Your twenties are weird. You’ve probably spent the majority of your life in school, soaking up all the information you need (or maybe not) for adult life. You graduate high school, you graduate college, and the infinite possibilities of the rest of your life sparkle around you like fireflies on an August night. “The world is your oyster” becomes the refrain intoned by everyone around you: parents, teachers, mentors, peers.
Now, I love oysters. I make my Dad order them for us whenever we go to a restaurant that offers them. But the thing about oysters – besides how good they taste – is that they’re slimy, they’re hard to get a handle on, and they can be hard to swallow. Also, the pearls are all long gone – you need to get those from a different store and they cost extra.
So you graduate. You’re ready to find your life’s great purpose and the meaning of existence. And then you realize that you’re one of thousands of people just like you with the same BA and the same inexperience and the same need to find a job so you can pay your rent, your bills, your bar tab. And you encounter the big Catch-22 of job-hunting: to get experience, you need an entry level job…but to get an entry-level job in a field you care about, you need experience. Between two and five years, for some reason, because “entry” means something different to employers than it does to the rest of the English-speaking world. So you reach for a few months, but eventually you settle for the job that will hire you and you end up being a barista, or serving as a waitress, or sitting at a computer screen copying numbers into a system.
And all of the sudden, your priorities have changed. And then you sit up two years later, look around, and ask yourself what the fuck am I doing with my life? You’re still young enough that your whole life is ahead of you, and you certainly don’t need to have your affairs in order yet. But you’re old enough that time moves more quickly, and you feel like every day that you stay where you are is another door shutting on all those fireflies that were right there such a short time ago, until you’re left locked in a cubicle of your own making.
I’m being dramatic. But also, I’ve been struggling with this for a while now. Who am I really? What the hell do I want? What makes me happy? Not to mention the less self-absorbed questions: what is happiness? why do we exist? what is the nature of the universe? is time a flat circle after all? how do magnets magnet?
And now that I’ve buried the lead under five paragraphs of heavy-handed metaphors and pseudo-philosophical ruminations, here’s the rub: I’ve started a blog! I know, you’re just as surprised as I am that I’ve committed. My best and oldest friend Emma has been trying to get me to do this for at least four years now. My friend and comedy teammate Elizabeth has her own blog, and helped convince me.
It feels like the height of arrogance to write my thoughts for a readership that doesn’t exist, and could never exist. But I’ve always thought better when writing, and I’m ready to start taking control of my life again. I’m going to stop saying “I’ll write this book soon” or “maybe someday I’ll do another open mic.” Instead, I’m going to tackle life head-on. I’ve been performing improv. I’m taking a stand-up class, which is fulfilling every dream I never knew I had and is both incredibly exhilarating and pants-shittingly terrifying because of that fact. I’m starting this blog, because practice makes perfect and I’ll write more if I write more, if you’re picking up what I’m putting down.
The name is chosen. The first post is written. And I’m inviting you along with me. You, reader. Or you, infinite void of space and HTML.
This is Dis:Asterism.