Identity

I'm sitting here writing my thesis on the Lost Generation and the hipster culture and totally procrastinating. Instead of writing, I'm thinking about life and love and loss, and I've made a decision.

I will live for myself. I will do what I want, when I want, and how I want. This is not in the selfish, independence-seeking way 17-year-old, angsty teenagers vouch for their rights as "adults." No. This is my effort at chance-taking and developing my identity -- very much in the tradition of Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Eggers, Wallace, and every writer of a youth movement for all of time.

This twenty-something will live. Every damn day.

Maybe if I say his name three times...Hemingway, Hemingway, HEMINGWAY

I'm sitting here at a table in Faculty Parlors at 1:40 a.m. on a Sunday working on my thesis and having a mini panic attack -- natural for a college senior in her thesis semester, right?

Hemingway is certainly giving me a headache, but I can't help being jealous of him. He had the joyous luck of being able to sit in cafes in Paris all day drinking heavily and writing novels and reading great literature. Too bad he didn't appreciate it.

So my plan now is to go live in Paris for awhile and read books and write and be scholarly. I mean, I'll probably have to get a job too but that's just a minor detail.

#daydreams.

Confidence in a chicken costume?

I'll never regret it.

Did you know?

Did you know that butterflies don't know the color of their own wings? I wonder what that means for their identity. Clearly they don't go through the Mirror Stage, but do they ever develop a personal identity? Can butterflies discriminate against other butterflies based on the color of their wings?

I'll bet that you think this is all kind of ridiculous and really just stupid. But what if we were all butterflies and we never got to know how or if our appearances were different from everyone else? What would the world be like if discrimination didn't exist? What would this generation be like if all of the hatred that occurred in the past never happened? Would we know how to hate?

peace&&love

The Return

So, I haven't contributed anything to this blog since Christmas of 2010. And now it's the June of 2012. Oops.
This shall change, folks! I'm turning a new leaf and becoming a responsible blogger. I guess that means I should catch you up on the last year and a half...

Well, surprise, I'm no longer 18! I'm nearly 21, and it's the summer before my senior year of college. Gasp. Aww. Sad. Happy! Whatever. I'm growing up. It's scaring the shit out of me.

My time is spent interning at this newspaper in the city closest to my hometown (I say "city" carefully...it's a tiny city) and I'm not sure if it's really my cup of tea yet but it's fun. The people are great, and I'm enjoying it. I've had a ton published, which is excellent for future potential jobs, and it's fantastic experience. Sidebar: using all of these synonyms for "great" makes me think of Millie in the film "Because I Said So." Love that one.

Anyway, I intern and I play tennis, teach the occasional lesson. Basically I'm making no money and fully living the broke-college-student lifestyle. Whoopie.

Something that's on my mind right now though is Hemingway. And identity. I'm reading "A Farewell to Arms" and it's fully captured my attention. I'm probably going to use it for my thesis, which will compare the Lost Generation to hipster literature. It makes sense. I promise. My thesis will rock. But for real, I can't get over Hemingway's use of identity. In the novel, all I know of the first person narrator is that he's an American in the Italian army and his last name. It's fascinating. And I can't wait to finish the book and to start writing my thesis.

So long for now, my dears. Pick up Hemingway, fall in love. This one's worth it.