path

I refuse to read the post I wrote yesterday because holy guacamole I was buzzing around like a monkey with wings. There are a few things I do not like about my last sentence. One: I never use the phrase "holy guacamole." I believe I used it because guacamole has been on my mind all morning. It would be a challenge to be a vegan if you were not a fan of avocados. Avocados are in every vegan dish. Even the vegan dishes without avocados have, somehow, avocados in them. Two: A monkey with wings? That's the best I could do? I guess I'm just reaching back into my memories of watching The Wizard of Oz as a child and being totally chill with the flying monkeys. And with the Wicked Witch. I preferred the Wicked Witch over Glenda. Still do. But all witches are my cauldron of tea. Witches and pear-shaped fruits with a rough, leathery skin and smooth, oily edible flesh are essential to my overall well-being.

Remember when I was so gung ho about writing a novel? What happened with that? I don't know, but I don't really care. The more damn soul searching I do, the more I realize that I want to pursue other avenues... Not necessarily anything to do with writing. It sort of freaks me out. I have attached myself to the act of writing and the writer's life for, well, almost my whole life, especially when I was around the age of 16. I was told by many that I was a great writer. I received attention and praise for my words. Who wouldn't want that? And I had a sense of control as well. I could have the attention, but still maintain my distance. I did not have to make myself entirely vulnerable. What a setup! And I felt like I was a failure at other things, such as acting, singing, dancing, drawing -- why not attach myself to writing?

And so I did. Big time. I didn't even think about it, I just assumed that's what I was supposed to do, that it's all I could do. In other words, I allowed outside influences dictate my decisions. There's comfort in that. There's comfort in not having to take on the responsibility of making your own choices. But comfort can end up being suffocating and ultimately fatal.

Don't get me wrong. I still proudly, perhaps naively and egotistically, call myself a writer. Writing will always be both an active struggle and an effective release for me. I embrace both the pain and the strength I find while making my way through the labyrinth of writing. But, after nearly 32 years, it is time I begin to separate myself from what others have labeled me and realize that I am more than just one thing. I can begin to nurture different sides of me and explore new avenues. I have more interests and passions than I've allowed myself to admit. Well, time to start admitting.

It is also time to start smashing up an avocado and spreading that oily gold on a piece of toast, mothereffers. Avocado toast?! That shit is pure magic. Who do I think I am, some kind of a witch?