Being twenty-three is my excuse for everything. For being ambitious, unambitious; for being careless, obsessive, reckless, and a complete lush. Because being a twenty-three year old single girl in Los Angeles is like an education on “life”. It all comes rushing towards you when you realize its here: that adult life you never thought you’d reach. That’s right; the work, the friends, the shit, the hurt, the joy, it’s all fucking here, and just on time. Being twenty-three is your motherfucking wake up call. Even harder than deciding what you want to do in life is deciding who you want to be while doing it.
For me, it’s a state of constant sensory overload.
There is the day-to-day. The mornings of hungover haze, of remembering the mistakes and surreal moments of the night before. The kisses, the feeling of hands on your skin, of voices whispering in your ears. The dances: the twists and turns and down-lows of your night. The people who enter and leave in a matter of hours. The work life of late nights and heart-to-hearts with your new friends.
And then there is the past. The constant memories you can never seem to escape. The photos and letters and postcards. The boyfriends and girl friends you thought were yours, but turned out to be less best and more yesterday. The best becomes the past, every single day, and it's completely out of your control.
Finally, there is the absolute present. The right-motherfucking-now; on this couch, in that apartment. The dreams, and the goals, and the new directions. The love of this new band, and that fucking great old Nirvana song. The wine and cigarettes, the writing, the thoughtfulness, and images that catch your eye in that magazine.
This is just the beginning.