Contrary to popular belief, I’m not bitter and unhappy. I’m the opposite. So much so that I’m even jealous of my own-self.
I have the most amazing boyfriend in the world. I mean, this is the kind of amazing human being I could only hope for back in the day when I used to be a Christian and used to “pray for the perfect man” and bullshit like that.
The thing is, there’s a little truth to this one Christian “courtship” belief: the fact that you should be the best version of yourself and you should be open to self-improvement and self-growth. I think we can always be happier, more ethical beings; although that isn’t just a Christian ideal. It’s also Buddhist and a belief many mystics take part in.
But besides that, the “thing” I wanted to be when I “grew up” was a writer. Of course as a child, I wanted to be an actress, a waitress, and a zoologist. But I started reading on my own and fell in love The Baby Sitter’s Club by Ann M. Martin. All of a sudden I felt what some writers call a “calling.” And it feels like the Universe did pluck me down in a central California, in a desert oilfield town ripe for an artist to live in. Top it off with a serious memoir-esque life, the perfect seasoning of anger and passion.
And then somehow in High School, in my small desert town, I was just hanging out enjoying life and a cult rolled in like the circus.