I miss the South

Lately, I've been missing the South. Like never before since I moved to the city, I miss it. It's a movie playing in my head, pausing more than it moves forward, a series of images of things I equate with the South. One moment, I see my foot on the dash, wind blowing through my hair, music cranked up, watching a lightening storm as the sun goes down in the distance. A little later, I see blackness as I wake up in the middle of the night to a loud crack of thunder. God, I miss thunder and lightening and storms more than anything. It doesn't storm up here. It rains for short amounts of time, and even then it sounds so different because it's pitter-pattering on my AC in the window, not on my roof. And thunder in the distance just doesn't exist in New York. I crave that.

Then it's something vague, like a grassy hill. Or those hills in Mississippi, on the drive from Birmingham to Oxford, that rise and fall against the blunt flatness of the Delta to the south. I remember driving that route on the prettiest days the universe ever threw together, and thinking, even then - when I absolutely took it for granted - how the sky seemed to stretch on forever and the clouds were the happy residents of that infinity. The grass stalks on the sides of the highway were tall, and depending on the time of year, they were green or yellow or brown, sometimes all three. But they were always there, and they seemed to constantly sway in the wind, all the blades moving together in one swooping motion, as if they were waving at me along my journey.


It's odd, because I'm not sad in New York. Maybe I just haven't gotten to that point yet, but I oddly feel sort of comforted by my ardent longing for the South. Maybe because it comes from somewhere outside of myself - or at least that's my inclination, since I'm certainly not forcing myself to feel this way - I think each missin' pang brings me closer to where I need to be and what I need to do. As if the script to that movie in my head isn't completed, but is actively being written. The plot is revealed to me in flashes, and the ending doesn't even exist yet.

Remember when I told y'all I'm reading North Toward Home by Willie Morris? Well the same day I started reading it, I noticed a note on the last page, written by one of the previous owners. When I tried to read it, I couldn't decipher the handwriting, which might be referred to as "chicken scratch," and looks like it could have been written by my mom or her mama or her momma before. Then I sort of forgot about it. Yesterday, I looked at it again and it was perfectly clear to me.

I finished!
Great day in the morning
I finished
1/22/88
betw Boca & Atlanta
You come back now you hear!

My birthday is 1/21/86. I was two years and two days old when this person finished the book and felt compelled to make a note of it. Also, no one above the Mason-Dixon line says "great day in the morning." Ever. AND, don't people normally say "y'all come back now ya hear"? This person, for some reason, replaced the "y'all" with "you." And 22 years later, I read it at a particularly vulnerable time, when I miss the South and home with every part of myself. Art - and therefore life - is a complete mindfuck sometimes.

When I read it on the train yesterday, I started laugh-crying. I'm sure I looked insane. But it's just like, OK, universe - after the message this book already gave me when I was sitting in the window of the salon in Chelsea, I can't ignore it.

I'm coming home. I don't know when. I don't even know where or why or how, but I just feel the truth of that statement, without even understanding it.

in which I compare the South in Spring to... other activities

So I went home last Thursday for an extended weekend trip. It was glorious. I got in late Thursday night, feeling exhausted and sort of down about stuff blah blah blah, went to bed and woke up Friday morning pretty early and felt completely rejuvenated already. I looked outside and saw blooming flowers and green everywhere. I could feel a sort of Southern energy humming in the air, and it pulsed through my body excitedly. I had not felt that happy and in love and content for months. So, naturally, I wrote something to express what I was feeling.

