I have not looked away from my Twitter feed for more than three minutes today. There are many many many things I want to say regarding America at present, but insteaddddd I’m going to noodle on something different. For self preservation.
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I was on my flight back to New York earlier this summer after spending May and June back home in California when I got to thinking about how best to spend one’s numbered days here on earth. You know, nothing too heavy. Earlier this year, I had made the decision to go home and ride out what I thought would be a “few weeks of quarantine,” presuming that I would have to be back in my New York office by early June. (Side note: hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.)
When I left New York in May, I had only been living in New York for 11 months. It hadn’t even been a full year since I had left everything I’ve ever known (this is dramatic! but true!) behind to live in a wildly different place. A place, not to mention, that was very very very far from my family and 99% of my super awesome friend group.
Some context! After high school I attended a community college .4 miles from my house, nestled right next to a picturesque lagoon. I then made the giant leap to UC Irvine, a whopping 60 minutes from my hometown. Six years later, I moved back home and lived behind my mom in a garage-to-studio shoe box that I loved. Two of my brothers lived not only on the same street, but on the same block (a cul de sac, no less!), my dad was a three mile walk away, and my sister was a 30 minute drive, tops, away. It should be noted that my other sister lives in the middle of the Pacific on Kauai, because apparently wanting to uproot and move thousands and thousands of miles away is genetic. I had friends whose houses I could walk and bike to and life was good. But I had to go.
So I went. And it was hard. It still is. [Editor’s note: If you’re in your twenties and reading this, hold on to your pals because it is HURRDD to make new ones in your thirties.] But there’s something about getting uncomfy that felt — and still feels — very necessary for me at this current juncture. But, fuck, it’s hard. Which begs the question: Why do it? At the risk of spoiling the end of this story, I’ll tell you now that I do not know.
OK so I’m on the plane, floating somewhere over Arizona and I’m crying. I’ve always been of the mind that life is short so you should have as much fun as possible whilst on this earthly plane. I’m certainly more than a little bit existential, not in the way that every guy in their twenties claims to be, but more in the “nothing matters so we might as well have a sick ass time” kind of way. Try fun, ya know? So why reinvent the wheel? Why move across the country with no guarantee that it’ll yield results half as good as what you got back home? If life is so precious, why waste time on anything less than great? Again, I do not know.
One thing that keeps me going (and keeps me in New York) is the knowledge that, for the most part, my people know without a shadow of a doubt that I love them. Endlessly and completely. I like to think that, heaven forbid, I or someone I love were to die unexpectedly, that we would both be at peace because there was an understanding. An understanding that we knew how much we loved each other. That the times and memories and bond we shared are what made my life worth living. That nothing was left unsaid. Realizing this has forced me to be more forthcoming with how I feel about people, because the thought of them not knowing that I am ✨o b s e s s e d✨ with them would actually kill me.
So, I guess I’m out here trying to find more humans to add to my roster of amazing people. But the only way I’m able to do this (without fully freaking out) is with the knowledge that I have a bunch of them back home who know how I feel. And that all that we’ve done together here on this aforementioned earthly plane is more than one almost-32-year-old could ever hope to have accomplished. And chances are, if you’re reading this, I’m talking about you — yep, you!
The short version of this entire piece of writing is this: life is short, so happiness is what we should strive for, right? And I’m really happy when I’m around my family and my oldest friends… but is that not sort of cheating? Giving in? Happiness is harder fought out here in New York, where I’m more or less starting over; but in doing so, my hope is that it will be even more rewarding when it does come. But if it could all be over tomorrow, then what’s the point? Would it not be wiser to just be with the people who are a guaranteed good heart-filled up to the brim kind of time?
But, I have to admit, the pizza out here is pretty great.