Sorta. This “journey”, if I may be so presumptuous to call it that, has been going on for twenty years now. So, where do I begin? What am I supposed to say? Why the hell am I even here?
Oh, did I mention that I swear? Well…now you know. Enjoy that.
Anyway, I suppose the purpose of this blog is to simply have somewhere to, I don’t know, just talk. Er, “write”. You know what I mean. Every day, I chat with friends and family and folks and every time (every damn time), people seem to like what I say. I don’t know why; I’m just saying whatever I damn well please. Is it something in my face? Maybe it is my face! Maybe. I never bothered to ask. So…yes, this is going to be one of those “‘day-in-the-life-of’-irregularly-updated-yet-oddly-facinating” blogs that only thinly mask the author’s need for either a private journal (with a lock that would make Fort Knox jealous) or a room with nicely padded walls.
So, back to the “journey” part. Hi, my name is Arlen! I’m twenty (as previously mentioned)
and I’m an alcoholic. No, not really. I do (responsibly) enjoy a glass of wine every now and again, but I can’t imagine why people find beer so fascinating. Smells kinda funny. Never tried to drink it, though, ’cause the smell’s rather off-putting. Also, it’s yellow; it’s just too reminiscent of piss for my liking. Maybe I’m drinking the wrong stuff? Hm…
I rather like moscato, though. It’s nice and fruity…at least the non-alchoholic version. Phoo. I can only count the days before I can walk into the grocery store and buy myself a bottle of whatever-the-hell’s-on-sale-yet-won’t-make-me-look-like-a-wino-when-I-walk-out-of-the-store. And NOT feel guilty. Thing is, I can walk into somewhere and pick it out, plunk it on that belt like nobody’s business. The cashier wouldn’t even look twice, aside from the usual “Is it a boy or a girl?” look that I’ve been getting ever since I decided to get a shorter haircut.
Seriously, folks. “Short hair” does NOT equal “Call me Frank”. Nor does it automatically translate into “Hi, I’m into girls!” Trust me, I learned that the hard way.
But, yes, I look a bit older than my actual age. I rather like it. The only reason this is of any importance to me is because I’m not yet at that age where I want to be twenty-nine for a decade longer. But why? Perhaps it is due to a notable lack of experience in the “real” world. True, I’m in college, but because of the meal plans and lax attitudes about attendance and unrealistic ignorance of utilities being used in a dorm room, it’s not considered “real”. I’m going to be a senior this year. Come next spring, I’ll be able to say, “See that piece of paper, the one that’s hanging in that overly expensive yet decidedly stylish and sleek black frame? Four years of my life right there. I’ve earned that and I can call myself a biochemist now.” I mean, nothing’s stopping me from doing so right this minute, but it lacks that feeling of my chest swelling with pride, eyes bright as I look to the future that my research will help shape, a future where humanity can better understand themselves and the Earth…
Where was I going with this? Right: age and, more importantly, the ability to look as though I am much more experienced than I am are near and dear to my heart. Also, moscato is delicious and it’s only a matter of time before I’m apologizing to everyone as a part of the 12 Steps Program.
And, even more importantly, welcome to my blog! I hope you know what you’re getting into…