I was half-asleep when I wrote this, still in bed in the fairly early morning hours. I did not think about what I was writing. It remains mostly unedited. This is probably as close as I've come thus far to just letting words literally flow through me and onto the page. I was sort of surprised to find myself comparing being in the South for the first time in months to having sex with someone you're completely in lust with. But, here it is. This is sort of... explicit. Definitely the most explicit thing I've posted on this blog. So if that kind of thing makes you queasy, on to the next bullet in your blog feed!








the south is sex

the south is sex
the south is
fucking
sex
right now.
I woke up this morning
looked
out
side
(it's so hot
you have to look through
the thick air
to see to the other side)
anyway
I looked outside
Perfect sunlight
Perfect green
Blooming
Bursting
pink
flowers
on the azalea bush
outside my childhood window.
I arched my back.
I wanted to masturbate
no
I wanted to fuck the South
bend over my bed
and let it fuck me from behind
hands gripping my ass
pulling my hair
pinching my nipples
god
so
slow
teasing my pussy
and clit
and heart
then faster.
hearts beating
faster
faster
writhing in my bed
imagining everyone and no one
imagining long, open roads
just driving
foot on the dash
(because I do that sometimes when I drive)
Why do I feel like this?
seduced to tears
so
fucking
seduced
by my hometown
my childhood
who I am and
who I used to be
Freedom
Freedom
Fucking
Freedom
I taste it here
I taste him in my mouth
Freedom
Happiness
Fucking my mouth
Exploding in my throat
letting it drip down my neck
I smile for years
I see myself
fat
and
happy
again
In his arms
he kisses my breasts
ribs
belly
hips
down
down
down
starts goin down on me
I grab his long hair
two glowing handfuls
and think
Maybe we just always want to be where we're not
But I never want New York
When I'm down here
When he's down there
New York doesn't like to eat pussy
or at least
she's never eaten mine
so no
I don't think that's it
I'm just lusting for the South
I just am
stop asking questions, all will be revealed
he said through licks
so I just laid back
and enjoyed
all the while feeling this pull
heart to heartland
heart
to
fucking
heartland
oh
my
god
his
fingers
inside
me
blissssssssssssssss
bliss.

she know where her clothes supposed to be

Y'all. I know my blog has kind of been all over the place recently, what with poems about love, sex, heartbreak, art, joy, life, etc etc. Hopefully you've enjoyed some of what I've written and haven't found it too heavy or whatever. And if you have, then that's OK. In the words of Gaga, you can leave. And in the words of me, fuck you.

HOWEVER. I'm feeling rather light and happy today, mostly because I'm going home to the dirty dirty tomorrow for a few days to see my parents, eat some good food, hear the rain, absorb the humidity, et al. I'm quite excited. As if the universe wanted to nudge me along in my excitement - and, speaking of poetry, this seems relevant - I was listening to my David Banner Pandora station this morning (oh yes - it's the shit) when Petey Pablo's Freak-A-Leek came on. I became visibly aroused. I remember driving around Birmingham in, like, the 10th grade bumping this song at full bass and rapping along with every word. I still know them all.

ANYWAY. Here's the video. He's from Raleigh, North Carolina, proving (once again) that all the best rap music comes from the South. DON'T PLAY.  It's true.

I picked not-the-official video because the official one was edited and omitted some of the best words in Petey's poetry. The only thing I despise more than edited rap music is the smell of bleach. Both things make me audibly gag.

Happy Hump Day!

How to reach maximum cat annoyance: Tha Queen B edition

One of my favorite things about being home in the South is spending time with Queenie, my family's kitty cat. I usually refer to her as Tha Queen B, and I spend most of my time at home trying to get her to love me. The following is typical Queen B/Meghan behavior, concluding with her reaching the crest on her bell curve of annoyance with me.

1. I try to get Tha Queen B to pose for the camera. She is squirmy in resistance.

2. Success, bitch!

3. She slinks away and shuns me for the great humiliation I have caused her.

4. I am sad and filled with remorse.

5. I prepare a sneak attack to gain her affections back.

6. She is alerted to my presence, despite my amazing fish disguise. (???)

7. Maximum annoyance achieved.

Editor's note: Upon further review, I think this post probably makes me look like a crazy fucking cat lady. And I'm OK with it.

Southern nap, FTW

I haven't been sleeping well in New York recently. My roommate has been home a lot and I have this psychological thing where even if she's not being loud and I can barely tell she's home at all, I know she's home, and that makes me antsy and anxious and I can't sleep well.

