Who do you believe in? Money or God?
Here I go again.
Until I read Generation X I had no idea there was such a thing as a quarter life crisis. I was amazed that this thing that made me want bigger and better was normal. This was a stage of development, because you never stop, and I didn't know. I didn't know you're never fully formed, and you changed, adjusted. Most importantly, I didn't know my generation walked around with the same fear I have: Reagan pushing the button.
Sure, he's not in office, but there's something worse there now. You can't erase watching SMART bombs find targets on CNN, and grasping the why. Or feeling like you would never ever see 24 because the world was going to end in 1999. This huge weight of everyone else's greed running your life, people telling you to vote, when you know good and goddamn well we're all getting stoned playing Nintendo.
The reason I bring any of this up is because New Year's Eve always makes me feel like the end. Not the end of the year, but the end of my life. I woke up in a car on Januray 1, 2000, parked in Marin county, with a sleeping bag thrown over me.
I got a cup of coffee from a 7-11, and was dropped off at my friend Jessie's house.
On January 1, I was homeless. Really. I didn't know where I was sleeping on any given night for three months. Three months of living out of a suitcase. Three months of heavy drinking to forget my problems, of crying when someone showed me some kindness, of feeling completely and utterly hopeless.
That morning my friend Tiffany and I were taking the bus to her Haight street apartment. Me still in knee high boots, mini skirt, bed head. We were quiet, then I said, "You know, I'm disappointed."
"Why?"
"Because we're still here. We have to keep doing this."
She laughed and said, "Yeah. Me too."
That's why I hate New Years Day so much. I keep waking up.