needs motivation.

This picture has nothing to do with my post. I just took it in Seattle last year and I liked it. I wish I could get another one of those giant, vegan snickerdoodles again. They made vegan seem alright for once.

So I'll get down to business. I'm on here whining about writing again. It started this way and I'm still going on about it. I am in the middle of an essay about my life or something and I think it sucks. I always end up writing about the same stuff. I just need a little advice from the three readers I have. What do you like to hear about from me? Judging by the fact that I have three readers on this blog, maybe you can't even tell me. Either way, here's what I've got so far and I need three more pages by tomorrow night.

A brief explanation of my life up to this point

“For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.”—Lord Byron

Someone said to me not too long ago, “your life is strange enough to be made into a movie.” I disagree. The plot elements aren’t clever enough and the happy ending hasn’t even been worked out yet. I’m technically in the middle of a montage, waiting for the climax of the film to happen when I get proposed to or my life falls to pieces and then, suddenly, the man of my dreams shows up on the horizon to pick up the pieces. Now would be the time when a few months or even years are portrayed with a couple brief scenes showing the main character crying to herself, thumbing through the classifieds, meandering thoughtfully through crowded streets, chewing on her pencil in class, walking arm in arm with friends, and neurotically checking the mailbox. I now see that life does not pass by in a musical blur. I actually have to go through the process of living day by day not scene by scene. In a way, I’m also waiting. I am doing what so many anxious and naïve 18-year-old girls do. I am waiting for a missionary and I’m 26 years old. Don’t worry, he’s not 19. I always feel like I need to clear that up.

Aside from dating a missionary, or rather, writing him, there are a few other things that make my life unusual, at least for Provo. I’ve been home from my mission for three years, almost three and a half now, and I’m finally graduating with my degree in Russian. People always ask me, “Why Russian?” I can never come up with a very direct answer, but they always seem comforted by my choice in editing as a minor. “Oh, thank goodness. You can do something with that.” From my experience, I haven’t met too many people who actually go directly into their desired vocation, even if they know what it is, so why are they giving me so much grief? Regardless, it was my choice and I still feel good about it. I even want to go to grad school and get a degree in English. More questions follow this statement, most of them hedging on why I chose Russian for my undergraduate if I was just going to get my master’s in English. To this I say, “Russian’s just like English, it’s just in Russian.” Think about it for a little bit. The literature’s better, that’s partly why I chose it. Maybe the other part was just to challenge myself. I can never just take the easiest path. I always have to pick something or someone challenging.

I will just bring this up now since I already started by saying I choose challenging people. I don’t necessarily like challenging relationships. I’m not that aggressive. I dislike the whole game of Provo tag when girls go from apartment to apartment, chasing guys and toting cookies along with them, trying to snag some lonely RM’s heart. I don’t do that. Usually. I only did it once and the result was both disastrous and revealing. It was more than two years ago. We lived in the same apartment complex and he was definitely not my type, but I couldn’t see that at the time. When I first met John he was a brand new return missionary. He was especially shiny and new. Like a new toy. I just had to get to know him and he presented a unique challenge. He was the reclusive, nerdy type that never really got out and just sat in his room getting paler every day staring at his computer screen and reading Wikipedia for fun. In my naïveté, I thought he needed to get out and socialize. What better for socializing than hot tubbing? I promptly invited him to come along with me and my roommates that night. At the first mention of entering what would certainly prove to be a den of iniquity, he backed into the hallway (which was off-limits to girls), protecting his still shirted chest with his trembling, pasty hands. I assumed the look of panic on his face was post-mission weirdness and I let it go. But alas, I don’t give up easily. I continued calling daily, coming over uninvited, hanging out in his living room, and basically letting him know that I wasn’t going anywhere until he accepted that I was a part of his life. The more I got to know him, the more I liked him. His innocence was endearing, and he was very patient with my continuous efforts to get him to notice me. We even dated, for a brief three weeks. That montage of my waiting patiently to be kissed was shattered in the car on the way to the airport for Christmas break. It went something like this:

“Sooo, I need to talk to you about something.” I patted his knee and gave it a squeeze.

“Say what you need to say, sweetie.” I couldn’t think of anything that required this phrase besides a stronger declaration of his feelings. I pushed all my doubtful thoughts away because I believed he was mine. My happy train of thought was interrupted as he continued. “I don’t know how you’re going to take this.” I continued patting his knee while my heart sank.

“I deal with SSA, same-sex attraction. I have known about it since I was in high school.” Despite my shock, I wasn’t surprised by this fact. It all finally made sense. But his declaration sounded like he was telling me that he was terminally ill, so I assumed the worst about the situation.

At that moment I thought my life was caving in. Luckily it was just the illusion that I thought was my life. The truth was, everything was actually fine and still is. Even though my boyfriend turned out to be gay.

The first gay boyfriend was just the tip of the iceberg, or the beginning to the fiasco of my life as a “fruit fly.” I did not choose this title and at this point I have settled back into life as a normal girl, even though I am going to go get a manicure and pedicure with one of my boys this weekend.

Blah blah blah...

On a happier note, my essay got accepted into Segullah! I'm in the process of revising right now. So yeah, sorry I keep posting such inane crap. Maybe someday I'll be a real writer.