So naturally, when I came home to Bama Friday, after getting up at 5:30 a.m. to make my flight, I was exhausted and took a mid-afternoon nap. It was a nap for the win (FTW), or what I prefer to call a nap to the face.

This is why.

Because that's what I look like when I wake up from a nap to the face. My hair is fucked and my face is barely recognizable and - as I so helpfully point out in the bottom photo - I have a big mascara smear mysteriously located at least one full inch from my eye.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, my thought process went something like:

1. FUCK. Whoooooooa. Damn girl. Rough.
2. Ooooh! I should blog photos of how shitty I look.

Currently re-considering the wisdom of this sleepy decision.

The South: Another dedication

Disclaimer one: I don't write that much poetry, and I sort of cringe whenever I do. I don't think I'm particularly good at it, and I usually feel really embarrassed to share it with other people, and in general I like to leave its creation to the greats (or at least my favorites): cummings, Rilke and Eliot. But sometimes I feel inspired to write a poem, and when that happens, I do.
Disclaimer two: I have never published a poem on my blog. This is the first time this has happened, and will probably be the last.
Disclaimer three: I wrote this on the plane from New York to Alabama, when I was depressed and pining away for something that turned out to be living in my own heart. I missed home, yes, but I also was starved for a love I thought I could only find in the South; turned out, it was inside me all along. I read back over these words and they seem like something I wrote years ago, when in reality this poem is only two weeks old. I wanted to convey how I was feeling about home at the time, while also painting an accurate picture of what life in the South is like. I hope someone besides my mom thinks I may have accomplished these goals.
Disclaimer four: I am not leaving New York.







The South

The air hangs thick, the silence thicker,
And above dewed grass that's slick like molasses,
The darkness is a welcomed relief.

No buildings, no lights, no human graffiti,
Just stars, stars, stars,
And still, still, still-
I can actually feel my heartbeat slow.

When life demands a pause,
This place can deliver,
A twangy release from the push, from the go,
Like a rocking chair swaying in time.

Not just a place - it's a way of existing,
A real way of life, honest, strong and fulfilling,
The South just keeps calling me, "Come."

I'm reminded of youth, of driving and kissing;
My heart lurches backward, and stings in the present,
Because I desperately miss what before went unnoticed.

The smell of the wet,
That dew on the grass,
How impossibly, quietly, the wind stirs the trees -
But mostly I miss what no one can see:
The Southern life unexamined,
Worth living, and more,
Worth exulting and
Worthy of me.

Disclaimer five: I took that photo from the window of a plane from Birmingham to Memphis. On that flight, I saw the entire sunset from above the clouds and the South and all the rest of America. It was stunning, and more appropriately poetic than I could ever hope to recreate.

The true meaning of Christmas

Sometimes, if we are lucky, things happen to us and we know they have meaning as they are happening. This is not usually the case - typically, we understand the meaning of things much better after the fact (read: hindsight, y'all). The other night, as I was flying into Birmingham, the universe sent me one of these things. It was a big, huge Christmas package with a label that read, "Wake up and be thankful, Meghan."

First of all, it's worth noting that my flights home from NYC were not even remotely stress-free. The weather was shitty in the South that night, so flights into Atlanta - where I was catching my connecting flight - were delayed. I barely made it to my flight from Atlanta to Birmingham because my flight from NYC to Atlanta was so late. After running the length of the ATL airport at full speed, I made it to my gate and the air traffic controllers graciously agreed to open the plane door and let me on.

The flight from Atlanta to Birmingham is ridiculously short, and after we landed, the pilot came over the cabin speakers and informed us that there was a fallen soldier on our plane. It took a few seconds for the meaning of this to set in, then my hand shot up to my mouth and tears welled in my eyes. He asked us to please remain seated out of respect for the soldier and his family. Then something bizarre happened. I started crying, and I couldn't stop.

