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Neurotic As Hell

Choosing Figs Blog

I avoided dating before I left home to travel the world. I was afraid that I'd meet someone and that he would interrupt my plans. Because I had a plan. And I knew what I wanted for the future. And I didn't want anything to get in the way. It's been seven years since I left. Three and a half since I returned. And I still avoid anything that could possibly be considered a "commitment." Anything that might get in the way of any of my future plans. Because I have plans. Or, at least, ideas. I still think, often, of traveling...

Last year, I went on date to see the movie Kedi at The Music Box here in Chicago. Kedi, in Turkish, simply means "cat," and the film documents the cats in Istanbul who rule the streets and seem, all at once, to belong to everyone and no one. (You can watch the movie here.) The documentary hit a sweet spot for me because, well, CATS, but also because I had spent a month of my travels in Istanbul and around Turkey and remembered fondly all of the cats I saw everywhere while there. There were cats in the streets, cats in...

Last year I dated a cat guy. This guy loved cats as much as I did, probably even more so because he actually had a cat while I just admired them from afar. He volunteered at a cat shelter and we'd exchange texts about reality TV kittens. He didn't even think I was a weirdo for suggesting a date to see Kedi, a documentary about the cats in Istanbul. And it really was the best date. But he never actually introduced me to his cat (we'd always end up at my place), and, eventually, we parted ways. It's all good, though....

Last week I turned thirty seven and thirty seven is almost forty and I don't know how I feel about that. OK so maybe thirty seven isn't almost forty. But it is almost almost forty. It's tipping the line from mid-thirties into late. It's getting there. And, maybe, I do know how I feel about turning thirty seven. I don't like it. I don't like it at all.   [caption id="attachment_56023" align="aligncenter" width="1400"] Age is just a number that makes you feel bad about yourself because fuck you're old.[/caption]   To say I haven't been taking this birthday well might just be an understatement. I've dreaded...

The first time I made pudding shots it was for my thirtieth birthday party (a party I dubbed "fit for an alcoholic six-year-old"). This was, mind you, in a time before Pinterest made pudding shots popular and all I had to go on was a hatred of jello, a crazy idea, and a prayer that mixing instant pudding with milk and alcohol would result in something somewhat edible. But they turned out more than edible, they were delicious, actually, and so I made them, from then on, every time I threw a birthday party. Last year I turned thirty-six and celebrated...

I knew I was fat when people stopped saying, "you're not fat," when I said I was fat. Maybe you know how it is. You know you've gained weight. Maybe you're ten pounds over what you wish you were. And you look in the mirror and think, "I'm so fat," even though, to everyone else, you look just the same as always. And so, when you say, "I'm fat," they all reply, "What are you talking about? You're not fat." But then you gain ten more pounds. And ten more. And ten more. And more. And then, somewhere along the way,...

This was the year that I quit. I quit everything. I quit guitar lessons. I quit salsa dancing. I quit my softball team. I quit relationships. I quit blogging. I guess that quit might be too a strong word. Stopped might be better. I stopped going. I stopped caring. I stopped showing up. I didn't purposely leave any of those things. I didn't yell, "I QUIT!" and storm off in a huff. There were no calculated decisions. No pros and cons lists. I just didn't have the energy to keep going. With anything. And so, I stopped. I spent most of the year...

Whenever something is wrong with me, when I'm in pain or not feeling well for one reason or another, I do the best thing I can think to do for a remedy: I turn to Google. You do it too, I'm sure. Or at least you have at some point in your life. Type your symptoms into a search engine and BAM, instant diagnosis. Of course, nine out of ten times Google tells me that whatever is wrong with me is cancer. Headache? Cancer. Skin rash? Cancer. Fever? Fucking cancer. It's probably not cancer. It's probably just a cold. Or a stressful day...

What drinks do you think of when you think of the holidays? A warm mug of hot chocolate? A glass of mulled wine? A cup of hot buttered rum? A margarita? (I mean, to each their own, I guess.) Do you think of eggnog? Do you even like eggnog? I feel like it's one of those drinks you either love or you hate. And, I'm not going to lie: eggnog is one of those things that I can take or leave. I sometimes crave it come December but, usually, after one glass, I'm good for another year. And, usually, I don't go out and...