“I know it breaks your heart / Moved to the city in my dad’s functional silver 2008 Prius, Sebastian”

Over Halloween visiting my Manhattan-dwelling pal — heretofore MDP — in NEW! YORK! CITY!, I perched on a fifth-floor fire escape at a party, dressed like Ursula/Medusa/a deep-sea Saturday night seductress, inhaling secondhand carcinogens and city lights like goddamn Carrie Bradshaw.

A welcome weekend escape from the what-do-I-do? “Game of Life” charade that’s been plaguing my consciousness of recent.

Cross-legged on the floor of their dorm, before/later the rompin’ rager, MDP’s roommate read my tarot (which I don’t believe in, but I respect those who do — like religion. Nod to my Christian upbringing and Catholic-saint nomenclature! To my atheist ass, astrology’s no more/less plausible than the existence of an omnipotent God), and it predic(a)ted, you’re at a crossroads between creative/financial fulfillment.

YO. Tantamount about what I’d been bitching to MDP earlier! (MDP, you’re MVP.)

Studying sociology (and bein’ a YOUNG LADY) domino-affects me to reevaluate the “plan” laid out before me (college degree, career, house/spouse … commitments … shudder).

Do I want what I want because I want it or because I’ve been told I do? Furthermore, how do I navigate this wild world — particularly as a college-educated, upper-middle-class, able-bodied, cisgender white woman — and its constraints, constructed or otherwise?

Here’s a snapshot of my idyllic, impending roaring twenties, an exploratory era: Relocate to a city (ideologically, I could jive with New England), work a day job to pay bills, write in my spare time at libraries/coffeehouses and my crappy apartment where I sleep on a blowup air mattress — been there before — publish Paperboy, DATE!, compile an analog audio library of vinyls and cassette tapes, banter about town on foot/public transportation, not think about kid(s)/stability for another decade, collect/stud* mesirch with experiences about which to write. Attainable? Methinkso.

Still, despite (or perhaps because of) my perpetual state of confusion, 22 = my favorite age. Days ago, I articulated to my mom, I like myself … and that’s such a new thing for me.

And I’m hungry, dudes/duchesses! I want to treat my writing as work/my fulltime job/the marketable skill it is, rather than as a cute, quirky side-hobby. MDP commented I have “drive” — I do. I frequently forget I’m an adult with some measure of autonomy over my environment. If I crave change, it’s on me to catalyze, strategize & formulate a game plan.

(To elucidate: I don’t expect (or want) to be a fulltime, professional writer, cf. locking myself in a dark room with naught but my laptop and sparse snackage for company, because 1) it’s hella hard to make a living as such, and 2) — I learnt this waiting tables — I need a job involving movement and human interaction. Circle back to “stud,” above.*)

But (goals! deadlines!) I do intend to finish my rough draft/novel/manuscript before age 23, after which I’ll seek out a lit agent. Soon (there)after a “big five” publishing house imprint hitches me, I’ll bask in my advance and, post-publication, roll in rollin’ royaltie$ — right?

Then, akin to Jay-Z, re: creative endeavors … on to the next one.

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