I hate crying in public. In fact, I hate crying in front of anyone. If I cry in front of you, it means that we are somehow intimately involved. You are either my mom or my dad, or my boyfriend, or my best friend in the whole world. But when I looked out the window and saw the soldiers lined up at attention, saluting and waiting for the flag-covered casket to roll out of the belly of our plane, I stopped caring that a bunch of strangers could see me. Something clicked in my brain and I was suddenly very aware that sometimes life is hard, and things are fucking sad, and emotions are inevitable.

After we sat there for about five minutes, the pilot came back on and gave us the OK to deboard the plane. The casket still had not come out, but people slowly started gathering their things and making their way to the exit. I had been sitting on the side of the plane opposite the ceremony, so I crossed over and sat in a window and watched. I debated for a while whether or not to take (and then publish) photos of what was going on, because it was obviously a really personal thing I was watching. I decided to go ahead and take them, because I'm a blogger and that's what I do. I blog about things that affect me; and nothing has affected me quite as much as seeing what I saw that night.

It took a while, but eventually the casket rolled out of the cargo area of the plane. It was draped in an American flag and wrapped in plastic. I looked over to the family, standing to the left of what you see in the photo above, and a woman I assume was the mother had her hand to her mouth and was crying. A younger girl - the soldier's sister, maybe - had her arms around her. There were a few other family members there, too.

As I watched all this happening, through a thick layer of tears and a couple layers of even thicker airplane windows, I realized I had never seen anything so tragic in my life. I felt like I was watching a movie, except that this was very, very real. This person really fought in a war - one of two that our country is currently involved in - and really died. And now the family really has to go through Christmas without him. And they will really never see this person again. This person made the ultimate sacrifice, and all I could ask myself as I watched the soldiers pick up the casket and carry it toward the hearse was, For what?

My dad is in the military. He has been my whole life. Luckily he ranks high enough to where he's not active in combat zones - and I thanked the universe for that as I watched the ceremony - but even with a close family member in the military, I still found myself asking, Why are our people dying over there? What are they protecting us from? What are these wars even about?

The thing that initially struck me about the fallen soldier was not the profound sacrifice he made to better the average citizen's existence in America - it was the even more profound tragedy that, ultimately, his death was mostly in vain. If it was my son or brother or father in that casket, I would not feel any comfort from the knowledge that he died for a good cause. I'm not saying I don't support the troops, because I do - I do support them, precisely because they need it more than ever, because they are fighting in a meaningless war that should have ended years and years ago.

When I got in bed that night, I started thinking about the soldier's family going home and holding each other, knowing that 2009 would forever be remembered as the year their son or brother or grandson died. I asked the universe, as fervently as I could, to please give my entire heart to that family, because I felt like I didn't need it anymore. I offered them every bit of love left in my heart, because who could possibly need it more than a family who lost their loved one to a fruitless war a week before Christmas?

And then, there in the palpable still of an Alabama night, I realized that this person had not died in vain at all. Everyone on that plane who stayed to watch the ceremony - we were all affected by the profound sadness of what had happened to this soldier whose name none of us knew. It made us all think and feel things we probably wouldn't have thought or felt otherwise, and be more grateful for what we have. Even in my darkest hour, I still give thanks that I am alive, and so are all the people I love. I came home on a plane, wrapped in depression and homesickness and exhaustion from a city that is beating me down, but I can be thankful I didn't come home wrapped in a box and a flag, symbolic of everything and nothing at the same time.

To my fallen soldier's family, and to all the families of all the soldiers who will come home in a similar fashion: My thoughts and prayers are always with you. Prior to last week, I'm ashamed to say I never really thought about the sacrifices you make; now, I will think about them everyday. You are not alone, and for as long as these wars go on - and as long as I am lucky enough to keep breathing - I will dedicate my heart every Christmas to the people who have made the ultimate sacrifice, remembering with acute clarity how I felt when I saw the family of my fallen soldier standing outside on a clear, cold Southern night.

