I think this blog used to be a lot more fun when I was young and carefree and fucked my way through all my problems. But I’m older now, and life is different, and that’s a valid narrative, too. It’s strange to use this blog as a lens through which I can see myself as detached and dysphoric but also subtly changing and maturing through the years. It’s strange to know that my readers can see it, too, if anyone has stuck around for the past almost six years now. Sure, there are people whom I have known for that entire time, but the writing – that’s a different kind of reveal.
Part of me wishes that I could be young and frustrated forever, that I could always hang onto the feeling of the promise of the world laid bare in front of me. But that got tired after a while, and there’s nothing quite like regret to taint one’s perception of one’s own accomplishments (or lack thereof). Decisions are exciting before you make them. Once you’ve decided, they feel a lot more lackluster.
I cope with my problems in much healthier ways now. Sometimes I take my anti-anxiety medication, sometimes I go to therapy. Rarely do I hole up in some dive bar and get black out drunk and fuck the first person who doesn’t seem to mind the trouble. I’ll admit that I’m a bit sad that the stories I have to tell these days are so palpably less glamorous. But, at 30, what does glamour and excitement look like?
Success at my age – and even success in an iconoclastic manner – is, by necessity, more quiet than success at a younger age. Being successful in your 30’s is almost antithetical to what success looks like in your 20’s. Success in your 30’s means that you’ve risen above the fray of what success in your 20’s looks like: fucking antics. If you’re doing it right in your 30’s, you don’t have to submit yourself to the all night party grind that made being in your 20’s fun.
Maybe I’m washed up, but maybe I’m just more about my money these days. I’ve had enough cocaine and dick til 5 am to last me a life time. Now I get to do shit like drink real champagne at 6 pm and tell the people I care about that I love them. It’s strange to know that my tastes and my pleasures have changed.
The mania was unsustainable anyways. I look at the people who joined me for the ride through my 20’s – the friends who scored blow in downtown bathrooms with me, the boys that I fucked in bushes, the people who judged me and told me to get my shit together. Now that I’m in a completely different place in my life, I look at some of those people and see where our paths diverged.
What’s hardest about changing is knowing that not everyone changes with you. Some people get stuck, others shoot off into the ether. All I know is: I started in the same place with so many people, and years later none of us are even close to being on the same page. We were all fundamentally different, but for a moment in time we were all together. It’s hard to leave people in the dust. It’s hard to be left in the dust.
I will always be me, but time is a fucking bitch. The world around me changes rapidly, and I have no choice but to adapt or fester. I choose to adapt. I will always love myself, but as time goes on, I love the world around me less and less.