That’s Crazy Talk!

Image courtesy of Philip Racheal via Scopio

Listen, I recognize I’m the most inconsistent fool on the interwebs. I mean, who gave me permission to have my own website? Who allowed this? Who signed off on this level of public spiraling?

I’ll tell you who it wasn’t, my mother, who is not privy to my lamentations because I want it that way.

But the real question is, what do I want out of life? Yes, this is going to be one of those posts. The kind where I question my existence and come to zero conclusions. I apologize in advance for my never-ending existential crises.

I have come to the conclusion that I don’t need to come to any conclusions. I know, it’s a Catch-22, the irony.

I’d like to be more ironic, if that’s possible. Because I feel that we are collectively coming to the conclusion that the world makes no sense. None of this makes sense. Not the systems, not the people running things.

It’s 3 a.m., and I can’t sleep, and the only thing that makes sense to me is chocolate, so much so that I might just go out and get some even though we are having a thunderstorm.

Image courtesy of Andreas Steidlinger via Scopio

That is how senseless I have become in the midst of watching the fall of democracy and failing miserably at finding a decent man to share my life with.

Look, I’ve tried food, and I’ve tried men, and food is winning at this little contest in my head by a landslide. I’m starting to not care about what my body looks like because who created these thin women beauty standards, and why am I worried about them? And why am I still consulting this imaginary committee?

Why are we paying attention to standards created by men who are attracted to children? Apparently, grown-ass men who are filthy rich are having sex with teenagers, and we are allowing them to govern us. 

Forget about what’s wrong with them. What’s wrong with us? 

I mean, if Obama, who is cleaner than god, ever so much as looked at a young teenage girl, his entire existence would be revoked. He would not just be in jail; he would be hanged. 

This orange monster we call boss is literally the dirtiest man alive, and he has access to the nuclear codes.

So you see how chocolate makes sense, and nothing else in the world does?

I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep. Not hungry, but I want to eat. Which feels less like a contradiction and more like a lifestyle at this point.

The question is, should I drive in the rain, at this hour, when I’m half delirious, just to get some chocolate? 

I don’t know, man, I need a dopamine rush. I need something to take the edge off. I could drink some wine, maybe wine and chocolate. That sounds like a party, doesn’t it? We could add cheese and make it like a European feast…not emotional eating but more like a cultural experience. See how I did that?

It’s morning, and I didn’t end up going on my scavenger hunt last night. Here I am, not in the mood to make coffee. Going to buy overpriced Starbucks. It’s my treat to myself since I got a new contract job; apparently, this is how I celebrate now.

It’s a writing job. Which is wild, because I love writing. Like, deeply. Suspiciously. The idea that someone is willing to pay me to do something I would absolutely do for free (as evidenced by this blog) feels like a scam—but in my favor.

Do they know how much I love words? How I live for contemplating ideas, how I can sit for hours turning a thought over in my mind? And stories, let’s talk about how much I love to spin a tale. How much joy I get from building a story out of nothing?

Image courtesy of Ayegbeni Emmanuel via Scopio

So here I am. Back on this blog. Doing it for free anyway. Because I can’t not do it, doing what I love, hoping someone is out there, understanding.

Maybe I just want to be understood, or maybe I just want to understand. 

"Happiness is pretty simple: someone to love, something to do, something to look forward to." — Rita Mae Brown. Maybe we are that simple.

I know I’m not simple, but I’m also not high maintenance. What am I? What does that make me? A question mark with opinions?

I remember that old book, I’m OK, You’re OK. And honestly, despite everything—despite the chaos, the corruption, the looming sense that things could go very left at any moment—I still believe we’re going to be okay. I suspect that even if this monster tries to start World War Three, even if none of us make it to enlightenment, we are going to be OK.

Life is just a series of moments. That’s it. Small, fleeting, sometimes ridiculous moments. And I’m trying—really trying—not to sleepwalk through them. I want to live in my moments. 

Yes, it feels like a treadmill sometimes. Like we’re running hard and going nowhere.

But then there are these flashes—beauty, connection, laughter, something real—and suddenly it feels worth it again.

Maybe there’s no grand, built-in meaning to any of this.

Maybe the only meaning that exists… is the one we decide to give it.

nina