Throwback Thursday: A dedication to the South

I am going home to the dirty dirty tomorrow, and I could not be more excited. I felt much better when I woke up this morning, much more like myself, which naturally means I'm in the mood to listen to some hardass, gritty Southern hip-hop. This includes but is not at all limited to Three 6 Mafia, Trillville, Lil Scrappy, Bone Crusher, Outkast, Ludacris, Rich Boy, T.I., Gucci Mane, Weezy, Young Joc, Pastor Troy and Crime Mob.

I don't understand why I love this music so much, but I'm sort of beyond analyzing it. The first single I ever bought was B.I.G. ft. Puff Daddy and MA$E "Mo Money, Mo Problems." At the time, I was a 12-year-old white girl growing up in the suburbs, and now I'm a 23-year-old white girl living in Harlem. After listening to this shit for nearly 12 years, it now reminds me of home. It reminds me of driving around bumping the bass at full volume, or going to the club and dancing until I was drenched in sweat, eating greasy food at 4 a.m., then going home and washing the cigarette smoke out of my hair. It reminds me of this one night my friend M (who helped introduce me to a lot of this music) and I went to the grittiest club in Birmingham, a place we had no business being, and I tragically lost my Blackberry. Because sometimes you just throw too hard, nomesayin.

So now, the first in a new series I'll call Throwback Thursdays: a song I used to bump loud and often as I drove around the South. 'Cuz there ain't no place like home, y'all.



And nothing says home like booty dancing, high school drum lines, college football, heavy bass, slurred speech, accents, sippin' on whiskey sours, dropping it, thick air, thick women and the men who love them. Fuck. Yes.

Schmom B. Says

Sigh, I dropped the ball on the Schmom B. Says feature. It's been like at least a month since I posted one. Well, Schmom B. came through last night with the following e-mailed words of wisdom, this time totally unsolicited by me. (Usually she doles them out in response to a pitiful text message or phone call from yours truly about how I miss my ex or work is hard or blablabla other uninteresting things about my life.) This just further illustrates that Schmom B. is the best.

Schmom B. Says: Don't forget, you are loved

Hey sweetie,

Heard something today that's very meaningful to me.  Struck me, you would appreciate it too.  "Scars remind us where we've been; they don't have to dictate where we're going." Something else I read:  "We tend to seek happiness when happiness is actually a choice." Happy "two weeks before Christmas."  See you soon.  Take care.  I love you.

Mom




This honestly couldn't have come at a better time. The city's been closing in, and I've been feeling really anxious, and my inner peace has slipped away from me, and I needed a reminder that I have people who love me, even if some of them are way down South in Alabama. 

Up here in the city, feels like things are closing in;
The sunset's just my light bulb burning out.
I miss Kentucky, and I miss my family;
All the sweetest winds they blow across the South...

Ugh please forgive me for the excessive song lyric usage recently.  I sort of hate myself for it.... but I just watched this live version of Ryan Adams' Oh My Sweet Carolina, and it made me cry more than anyone should ever cry in a public place ever. I actually had to stop watching. Self-sustenance. Shake it out.

Home, times three

Normally I would start this post with an apology, because (once again) I am sucking it up in the blogosphere. Before I moved to New York and even for the first couple of months after I got here, I was all about my BtoA blog, and I updated at least once every few days. Slowly it slipped into once a week, and then shortly after that, once every ten days. Now it's been a full 13 days. Instead of apologizing, however, I'm here to say that I'm actually really happy about it. I'm not sorry, because the significant lack of blogging has been caused by a significant increase in awesome life experiences, which I will of course share with y'all now.

I went home and to Oxford last weekend. It was pretty uneventful. I ate Ajax and Taylor and went out to the new Parrish's and City Grocery. Everything seemed basically the same. It felt weird to be back in the South, riding around in cars and driving and feeling how slow everything really is compared with NY life. While I still miss my parents, going home was a nice reminder that the South is not where I want to be right now. Maybe when I'm older and want to have a family and stuff, but for now I just know NY is where I'm supposed to be.

