So, remember that one time when I was 2 weeks away from graduating and decided it was time to start slacking off? No? Oh. Right. That’s because you haven’t been hanging out with me for the past week. Yes, in my defense it was Thanksgiving break, but still… There are about 10,000 things I should have done, still need to do and never did. It’s called denial, my friends.
This entire semester has been one huge superstorm that I have coined “hurricane shit fuck”. Don’t judge me for my lack of creativity, it’s a real thing in my life right now. It feels as though all my years of habitual procrastination have led me to this very moment. The ultimate self sabotage. For years now I’ve been putting in minimal effort, with short bursts of brilliance that have given me the gift of a great GPA and some beautiful essays. Unfortunately that has left me feeling quite cocky about my talents as a writer and professional procrastinator.
My first semester at SDSU I was like a puppy, so excited to pee on everything and yet frightened of my own shadow. I never spoke up in class, I got really sweaty all the time which led to weird panting noises during class. Most of my days were spent calculating how long it would take to get to the nearest bathroom. I arrived early, stayed late, cried all the time and only missed a few classes.
My second semester I was like a fucking bull dozer, decidedly arrogant and willing to share my deepest darkest secrets for an “A”. I wrote weird shit about blowjobs and sex and who I thought I was at 17, I missed many classes, pulled a bajillion overnighters and never worried about what anyone thought.
My third semester I was lazy as fuck, and that allowed me to write things I probably wouldn’t have written if I cared, which gave me the opportunity to tap into the creative subconscious of mine. I wanted to do great things, but had no motivation to make it happen, which naturally means that said ideas just popped up of their own fruition from my half asleep brain.
Now, we arrive at today. I’m a mixture of all of these things. A hopeless dreamer, an anxiety filled freak, writing weird shit, being too cocky, too lazy, filled with too many ideas to have a single one come out perfectly.
I have never been able to decide what I want to “be”, which in someways is the ultimate problem for people who have endless opportunities and limited attention spans. I’ve bounced around my entire life. I’ve worked with kids, babies, special needs children, pregnant women, I was a receptionist, a nanny, a file clerk, a waitress (for a week), a doula, and nothing ever “stuck”. I have bounced from major to major, from psychology to sign language to sociology and decided on English, mainly because I’m bad at multiple choice exams. I have enough units to have a Master’s degree. It’s embarrassing. I spent years in community college, hoping I’d find something to love and a way to pass college Algebra. I do love English, and I did pass my Math class (on my third try), but still, I’m left with a big huge question mark in the “occupation” section of my life.
Professional sock loser? Check. Really good sleeper? Check. Avid mess maker? Check. Bathroom connoisseur? Check. Dog hoarder? Check. Self-employed Facebook stalker? Absolutely.
So, now what? I have two finals and three essays and I’m done. I have NO FUCKING CLUE what is next. I never have. When I left boarding school halfway through my senior year only to come back to a huge gap year that turned into a 5 year stint at community college, I had NO FUCKING CLUE what I was doing either. All I knew is that I wanted to get drunk, all the time, hang out with louie, all the time, get a huge tattoo, buy a cute dog and name her something stupid like “Dior”, and never EVER clean anything or do laundry, ever. I achieved all of those things in record time and in the midst of all of that I ended up here. Now that I think about it, I should probably be dead or have Hepatitis or be living in a van down by the river.
All I know right now is that I want to get drunk, only on special occasions and when I’m not on my fertility meds, I love hanging out with Louie, all the time, I want another tattoo (but this time nothing stupid like a weird flower patch and an alien butterfly), buy another dog that I’m going to name something awesome like Truvy (from Steel Magnolias, don’t hate), figure out how to keep my house clean for more than a day (also, learn how to clean a toilet without dry heaving the entire time) and (the only addition) have a baby.
As much as I’d like to imagine 17 year old Holly would be proud, she’d probably say something like, “I need to have sex with more people, right now, because APPARENTLY I don’t end up being a whore, awesome.” Then I’d roll my eyes at myself and walk away. Then I’d yell back at my 17 year old self, “Stop driving like an asshole, those speeding tickets aren’t going to pay for themselves!” and then I’d realize that I’ve come a long way. Also, that I need to stop blogging weird internal conversations.
So… that’s it. I’m two weeks away from having no other purpose in life, besides reproducing. Which is probably a good thing, because that happens to be the only thing I’m not really good at. Well that and cleaning. Both of which I will have ample time to get better at.
Once this cycle ends, I’m off to get an HSG. Then some Clomid and then IUI. Which really just means that more people are going to see my vagina in the next two months than in the past 25 years.