I fucked up – a lot. I wrote stupid shit, went through a weary, six-month writer’s block, had a general malaise about life and the ‘impending doom’ soon-to-come, been overly melodramatic, i.e cried in the laps of my roommates over people who never mattered in the first place, drank a lot, a lot, a lot, picked up bad habits and in general made a lot of mistakes that still cause me to cringe and my toes to curdle in the shower.
But I also did a lot of things I’m really proud of. For the first time in a long time, I’ve felt like a real journalist. I called people and demanded they gave me an answer; I read about revolutions and uprisings and revolts and decided to do something about it. I came to terms with the notion that it’s okay in knowing exactly what I want and refusing to settle until I found it. I’ve had long, heartfelt, sublime letter correspondences with people dear to me, all of whom still find it necessary to preserve the written word. I’ve also had thought-inducing IRL relationships with people I told to piss off in the first place, but now can’t imagine them not embedded in my daily wonderings. I finally decided to take poetry seriously and with the encouragement of my friends and M.Burkard, publish something that is defiantly mine. I also finally decided to stop taking writing so fucking seriously and just write. Just write for me, just write because it makes me happy, just write because it is therapy and just write because it is grueling and yet, so imperative in who I am and want to be as a person.
2011 was the year of pants. Trousers! Cropped! Minnies! Cafe! Pants with stockings pants with socks/ pants with printed tights / pants with no tights. Pants pants, and more pants. In 2011 I started living with five boys who diluted my rigidness. Handed me tissues, jumped on the couch, pushed back my hair, pulled out the shot glasses and said, ‘angie, life’s a shitshow, just have fun with it.' In 2011, I got so plastered on Gin in Maine that I threw up all over Andrew's mom's tea cottage. I woke up hungover, with vomit in my hair and Ed wiping down my puke. And now, I can't have Gin anymore. But I do have a good story to tell.
And that’s exactly it. All great stories.