If you aren’t familiar with the story of Icarus, wikipedia can certainly shed some light on the situation. I believe it’s described as the “tragic theme of failed ambition.” How appropriate? Now this isn’t to suggest that I’ve failed, considering the game isn’t over yet. But if we are being honest, which I think we are, I sort of fucked up. I bailed on nursing school, stayed in my college party town, and screwed up most relationships before they even got good. Along the way, I just lost my faith…but not in the religious sense. I’ve lost faith in myself, other people, and the world around me. I don’t feel challenged, inspired, and if given the option to be someone else…well I’ll leave that to your better judgement. While I won’t deny that I sound like your average angsty teenager, I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m 22 years old and no Taylor Swift song is going to make me feel better about it. I make a lot of jokes but I really do take this seriously. Like any other girl, I want my one big romantic love. I’m talking about the on-again off-again, tortures me but gives me unlimited talking material with my girlfriends, stops me right before I’m getting on the plane to tell me he’s in love with me. I want that kind of big love. I also want to make my mark on the world. I want to get a book published, have my name on something other than the bar stools at Finnegan’s, or god just freaking help somebody with something. My ultimate goal I suppose, is to find a moderate level of inner and outer peace. Easy right? To give you an idea of where I’m at in all this, I keep having to interrupt my blog typing to go puke because I’m hungover and I’m supposed to be working as the church secretary. My idea of a damsel in distress is when I need a guy to go hide my pipe because my parents surprised me (something we will laugh about when I’m 35…or 75 because yes I plan on them being around that long). Romantic right? I’m obviously not on a path for success…whatever the fuck that even means. Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I have a lot of fun. I love shooting pool, I make good grades, and am actually a decent writer when I attempt to be grammatically correct…which by the way will never happen on this blog! Like your average person, I never want to pick which place to eat, I get apology withdrawals when I don’t say I’m sorry enough, I laugh at my own puns, and you probably just shouldn’t approach me in the morning. My poor roommate Connor has even had to help me pick between two similar black skirts on multiple occasions. What I’m trying to say is, I’m a real girl here and I’m trying to make real decisions that don’t involve “its” versus “it’s” or whether 12:00 is a.m. or p.m. . Although those are pressing decisions, IT’S the bigger ones I’m concerned about. What kind of person am I? What kind of person do I want to be? How do I even become that person? Maybe you can see why I’m struggling. I’m constantly comparing myself to other people wondering why they seem to have their shit together and I don’t. I know what you are thinking. It just seems like they have their shit together. No. Fuck that. Could it be that it seems like they have their shit together because they actually do have their shit together?! Did you ever think of that?! Regardless, I think that my shit’s in a place where it can be “gotten together” if you know what I’m sayin’.
Ok, so my blog is going to seem very negative filled with negative things. This is because no one in the real world wants to hear about my blissful facebook life which involves pictures that look nothing like me smiling with friends, a relationship status of single unaccompanied by a sigh or shameful glare, and hundreds of people who have claimed and are willing to be viewed as my “friends.” My real life, however, is a little negative and often uneventful. I’m currently not having sex because I can’t get off my ethical high horse and let someone degrade me without some sort of commitment. Not that I let that stop me a few months ago with what I like to call my never-boyfriend, a term I feel like defines itself. Good thing I’ve clarified my gray as fuck morals now, just in time for my relentless hormones to kick in. I want to write a song about touching myself every time I see a guy with long hair that could potentially play guitar, but according to google the Divinyls already did that for me. I’m not dating. I’m not really in school, just taking a few classes. I also currently look like I’m twelve…and a half. I work three jobs, one being at an old people’s church where they call me Susanna more often than not. In what decade did that name seem acceptable? My name is Savannah by the way…you can just refer to me as that. Savannah, by the way. I suck at taking compliments but I want you to keep providing me with more opportunities to suck at it. I love waffles, soft pretzels with artificial cheese, and rainy days when I can wear a trench coat and pretend to be Holly Golightly. Now that I’ve completed my lousy match.com profile, let’s move on.
I’ve recently done a photoshoot for a t-shirt company owned by what my friends refer to as a “skeeze.” According to urban dictionary:
1. a male or female who is ammoral and dirty. 2. a word used to insult just about anyone.
He texted me saying that I should come over and “make bad decisions without everyone else there next time” accompanied by a winking emoticon. A) He is saying it would be a bad decision to have sex with him. Agreed. B)He is suggesting I wouldn’t want a third party when we were having sex. Debatable. There aren’t enough words in the dictionary to describe NOT INTERESTED. He has strange curly hair, pale skin, and cold hands, which can only mean ONE thing……..poor circulation. What a skeeze. Speaking of bad decisions, I met my month’s quota on drunken phone calls last night. I naturally reached out to my favorite ex-boyfriend telling him I still had feelings for him. For the record, I totally don’t. Truth be told, I’m still pretty hung up on my never boyfriend. Good thing I called my ex-real boyfriend instead of my never boyfriend because he’s made it perfectly clear he wants nothing to do with me. To be fair, he too, is sort of a skeeze. I love this word more and more! New blog tradition: One skeeze per post…The skeeze of the day goes to KYLE for being a t-shirt company owning creep. Poor boy couldn’t get me out of a t-shirt if he tried. Regarded if he tried, I would strangle him.
Now, back to the story of Icarus. I chose this name because it is a song title (as all my post titles will now be) by a group called white hinterland. It’s featured on some commercial for those of you that have cable, which I don’t. After being warned by his father not to fly too high or too low, Icarus flew too close to the sun and fell to his death in the sea. It was pretty much like me drinking at the bar last night. I drank far too much and fell to my drunken passed out state. Although I pretty much feel like death, I get the chance that Icarus did not. You’ve all heard of it I’m sure, it is the infamous… second chance.