A love letter of sorts
Dear 2010 Chelsi,
You had plenty of time to write a 2010 wrap-up before today, but did you? No. You didn’t. I, 2011 Chelsi, am willing to forgive you for this because you’ve been deathly ill for the majority of your holiday vacation, and because when writing is your job it can be tough to find the energy to write in your free time. (Let's work on changing that this year.)
Since you no longer exist in the here and now, my first action as your replacement will be to critique your fleeting 12 months. You can think of this as a report card. Side note: I just reminded myself of Moon with Sam Rockwell and felt a range of emotions in rapid succession. If you haven’t seen that movie, get off the computer and go watch it. Now. Also, aw @ Kevin Spacey and artificial intelligence.
Overall, 2010 proved with spirited zest that if it’s not one thing, it really is another. I mean, there you were, finally as recovered from the shit storm of heartbreakery that sunk your battleship as you were ever going to get on your own, when a mean mixture of anxiety and gastroesophageal reflux disease popped up out of frickin’ nowhere and sent you to the emergency room. An EKG and fifteen hundred dollars later, why these things happen when they do is still a mystery. Perhaps it's like Mary Schmich once wrote: "The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday." Or in my case, in the middle of my date with a couple of close friends and chicken pot pie.
Health issues aside, that unexpected events are what hurt the most is a hard truth. While your definition of ultimate disaster was previously a relationship breakdown that could be felt from the onset -- and therefore dismembered and mourned piecemeal -- 2010 showed you that deep pain comes from the unforeseen. Sudden trauma triggers the most violent disassociation from our emotions and ourselves possible. Basically, we freeze. Who knows what happens to the mind during the moments it takes to collect, but what's obvious in the aftermath is cognitive rearrangement. And that shit sucks. Hard. To add insult to injury, often times there's nothing to heal. Forget your usual vices and travel-- there's no cure, medication, or preventative for friends becoming strangers overnight; for the morning you wake up and realize it's too late to love someone, but love them anyway; for how extraordinary change within your favorite people can alter their attitude towards you personally. You've learned this the hard way.
On this first day of the new year, much of me thinks the majority of humanity still hasn't figured out how to live. This includes you, Chelsi 2010, as you spent most of your time trying to fight against all that didn't sit well with you. You were stupid, but valiant. Stupid because it's pointless to try and fix something that's simply changed, not broken. Valiant because most people are more willing to accept negativity than they should be. As if life makes more sense when it's disappointing.
In this lifetime, it's my responsibility to figure out a non-stupid way to deal with sudden change and recognize the difference between what's plain fucked up and what's just naturally evolving into something a little less cool. I don't know how I'm going to do this, but I'm set on making sure it doesn't take away from showing gratitude or passion for both what is and what was. There's so much goodness in the little things, even -- and I say this through gritted teeth -- when they're not reciprocated. Also, I will try my best to avoid trips to the emergency room.
Anyway, back to you. Elizabeth Gilbert said that a true soul mate is a mirror, the person that shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change you life. I think this is probably true, and while I'll certainly be on the lookout for people who fit this bill, I just wanted to say thanks to all you past Chelsis for continuing to serve as your own mirror. It's one thing to find that in someone else, but it's an entirely different thing to be able to say that, in your loneliest of times, you managed to be that for yourself. A+.
Love, always love,
Chelsi 2011
Hey Chelsi, you rock
The look of this picture here might lead you to believe that this is going to be a post about how I once starred in a set of amateur porn videos. Alas, my life's never been that interesting.
Actually, I just needed a picture of my 20-year-old self for a writing exercise, and this is the only one I could find on my travel computer (because I'm hanging out in Paris -- I lied before when I said my life wasn't that interesting). It was taken at a goodbye party for a dude I barely knew, and I wasn't even drunk, just rolling around on the floor with my best friend.
Anyway, a particular circuit of blogs I frequent is mostly made up of women in their thirties, and they've recently taken to writing letters to their 20-year-old selves. I'm only turning 26 this month, but I think officially being in my late twenties (GOD) is reason enough to start talking to myself. This is the age people start getting white hairs and going crazy anyway, right?
(I fully expect to be one of those women who sends out invites to her fourth 25th birthday. Please tolerate it.)
Dear 20-year-old Chelsi,
Thank you:
For not drinking until you were (almost) of age. As it turns out, drunk teenagers are the worst things on the whole entire planet.
For eating french fries at 2am and Easy Mac for breakfast. You haven't truly lived until you've had greasy carbs for every single meal, and there will be plenty of time for salad later in life.
For not taking yourself too seriously. If you had, you probably would've majored in something that guaranteed you a "safe" job with two weeks of vacation per year, an ergonomic set-up and a 401k. Meanwhile, your brains would be in the crevices between the keys on your keyboard.
For approaching most everything with reckless abandon---especially cooking and love. The Dalai Lama would be proud, and the times you're the most passionate are the times that will remain savory, vivid and meaningful in your memory. Even if they end in tears.
For reserving the right to change your mind.
For doing things that make you happy, simply because they make you happy. You wouldn't believe how many people don't know how to do this.
