About me: My only lies are those of omission.

Words: "Surcease of sorrow."

It's so right. Righteous, even. Right on.



"Cut a tape of my favorite songs, said what I can't face to face. I hoped that you would share all my thoughts...we are young and unimpressed by all you'd recognize.
So play it all over—turn it wide. Now there is nothing but a mix tape left behind; now it don't rewind.
In my car we are superstars...run your lipstick down your chin. While up ahead we saw such a crash—right there a song became a soundtrack for this space in time.
So play it all over—turn it wide. Now there is nothing but a mix tape left behind; now it don't rewind.
Wonder is often lost, jaded at such a cost. Time undermines you when you close your eyes—we pass right by you."
"We've gotta hold on to what we've got—it doesn't make a difference if we make it or not. We've got each other, and that's a lot. For love—we'll give it a shot.
Ohhh, we're halfway there—ohh, livin' on a prayer. Take my hand and we'll make it, I swear. Ohh, livin' on a prayer..."

A distillation of my thought process at this point:



"Such a big scream for such a little girl."
"So take me to winter...as if it was discontent I'd see. I'll live with the madmen there and pull my hair, 'cause lunacy is everything I need. It's not just that I'm...selfish and scared. It's not just that I'm so...unprepared. It's just—you'd think I'd grow out of this, wouldn't you?"
"At this late date in his romantic career, he is just canny enough to come up with a new theory: She's being careful because she likes him. She likes him in spite of herself. He is exactly the kind of tempting but utterly wrong romantic choice that a smart girl like Juanita must learn to avoid."

I've only seen "Lost In Translation" twice—and both times, just as the end music kicked in and the film faded out, I've cried.

I'm still not entirely sure why—Sofia Coppola just sets up my emotional cards and knocks them down, I suppose.

But at least this time—the second time—I had a little kitty cat there to sense my distress even before I knew what had come over me, who came over to cuddle me just as I began to cry.

The tenor of my life right now feels like May—last May, 10 years ago May, or any ol' May in between. Just May, i.e. goodness.

New friends and old friends meeting, cats and dogs living together, blood raining from the skies, new music, random attacks of creativity, cool nights with the promise of spring...

Come what may, man.

While searching for an old Christmas list just now, I found this July 2004 blurb divining one of the roots of my sophomore-year malaise:
"I don't expect everyone here to be a social observer like me, nor do I expect everyone to be self-aware and honest—but I've just been struck by the lack of self-awareness, the consumerism, and the abuse of sex and alcohol that students here expect will bring them 'fun.' I'm not a Puritan by any means, nor a prohibitionist—but I've just been disappointed by the flashy lack of substance in a lot of the people who go here. They may be well-traveled, rich, and diverse, but intellectually not many people seem to think like I do."

That pretty much sums it up, I think. I used to focus on this a lot, to the point where I deliberately isolated myself at times.

Was my assessment realistic? I think so. But was it a problem? Yes.

In the years since, I've learned to just deal with it.

But this is what really made me decide to write the comic—because one day this summer, in an unprompted, unprecedented burst of candor, he expressed his own quiet, raging despair about Ail U. in an almost identical manner.

I marveled, and took comfort from that.

Because I never want to reach a point in my contentment where I forget what I observed in my time here. Here's the truth: Those who are depressed, for better or for worse, often see things for what they are in a way that other people can't. And that insight is precious.

If ever, thoughout the course of this, you wonder why writing it has become so important to me—that's why. Because I think it may finally give me a way to show that I'm not just the odd one out, that my observations meant something and reflected something peculiar to this environment.

Because, on some level, this is redemption. For us both.

And, you know, a kick-ass, needs-to-be-told story.

"People need to know that I bought this. No one even knows that I exist!"
"My juice only flows with the qualities I want when I do as I am 'called' to do. It's a deep and true thing."

As I told Ethan once, you can't touch me.

Not for a while, anyway.

"'No reason to get excited,' the thief he kindly spoke. 'There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke. But you and I, we've been through that, and this is not our fate. So let us not talk falsely now—the hour's getting late.'"

For once in my life, I did something useful.

I'm feeling triumphant.

Everything else kind of melted away yesterday.

On the way home today, I thought, y'know, I've really come a long way.

Could I have been this forthright, this straightforward, this honest and this in touch before? Could I have undertaken a project anything like this before? 'Shea right.

I mean, I'm still working on it. And it's going to be a hard fight to get the thing written and drawn. But I got the interview. Sat and drank gin & tonics and just talked for something like three hours. Maybe more listening than talking.

But just getting the questions out there and getting them answered was...remarkable.

I'm remarkable, sometimes.

I have to say, people's continued questions about what I'm doing with my life altogether too often reveal their own insecurities.
"So what are you doing right now?" is not a new question, nor is it an interesting one. The course of my life post-graduation has no direct bearing upon what you do with the rest of your undergraduate years or your year off or anything else. It's just what I happen to feel like doing.

When people ask me what I'm doing, they're so often asking the equivalent of, "What should I do to ensure commercial viability in the ever-changing, intimidating field of journalism?" Or, alternately, giving me a thinly veiled, "Psh, why didn't you move to ____ like ____ and do ____? Don't you want to be successful?"

Well of course I want to be successful.

Here's what I have to tell you: Live your own life. Expand your conversation skills beyond questions about college majors, activities and immediate post-graduation plans, and then maybe we'll talk. But if you've never worked an honest day in your life and you're asking me what the working life is like, just forget it—I can't explain it to someone who's never lived it.

Then there's this question: "So what are you doing next year?"

Are you just writing this year off as a loss or something? Or are you just not thinking about the meaning of the questions you ask?

What would you say if I told you I were staying here another year? What if I decided to stay for another five years? Would you be disappointed?

OK, say you're disappointed. Focus on that feeling, that disappointment. Turn it around in your mind—what does this disappointment stem from? Is it because I have "so much potential"? Is it because you care about me and want the best for me? Is it because you hate to see me "struggling" or "wasting my potential like this"?

Or is it because you're afraid you'll "end up" like me?

Take a look at the jobs I have listed. I'm not exactly wasting my potential, nor am I struggling. I've gotten promoted twice this fall. I'm easily going somewhere with this.

And if you're concerned about "ending up" like me, get over it—every second I'm choosing to live this life. Read that again: It's my life. My choice to live it. Mine.

You can be part of what I've got going on now, or you can continue to ask me thoughtless questions about my future.

The day after the revolution dawned sunny and warm.

Perfect.

Viva la revolución, baby.