodger Bumpass, because without him, who would be the voice of Squidward on Spongebob Squarepants? I drink to you, oh beacons of history.

Day Two: "But He's Fucking Bob Dylan!"

As anyone who even knows me a little will agree that I have an extreme fascination with Bob Dylan. I don't particularly love his music, though I do like it, and I am not in any way attracted to him, which isn't a stretch to believe. In fact, I can state with serious confidence that he cannot sing and he has only a marginal grasp on the harmonica. But anyone with that much notoriety, money, and that many recorded albums who can wander around New Jersey in the rain and get arrested for suspicious vagrancy in his 60s is definitely the type of person who will capture my attention.

He ran away from home several times as a wee Robert Zimmerman, not out of spite because he wasn't allowed to jump on Jimmy's trampoline, but because he just didn't feel like living at home anymore. He wanted to live in the world other people only saw on television, and make music about it, and that was pretty much the end of it. I have an extreme admiration for people who truly do not only not give a shit what other people think of them, but they almost ignore everybody else all together. He did what he wanted to do, happened to get famous for it, and didn't feel he owed anyone anything. Or at least that's the impression I've gotten from hearing him speak. He is, at the very least, 100% Bob all the damn time.

In late October, when I saw that tickets to see Bob himself live and in person were on sale for my city, I panicked. My immediate thought was "he's starting to fossilize, I absolutely have to see him live. He might be healthy now, but freak medical maladies happen, he could die before the next time he gets back around". Though not exactly a kind and noble logic, it was an honest one. So I sucked up my pride, prepared to pay $90.00 on a ticket if I had to. But miraculously, they were only $65.00. Though not a meager amount of money by any account, it was certainly a deal to me. It was a small price for to the chance to be in the presence of a man I considered to be the most fascinating person still currently alive and breathing, and even still working. I scrambled to purchase tickets two full hours after the 10:00 AM sale time, still clinging to hope that there would be a couple of nosebleed seats still available. Just for kicks, I checked the "best available" box, and was positively astonished when I was granted Standing Room Only on the floor. Not only was I going to see Bob Dylan, but if I was dedicated enough, I would actually be able to stand close enough to see up his nose.

I was not dedicated enough. In fact, I had almost no interest in doing that. I had arrived obscenely early for too many shows in my past to get close to the band, to talent, and to music and almost none of those wasted, boring hours holding my precious spot were ever worth it. Besides, my connection to Bob wasn't that kind of relationship. Sure, I have stood in line for hours in the cold with my best friend to get in the first row at a Chris Cornell concert without a hint of regret, but he's a hell of a lot better looking than Dylan. There was something mysteriously appropriate about not allowing myself too close to his greatness. I felt like it shouldn't be that easy, so I didn't allow it to be. I wanted a considerable physical distance away so I could feel he was still untouchable, and like I was experiencing something profound that a rare few get to participate in.

I'm not an idiot, I certainly knew that wasn't the case. In fact, I was sobered even more when I arrived to find only 3/4 of the medium-sized auditorium full. I was in complete disbelief that Bob Dylan didn't even sell the place out. I was baffled. As I state regularly in as a perfectly justifiable explanation in attempt to explain his greatness to others, "But he's Bob Fucking Dylan!", and I was adamant that that was more than enough to sell out a large college auditorium. But mostly, I just felt lucky that I was in a room full of people who still appreciated and recognized a truly fascinating person. Once he started performing, I was paralyzed into a trance of awe and shock. Not because he was particularly good (although he did perform better than I had expected he would), but simply because he was there. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and cast a huge, dramatic shadow on the backdrop behind him, aglow from the obnoxious spotlight upon him that would surely have been very distracting for anyone who was fully aware that there was even an audience in front of him. When he stood, he moved like an animatronic Richard Nixon in the Hall of Presidents, and croaked somewhat melodically to his extremely talented band. But he was very much still alive.

So I stared entranced for about an hour, then turned to my dad and said simply "Ok. I've had enough--let's go." I didn't need to fill myself with as much of his presence as possible, and I didn't even really need to hear anymore of his music. All I really wanted to do was see him, being Bob, once before he died. And for the same reason I wouldn't push to the front of the theater, I won't make an effort to see him again if I have another opportunity. It would ruin the perfect delusion I have that he's other-worldly and untouchable, not god-like, but in a very foreign, alternate life-form sort of way. Live long and prosper, Bob Dylan. Or at the very least, may you not get arrested for looking at old New Jersey real estate in a rainstorm.

Day One: Thou Shalt Not Be Disgustingly Boring

If one person tells you you're wasting your talents, they can be easily overthrown with a few logical statements about practicality and quality of life.

"I may not love being a receptionist, but the benefits are great, and I'm making good money. Besides, I like my job, I like the people I work with, and I like a regular schedule. It might not be exciting, but it's stable and I'm not in debt". Easily solved.

But if four people tell you you're wasting your talents, you can't help but start to think that maybe they're on to something.

I have been in a lazy, unmotivated, uncommitted, and frustrating battle with myself in a lukewarm effort to gain some fragment of an idea of what I want to do with my life since I was a teenager. But unfortunately, despite years of pondering, a lot of soul-searching, and several ridiculous epiphanies that provided me with a short-lived sense of accomplishment (and some pretty absurd ideas), I still have absolutely no idea what I want to spend my life doing. Not even a little bit.

I do, however, know what I'm good at and what I like. That's why I went to school for writing -- I like it, and luckily I'm pretty good at it. The other choice would have been drawing, but that likely would have only led me to a hatred of any and all art and an even more intense hatred for other artists. Unforunately, neither one of the two identifiable talents I possess will likely provide me with a formidable income and grant me the luxury of eating more than store-brand cereal out of a drafty apartment in a frightening location.

Given the appeal of the lifestyle, I feel it's pretty understandable why I haven't been motivated. I don't love much of anything enough to live such a sad, struggled life. I'm the kind of gal who likes life's little joys, like heated car seats and not having to worry about whether or not I can pay my rent. I admire anyone who follows their passions and makes sacrifices to live their lives doing solely what they love, but I need quite a strong focus and a specific, obtainable goal to so willingly make such sacrifices.

So that leaves me here, where I can't even finish writing a sentence without being distracted by the evils of the internet or MythBusters on TV in front of my face. I'm really a little disgusted by myself. The past two nights this week, I've gotten drunk and watched Julie and Julia, rambling on to my supportive and prodding boyfriend that Julie Powell's story could have easily been mine. I love food, I like writing, I have no idea what to do with myself, and I can't finish anything.

Now, I have no choice but to force myself, like a kid with a plate full of peas, to slowly get myself into a rhythm of at least utilizing what I like and what I'm good at. So I will write about something everyday. It might not be interesting or profound, but it will be as regular as the intenstinal system of a Labrador Retriever, and that's more than I've got at the moment.

This is the beginning of my journey of wandering around in the dark, hoping I stumble into something that will point me in some kind of direction. Like Julie Powell, I will finish something. I don't expect anything to come of it, but I am tired of being disappointed in myself. I'm not trying to be anyone but the version of myself that isn't content with going to bed at 9:30 PM.

This is day one.