I started my new job last Monday. It pays, and while for the purposes of office duties I am technically an "editorial intern," my supervisor gave me the okay to put "freelance editorial assistant" on my resume. She told me this on my first day, and it was pretty much an amazing start to a week that would prove to be equally amazing, as far as first weeks go. I got to write, and I have several writing assignments pending. Of course I also do entry level duties like shipping stuff, sorting mail, taking phone calls, and transcribing, but I am doing all these things for money in New York in the worst economy in recent memory, and thus I do them with nothing but joy.

I went to DC this weekend to see A, and it was basically a perfect weekend. The weather was uhmazing, nearly 70 degrees both days and sunny. I had brunch with all his friends, and they're hilarious and tatted up and amazing. We went to the National Museum of American History, which I found surprisingly enjoyable, aside from the nauseating number of tourists. We went to the cherry blossom festival, which was fun but also really touristy, vom. The trees are beautiful though, and we sat by the tidal basin under the blooms and watched ducks as the sun went down. I know, I know. Blablabla TMI.

So gorg

We celebrated my new job Saturday night; he bought us a bottle of champagne (nom nom nom), which we promptly consumed while we watched Twilight (yes, lolz) before heading out to the bar where he works most weekends. PS, Twilight = probs the worst movie ever made, but that didn't stop A from constantly asking questions and sitting on the edge of his seat while Bella's pathetic fate was decided. Lolz best boyf ever? Mayhaps.

I finally feel like things are coming together for me. I have a job that I already love, and even though I still look forward to the day when I'm full-time with benefits, I am learning the value of patience in a terrible economy while in the meantime just doing the best I can professionally. When I left for DC Friday evening and I watched the city disappear in the distance, it dawned on me that I am literally making my dreams come true. I'm not by any means finished with this process, but I am at least through the first and most difficult stage. Since I was a little girl I dreamed of being a writer, and since the first time I came to NYC I knew I was meant to live here. And here I am, getting paid to write and taking the 6 train to work everyday and living in a brownstone walk-up in Harlem. How many people can say they've even attempted what they always dreamed of doing? Not many. I'm in love with my life right now, and I can only be gratious and humbly accept the amazing things I am lucky enough to experience.

Until next time.

The Harlem singing man

I have a singing man. I first heard him soon after I moved into my apartment in East Harlem, but somehow I have never blogged about him. This is a massive oversight on my part, which I am now correcting.

Basically there's a guy who walks by my apartment late at night, usually sometime between 10 and midnight, signing along (I assume) to his iPod or whatevz. Apparently he loves current pop music as well as pop music from the 80s and 90s. I've heard him four times now, so it's not like an every night thing, his walking/singing routine, but it's common enough that I like to think of him as my singing man. Here is his playlist so far:

Missing - Everything But The Girl


Cry Me A River - Justin Timberlake


No Scrubs - TLC


Girls Just Want To Have Fun - Cyndi Lauper

Apparently Cyndi doesn't want me to have fun, because she won't let me embed her videos. Mmmmmmbooface.

Anyway, I will update whenever I hear THSM again. Every time I hear him, I am pleasantly reminded of the songs of my childhood slash high school experiences. Speaking of, how UHMAZING is Justin Timberlake? I had never seen that performance, but it just reinforces my undying love for him. Siiiiiiiigh.

In other news, I'm coming home TOMORROW for a long weekend. The South is beckoning, y'all. And I'm making a one-night trip to Oxford Thursday-Friday. I'm not going to lie-I'm really excited. I'm sure I'll go out Thursday night. I got a new dress that I plan on debuting. Mebbe I'll see some uh you bitches out and about.

Until next time.

Checkity check check

Checking things off a list of things to do is like the most satisfying thing ever. This morning after the gym and on my way to work I dropped my dress off at the dry cleaners. I guess when I don't have a physical list to check off, I feel compelled to say it out loud so I feel like I accomplished something, because as I drove away I said, "Check!" out loud to myself while listening to NPR. It's the little things, really.

