Friday, February 24, 2006
Deep thoughts, with Jack Handey
I didn't buy a puppy online just because I'm an avid dog-lover, it was Valentine's Day, and I was drunk. I bought him because I've been thinking about getting a dog for a while. I've been really depressed for the past year or so, and even though in practice it has never failed to fail, I'm always convinced that picking up and starting a new life somewhere different or more exotic will make me a happier person. Everyone always says you can't escape yourself, which is something I think we all know but can't really grasp.
I have these fantasies of spending a year working at a fruit stand in some remote Mexican village, dancing the night away with a gorgeous tan, perfecting my Spanish while becoming close to an array of eccentric yet endearing locals, like the trademark characters found in all annoying indie movies. Or working at a pub in London, bantering endlessly with a bevy of quick-witted snaggle-toothed locals astonished that an American could make them laugh, and then feasting on grade-a Indian food before falling into bed in a perfect flat. I could go on, but I won't, because it's too embarassing. I've decided it's time to truly make an adult life for myself, because New York is my home, always has been and always will be. New friends don't compare to old ones, and it feels good to see familiar faces on your block and to know your local deli men and women by name. I'm trying to teach myself that a person can live a life that's fulfilling, exciting and adventurous without boarding a plane or immersing yourself in a sea of strangers after exoticizing some other poor or dreary place. Louie gets me out of and into bed earlier. He shows me areas of my neighborhood that I didn't know existed. He introduces me to fellow dog lovers, and he races me all over town whether I like it or not. It's exhausting, stressful, and unlike anything I've every experienced. The only pet I've ever had before that was mine and only mine was a snail I was forced to keep in third grade who died because I accidentally fed it kale instead of iceburg lettuce.
On another note, on Monday I start training to teach at a bartending school. I'm sure it will be a thoroughly weird and colorful experience, which is all I've learned to hope for these days. As I spend each day growing more and more anxious about the fact that no graduate writing program will take me, I wonder if I will be one of those people who never finds or forges a satisfying career path for myself. I hope not. I really hope not.
I have these fantasies of spending a year working at a fruit stand in some remote Mexican village, dancing the night away with a gorgeous tan, perfecting my Spanish while becoming close to an array of eccentric yet endearing locals, like the trademark characters found in all annoying indie movies. Or working at a pub in London, bantering endlessly with a bevy of quick-witted snaggle-toothed locals astonished that an American could make them laugh, and then feasting on grade-a Indian food before falling into bed in a perfect flat. I could go on, but I won't, because it's too embarassing. I've decided it's time to truly make an adult life for myself, because New York is my home, always has been and always will be. New friends don't compare to old ones, and it feels good to see familiar faces on your block and to know your local deli men and women by name. I'm trying to teach myself that a person can live a life that's fulfilling, exciting and adventurous without boarding a plane or immersing yourself in a sea of strangers after exoticizing some other poor or dreary place. Louie gets me out of and into bed earlier. He shows me areas of my neighborhood that I didn't know existed. He introduces me to fellow dog lovers, and he races me all over town whether I like it or not. It's exhausting, stressful, and unlike anything I've every experienced. The only pet I've ever had before that was mine and only mine was a snail I was forced to keep in third grade who died because I accidentally fed it kale instead of iceburg lettuce.
On another note, on Monday I start training to teach at a bartending school. I'm sure it will be a thoroughly weird and colorful experience, which is all I've learned to hope for these days. As I spend each day growing more and more anxious about the fact that no graduate writing program will take me, I wonder if I will be one of those people who never finds or forges a satisfying career path for myself. I hope not. I really hope not.
# posted by Katie @ 10:10 PM 