For not dressing like a prostitute. You will look back on your pictures as the years fly by without regretting your fashion sense. Although, it's okay if you want to wear those tight jeans more often. Your ass is amazing.
And most importantly, thank you for being strong enough to survive a gut wrenching, soul crushing, pitch black and too fast ride into what at the time felt like nothingness. If you hadn't, I wouldn't be here, now, realizing more and more every second that I am my own definition of a good person That I am capable of so much more than I once thought.
Love, always love,
Chelsi
Cover letter
Dear Life,
I saw your ad for the Shit Out of Luck and Destined for Doom and Poverty position this morning and thought I’d apply. I recently graduated from San Francisco State University with a degree in English and Art History, and now that both have proven their complete uselessness, I think I’m the perfect candidate for this position.
My related experience includes not being able to secure a steady, well-paying job since graduation (May 2008), which is a highly unfavorable situation to be in, especially when you have an ever-growing pile of bills on your shoulders like I do. Also, the temporary jobs I’ve been hired for haven’t managed to network me very well, and very soon my service provider is going to cut off my cell phone because I haven’t paid for it in nearly two months. That means the employers I sent resumes to will probably finally call me to set up an interview time but won’t be able to get a hold of me because of my disconnected number. Pretty ironic, right?
Unfortunately, I do have some promising projects on the back burner and several kick-ass references, but I'm sure it's nothing you couldn't totally fuck up if you wanted to.
My skills include laziness, procrastination, a disproportionate love of naps, a bad habit of surfing youtube when I should be working, an obsession with self-pity and the satirical stylings of the black cloud that follows me wherever I go.
My hobbies include reading trash, writing short fiction that never gets published, maintaining a wildly unpopular website and wearing clothes that fit me in all the wrong ways.
Co-workers say I’m easy to get along with but they don’t mean it. In fact, they just don’t want to piss me off because I’m highly combative. After a while, I often begin to resent my employers for giving me work I hate to do, and it is highly likely that I will bring nothing but drama and creative new ways to avoid actually doing work to your workplace should you choose to hire me.
You won't find my resume attached because I don't even think you care enough to look at it.
Thank you for your time and consideration, you dickwad,
Chelsi
Two dozen and smellin like diamonds
Dear life,
Hey. Look, I know we’ve had our ups and downs and most of the time I curse you for torturing me and laughing at my expense, but I just wanted to say thank you from the bottom of my heart for the wonderful birthday I had yesterday.
When I realized I was turning twenty four on the twenty fourth in addition to it being my year in the Chinese zodiac, I felt obligated to plan something really grandiose and obnoxious. My first thought was Vegas, but sadly, those plans fell through a few months ago. And then I thought about having some kind of huge gathering in San Francisco but I wasn’t interested in another disaster dinner like on my twenty first when all my friends fought with each other at the restaurant and I somehow ended up sitting at the end of the table with cold fish and a new boyfriend that I was only hours away from traumatizing with my loud sobs and snotty nose. For a second I even considered having dinner at the restaurant where several of my friends work, but then I remembered that when I did that last year one of the girls HWMNBN messed around with behind my back was there and I just about died, especially when soon after that the guy I was rebounding with at the time showed up with presents and dessert like we were in a relationship or something, and that was the beginning of what I like to call: The Summer that Yielded Men Who Don’t Understand the Concept of Friends With Benefits and Go Total Bat Shit Crazy With the Desire to Commit. It wasn’t as awesome as it sounds.
So this year I woke up, got ready, sprayed on a little Armani perfume for added fanciness, and decided to just wing it. And what do you know? You RULED!
From the lovely morning around town I had with my brother, to the amazing sushi I ate at that little joint over in the Richmond district where I had an hour long conversation about how much I hate Oprah and Rachel Ray with people I’d just met, to the beers and chocolate chip cookies at a friend’s nearby apartment that followed, to the second sushi restaurant where I drank ten too many of those little cups of hot sake and got presents including a gumball machine and a mini bottle of Grey Goose vodka, to the tiny lounge where all the bartenders showered me with free drinks, to my other friend’s apartment where everyone sat with me on the couch while I watched a movie they’d put together for me of clips from a zillion previous party nights and tried not to bawl my eyes out, to the first real and thoughtful birthday present HWMNBN has ever given me in the entire three years that I’ve known him, to this morning, when I felt very much like puking my brains out but managed to sleep it off. All of it was wonderful. And let’s not forget all the text messages, emails and calls from friends and family, or any of the pre-celebrating I did, like the day before when I hung out at a brewery for four hours with close friends while a live acoustic band played music (including the birthday song for me!) and I drank apricot ale until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I know that the chances of you going back to sucking leaky anus are ridiculously high, but right now, right this second, I have to admit that you can be pretty awesome. And if you could just stay that way from tomorrow until Sunday when I'm frolicking in L.A. I’d really appreciate it. Oh, and also, if you could somehow be easier on me when it comes to looking for a career, that would be GREAT. But now I’m probably pushing my luck, right?
Anyway, thanks again for the break and most of all, for reminding me how amazing the people I surround myself with truly are. Twenty four is going down in history as the Age of Awesomeness and Non-Sexual Love. Seriously.
Love,
Chelsi