Also it's been a productive Getting Ready for New York (GRNY) day. I have e-mailed and talked on the phone with several people up there, and I got a response to an internship application! I am very excited about this. I have to answer some questions for them and send them responses by tomorrow. They are making final decisions by the end of the week. Without an in-person interview, I'm not getting my hopes up too much. But fingers crossed, nonetheless.

Also, for all you Southern readers who also dream of NYC, there is a large community of Southerners from SEC schools who regularly meet for happy hours, etc. in the city. Here is the link with contact info for the Ole Miss group in NYC. For other schools, just Google "greater New York (insert school here) alumni association" or something like that. I am really excited about this because I am cheesy and can't wait to watch Ole Miss football in a Manhattan bar filled with other Ole Miss fans. Oh, and $4 well dranks don't hurt either, nomesayin?

Majorly yours.

One Month

It's Nov. 30, 2008. One month from today, at 12:15 CST/1:15 EST, I will be boarding a plane heading for La Guardia and I will not be returning. At least not for a while. Here's my flight path:

Yep, I'm flying through two airports in the same state. I can has cheep tktz?

I'm sure most of you came to this blog either from Facebook or from my other beloved (pronounced bee-luv-id), Hautey Toddy. Fear not, HT readers, I will keep up that blog as well. But I should let you all know, in the name of keeping it real, that this blog is not HT. It's just me. It's Meghan. I will be expressing myself in an unfiltered way. This might, and probably will, include the use of foul language. It will also, you'll be glad to know, include the use of lolspeek. I think using these two approaches will keep most of you appeased. Or uhpeezed.

When I started writing HT, the first thing I did was explain why I wanted to write it. You might be wondering why anyone should give a shit about my journey from B'ham to NYC; my response is that I don't expect that anyone really does. But maybe there is someone out there who grew up in the South and wants to know what it's like not only to move up North, but to move to one of the most populated cities in the world. How do you even go about such a move? What about all the stuff you have to take with you? How do you find a place to live? A job? What if you say "y'all" and people look at you funny? Etc etc.

So far I only have half-answers to such questions, because I'm still in Birmingham. My plan thus far consists of packing two suitcases with as much of my shit as possible, getting on a plane, and staying with my friend Z until I find a place of my own. Sure, I've already started preparations. I've been doing informational interviews with as many people as possible within the company I work for, as well as with mag/web employees in New York. I set up an HR interview with a major magazine company for early January. I've been looking for people needing roommates/available apartments on Ed2010 and Craigslist. I feel like I'm pretty much doing everything I can to make myself prepared for the most significant transition in my life. Going away to college was nothin, y'all. I'm leaving and I don't know when I'm coming back. WTF.

As a result, my brain has been kind of a clusterfuck since I bought my ticket. Ever since I moved home to start my internship, I feel like I've lost some of my identity. My best friend C, who I've been best friends with since freshman year of college, lives in Chicago and I haven't seen her since June. Z lives in NYC, obvs, and I haven't seen him since June either, except for a brief skankfest in Jackson in September. I've been in a long-distance relationship with A in D.C. since July, and I think I have felt the strain of a lost identity most with him. How can you really be with someone when you feel like you don't know who you are anymore? You can't, that's how.

Add in the strain of entering into an industry that is, by some accounts at least, crumbling amongst the ruins of the current economic crisis, and you have a recipe for depression and confusion. And that's what I've been feeling for the past month or so. The only thing I know I want is to be reunited with my best friends and to be in NYC. So this blog will be a documentation of my journey - literally and emotionally - from the leisurely life I've known in the South to the fast-paced life I want in New York. In case you're reading this as a Southerner dreaming of a different life in a big Northern city, but feeling apprehensive: I'm there right now. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing, but I'm doing it anyway. Maybe that's just how life is. Maybe if you're not scared, you're living too comfortably.

Who the fuck knows. I'm 22 years old, and I don't claim to know anything. I'm just doing what I feel in my heart is the right thing to do. I fell hard in love with New York over four years ago, so why would I choose to live anywhere else?

Thanks for checking out BtoA. I want you all with me on my journey.
I am, now and always,
Majorly yours.