This will be the death of me

I wonder how many women are going to start writing blogs because they saw "Julie & Julia" and thought it looked easy. Rewarding, even. Sure, I got the idea to write this after seeing it, but I'm not expecting a book deal. Or a movie. Like Julie Powell, I just want to be a real writer. What determines that? A publisher? An agent? Nah... a reader determines that. So, might as well put something out there to read.

Last night, my childhood best friend had her first baby. A girl-- Zoey-- weighing in at 9lbs 14 oz, with lips the colour of wine. Holding her was holding purity, like I should wash my filth from her curled up fingers. Sitting there, with this warm thing in my arms, watching my friend become a mother, I felt out of place. No one prepped me for the change in script...this time of friends getting married, having babies, becoming adults... while I sit on sidelines and wait for a text from the dude I fancy. I feel stunted. I need someone else to write the lines, cause I ain't got a thing to say. My lips need a cigarette to distract from the things they aren't saying.

Dear God, I am so sick of saying "I don't know what to do with my life." Even more tired of hearing, "That's normal for 23 year olds." I don't want to be normal! Nor, do I want to hope it will all be better the minute 24 comes knocking. Moms, dads, doctors, and strippers all promise I am meant for greatness... but how does normal become great? It's a process, yeah? Well, maybe this blog is a part of it. Maybe it won't be the third most read on Salon.com, but someone will laugh at my self-deprecation. In turn, I will help said person burn calories (a good fit of laughter burns 40).