black girl interrupted: when it rains, it pours

Posted by gabriellenp in Editorial, Featured | 0 comments

It has been a year since I’ve had the pleasure of pleasuring others with my misfortunes, misadventures and misunderstandings in this column (ordinarily on www.theverbalrevolution.com). I am not Carrie Bradshaw, but I definitely have a Rubik cube stance on the various facets of life with a niche in disappointment. As I sit here on the train listening to Radiohead underwhelmed and not impressed with the current infrastructure of my life; I begin to think: I am not going down without a fight!

(1) My car is muerto, kaput, donzo and useless. Did I mention I live in THE suburbs? Yeah.
(2) My job might have assisted in my involuntary eating disorder.
(3) Editors don’t crave my words lately.
(4) My life might have assisted in an involuntary drinking problem. I’m just basing this off the frat house-esque fridge in my apartment that now consists of frozen veggies, leftover pizza, two bottles of wine and Johnny Walker Black Label. Bon appétit.
(5) See, there’s this guy and stuff. Oh, must I even touch on a subject of irrelevance? No.
(6) The failed attempts at steering into a fair life have all occurred within the past three months. Perhaps a personal misconception, but S.O.S.

(7) I am currently not benefiting spiritually or financially. I have neither the joy of doing what I love in a foreign language or the thrill of donning a new Birkin bag. I am long overdue.

(8) Being rationally cute while being irrationally bipolar makes life colorful. It’s hard to balance the two at times.
(9) The Devil loves to pick on people who have well-meaning goals, such as yours truly.
(10) I feel how Kelis felt that one time (see below).

Now that I have officially proven to myself that I clearly view the glass half empty, I am taking “such great heights” to prove that I still have somewhat of a drive and rad factor left in my 24.8 year old body. Granted, no one has died or been diagnosed with anything other than the multifaceted, acute and creative depression that Edgar Allen Poe possessed (see first column). Yet, I still feel exhausted and slightly defeated. I can always count on one infallible defect of mine to move me to accomplish the goals I set before myself: perfectionism. My potent pop of zeal to attain my goals in life tends to serve as the life boat to my sunken ship, the salt to my bland chili and the Spanx to my Hervé Léger dress. Although, I am bummed about the aforementioned battles, I know I will eventually win the war. As a matter of fact, now that I review the ten “blows” to my self-esteem, savings account and mental faculties, they all seem just pretty insignificant and a bit comical. In five years or even five hours, will any of this even matter? xo.