I generally consider myself to be a little lonely in the family department. My father, stepmother, and baby brother moved back to the Philippines two years ago—almost 9,000 miles of flight away from me. My older brother (and best friend) is moving to Ohio, for grad school. And I live alone in a sleepy city in New England.
At twenty, I opted to take time off from school, move to Brooklyn on my own, and live a little. I worked hard (three jobs at a time hard) and played hard—met men in any and every way, accepted every date and set-up offer, and eased my problems with some good old-fashioned sleeping around—a la “looking for love in all the wrong places.
I have been thinking about my face lately. When I was younger, I was at dinner with my mother and relaxing my face when she snapped at me. “Why does your face look like that? You look miserable.” She pouted and squished her face in mockery. I don’t know if I was miserable even then or if I was resting my face as I had claimed.
Like, I get it. You want to represent the “cool” you on your blog. The you that is into pictures of topless, deadpan boys in the forest or a haunted house. But seriously? You don’t look jaded. You look ignorant. The world is shitty enough without your personal, tragic narrative of indifference.