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.