In other news, as I try to find my life's purpose... I think it is woth noting that I came across a website that said in order to discover your life's purpose you should write down a list for 20 minutes of all the things that come into your mind and that should help you discover your life's purpose. I tried this. I think I failed. I rand out of stuff to type around 86 or so and just kept writing whatever came into my head even if it didn't make sense... so here's a look at the exercise... dang nabbit. I just wish my life's purpose would reveal itself to me. I'm 35 and... well... really?? When's it gonna show up already?!
What is my true purpose in life?
1. To be a mother
2. To be a wife
3. To be a teacher
4. To be a writer
5. To be an activist
6. To be an advocate
7. To be a millionare
8. To be an actress
9. To be a director
10. To be a mystic
11. To be a healer
12. To be an animal lover
13. To be a nurse
14. To be a doctor
15. To get my doctorate
16. To work in sales
17. To be an executive
18. To be a drama coach
19. To be a theatre director
20. To be a restranteur
21. To be a chef
22. To be a cook
23. To be a waitress
24. To be a linguist
25. To be a gymnast
26. To be an archeologist
27. To be a dentist
28. To be a numerologist
29. To be a screen writer
30. To be a muscle car owner
31. To be a tree chopper
32. To be a vegetarian quisine critic
33. To be a wedding planner
34. To be a travel agent
35. To be a home nursery director
36. To be a gardener
37. To be an entrepreneur
38. To be a race car driver
39. To be a scuba diver
40. To be a bad robot
41. To be a rational lawyer
42. To be a rash eradicator
43. To be an elevator repairman
44. To be a prayer and a wing
45. To be a jump rope artist
46. To be an artist
47. To be a performance artist
48. To be a quiet observer
49. To be a never ending story teller
50. To be a remote control operator
51. To be an emergency room door
52. To be a squirrel in central park
53. To be a zen palate bowl of lukewarm soup
54. To be a glass ballerina
55. To be a makeup artist
56. To be a brow tweezer specialist
57. To be a grade school teacher
58. To be a rehab counselor
59. To be a counselor
60. To be a guidance counselor
61. To be a career coach
62. To be an anger management coach
63. To be a psychiatrist
64. To be a psychologist
65. To be a veterinarian
66. To be a spiritual advisor to the united nations
67. To be a magazine editor
68. To be a chief officer negotiator
69. To be a rock and roll rock climber
70. To be a beach comber
71. To be a tour guide
72. To be a writer
73. To be a study coordinator
74. To be a list maker
75. To be a writer
76. To be a writer of books
77. To be a writer of magazines
78. To be a writer of articles
79. To be a writer of stories
80. To be a writer of fiction or non fiction
81. To be a writer of non fiction
82. To be a writer of memoirs
83. To be a writer of published books
84. To be a writer of human experience
85. To be a writer
86. To be a writer?
87. Really?
88. A writer?
89. Of what??
90. What am I supposed to write about?
91. Writers write. What am I supposed to write about?
92. To be a writer of transformation
93. 1993. Graduated high school in 1993 and I can barely remember any of it. Any of it at all. Isn’t it strange? How quickly the years go by. To some those years mean everything to others those years are lost in a haze of smoke exhaled in college, or in pounds lost on a crusade through graduate school. 1993. What dark scary times were those? I can not recall. I do remember overly dramatizing so much of my life. I remember scratching the skin off the backs of my hands. I remember coming home and finding my guns and roses poster ripped to shreds and left on the floor of my bedroom. I remember finding my motley crue cassette tapes with the tapes all pulled out and stretched. I remember wearing my father’s hunter green sweater to a rival school's football game and feeling like the most beautiful girl in the world even though I was just an awkward 14 year old who was armed with only the overly self-confidant social skills of a salesman’s daughter. I remember that there must have been quite a bit of pain. I don’t remember that pain specifically but I do remember the myriad attempts at trying to numb that pain. Emotional pain. Pain caused by my mother or father or just a general sense of anxiety and unrest caused by my mother's reaction to her sister's suicide. I remember smoking cigarettes and letting boys touch and drinking alcohol until I got sick. I remember joining a cheerleading squad and faking my way through basketball games and hiding behind big hair. I remember being terrified of boys and wondering if I would ever really want to ever really want to be with one. They were gross and scary and self absorbed and mean and horny and I remember body odors and shaving legs and never having anything to wear and was I the only one who never seemed to get it right? Being so poor I had to borrow my mothers underwear, her shirts, her shoes which were a size too big for me and I had to stuff with tissues. And then she put a lock on all of the bedroom doors but mine. I remember wanting so badly to have nice clothes to wear and not knowing how to wear makeup or style my clownish hair. I remember being terrified of going to school in the morning almost every morning. I wore a uniform to school but I could never get the face and hair right. I never seemed to have the right shoes or the right socks or that perfect bag... those stupid Espirit bags that everyone had and I couldn't afford. I hated Catholic school. I remember always being late for high school. What a freaking nightmare. I remember now… only 20 years later- the relief that I feel knowing that it’s all a memory , but somehow, somewhere, still feeling like I’m going to be late for homeroom. That sense of urgency and despair, that feeling of free-falling out of control, that darkness of separation from your family (most of whom you didn't get along with anyway, most of whom took some sick pleasure in antagonizing you) and having to spend 8 freaking hours of living hell with other teenagers who were lost or stupid or hormonal o depressed or obnoxious or addicted or in the closet or eating disordered or bullied or clueless or happy or child like and a few mind numbing morons and bullies for teachers/babysitters all of whom taught me NOTHING about culture, life, art, critical thinking, or what it means to live a purposeful life. Fuck you catholic school.... except for my English/Latin teacher. He taught me to appreciate narrative text, dramatic reading, and food. Thank you Mr. K. You made a difference to me.To everyone else- enjoy your mediocre existence you fools.
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