I am the saddest whore puppy.

I like to identify myself as a lot of things.

Sometimes I like to identify myself as a girl. I do my make up, and hair and spend too much time deciding on if I want to wear matching undergarments. Cute underwear make you feel confident all day. Not a girl and don’t believe me? Tell me you don’t have one pair of boxer briefs that make you feel superior, even if that’s your only pair without holes, that’s still your “cute pair of panties.”

Sometimes I like to identify myself as a hard ass. I can tell mean jokes, and brag about out drinking a 26 year old, Catholic, Irishman. I can ask my roommate to punch me in the face, and drive off with diesel trucks that belong to people I don’t know very well. I can get really weird voicemails that completely make me lose my train of thought. Like so weird that even rereading what I have written will not put me back on track. The voicemail: I got a call from a guy that I met at Pride; I was giving my number out pretty freely there. I bought a really weird button from him. Don’t know what I did with the button, he sells buttons, that’s his thing. So I ignore the call because he is a little creepy. The voicemail goes: “Hey this is Ian; I make buttons and sell them at bars. I was just hanging out at my house alone, making buttons and I decided I would call everyone in my phone that I’ve never called before and see if they wanted to hang out while I’m making buttons.”  It really ran on like that, like no pauses or comas or anything, it was remarkable.

Sometimes I like to identify myself as a writer, with the drinking and the smoking and the writing.

Sometimes I like to identify myself as seamstress, but that’s only when I’m alone and I want to try to follow this DIY tutorial I found on Pinterest.

Most recently I have been flirting with the idea of indentifying myself as a musician. I have gone with the whole music major thing; I have been an avid lover of music. I have been pretentious as all get out, but I’ve never been a musician. I’ve never stepped back, to look within myself, and pull out something like music. The boys from the audition liked my voice, they liked my passion for music, they liked my stories (maybe, I don’t think I ever shut up. I was nervous.) But they want me to write, I want to write, but I’m not a writer of music. I’m a singer, a vessel for other’s words and melodies. It took a teacher I had a small crush on telling me I should get my work published to even look at myself as a decent writer. My sister is the writer, I’m not.  But now I write, and I enjoy it.  Sometimes people say nice things about it. It makes me feel good and I like it.

But musician? 

That’s just such a heavy word. I mean, say it “myu-zi-shin” its heavy, it makes your mouth move, lips and tongue and teeth. I have a few moments that made me feel lots of emotions, emotions that make me think I could write a good, honest, moving song. But its so personal, and intimate, and hard. I’m procrastinating. This post is full of procrastination. With every word I could be avidly trying to write something. Instead, I’m blogging, like a fucking hipster, talking about identity, like a fucking hipster. Shoot me.

I had this plan. It involved blank notebook paper, a half empty bottle of rum, The Devil’s Advocate, and a very beautifully painful memory. I went back-roading instead. There ain’t nothing like an open container to start the procrastination train. I want to be all Damien Rice circa “O” and make everyone want to cry with my songs because that’s the kind of music I like. Its real, its honest, it reflects on feelings to which everyone can relate. And if you’ve never had your heart broken, come see me. I have a baseball bat, a big porcelain pot, and a few hills I can roll you down.