Modern Bohemia

I’m not exactly sure what I’m trying to get at with this particular post, so you’ll have to bear with me for a bit.

Today I went to Greg Ames‘ reading and book signing at Talking Leaves and some of the things he said during the Question and Answer section really hit home with me. Someone asked him why he seems to be so fixated on the “dead end-er” in his novel and in his short stories, and he said, “I love the dead end-er, I feel like in a lot of ways I am the dead end-er. Things just fall into my lap.”

I wish I had that kind of self-confidence. The confidence to just be what I am with no regrets, to not put any pressure on myself and just do what makes me happy. I wish I didn’t bust my ass at school all the time just because of the “larger picture” of jobs and Grad School. I wish I could just get the “larger picture” out of my mind just for a day so I could relax. Damn, I need to relax. I worry too much, everything I do is for Grad School or for looking “good” for future jobs. I basically strive to be an employers wet dream and I just wish I could stop long enough to do something for myself.

I worry about:
1. Grades/School/my thesis
2. GRE scores
3. Keeping my job
4. Getting the right internships
5. The fact that there is $3.19 in my checking account

I feel like I never took the time to be young. In High School I was worrying about getting into college, the summer before college I was worrying about leaving home, and now, ever since I got to college all I have been thinking about are future jobs and Graduate School. It’s slowly eating away at me and I almost can’t handle it anymore.

I want to create my own modern Bohemia where I can be like Greg Ames and just have things “fall into my lap.” All I want to do is:
1. Be a journalist…somewhere
2. Write a book
3. Dance
4. Have a small apartment in a big city with enough money to get by
5. I want to not be needlessly stressed out for the first time in my life.

I want to feel like I’m living instead of worrying.

Thanks Greg, for the kick in the ass.


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