A Stranger Insight

People are always telling me things I don’t want to hear.

“It doesn’t get easier.”
“You never make time for me.”
“As a grad student, school should be your only priority.”
“You’re spreading yourself too thin.”
“If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.”

..just to name a few.

So my life is chaotic, who’s isn’t? It’s been a crazy couple of weeks, and it is going to be even wilder in the next few. I am: an intern, a babysitter, a bookkeeper, a server, a runner in training (again), and a full time grad student.

I am: crazy.

Hey it happens. My schedule stays in overhaul mode most days, and although I love that, who doesn’t have days when everything goes to hell? Some days you just want to crawl back in bed and sleep it off. Maybe wake and start over? Truth is, despite my every attempt, life can’t be planned or scheduled. It just happens, and you roll with it; but this morning I encountered the voice of reason at last. It occurred mid-sprint to my office, late for work. Who or what was this voice?

It came in the form of a middle-aged woman I’ve only seen in passing. I have noted that she’s a very charismatic and boisterous woman who works one floor below me. We aren’t very familiar with one another, aside from what small things I’ve perceived. For example she’s very outspoken but friendly, erratic yet diligent. Once we had a slight exchange by the vending machines, and upon walking by her desk I once noticed photographs of her family. However, this is as far as we go as co-worker acquaintances. I couldn’t even tell you her name.

We have a running joke at work regarding the elevators; most trips riding up require a three to five minute waiting period. I would like to note that while this is a very serious issue, it is not quite serious enough that any of us are giving in and climbing the stairs either. When I got to the ground level and pushed the up button on the elevator I had time to dig my phone out of my purse, respond to a text message and re-fill my water bottle before the double doors opened up.

I heard her bounding down the hallway, long before she was in sight, and with one arm out I held the elevator door open for my fellow belated co-worker. On stepped this woman practically sucking for air post run. After she caught her breath, she thanked me for holding the elevator, to which I replied “yeah, anytime.”

The awkwardness of a small elevator plus two people equals small talk. So naturally we launched into complaining employees over the slow and loud elevators we ride each day. When her floor was reached she thanked me again for letting her catch my ride up this morning, otherwise she would have most likely waited another five minutes making her even later than we already were, and I wished her a good day, but just as she stepped off she said:

“You’ve got to acknowledge when things go right, or else you’d never make it through the day.”

The doors closed, and I rode one more floor up considering the thought. Once at my desk with my computer booted up I opened Microsoft Word and typed the words of this unknown woman onto the blank screen. Then I sat there reading them again and again, contemplating the profound idea they conveyed. I caught myself drumming my fingers on my desk to the beat of the flashing cursor at the end of the sentence. I’ve always been a fan of the flashing cursor; it seems to say “keep going.”

So I did. I felt compelled to do so; I started typing the things that had gone right already this morning. I had woken up incredibly late and rushed to work, this much was true. Yet, traffic this morning was nonexistent and I managed to score a key parking spot. Not to mention, fresh off the elevator and my boss had just brewed a new pot of coffee—hazelnut (my favorite).

Then I went beyond just today, thinking about what small things have gone right that I’m clearly overlooking. As it turns out, I’m blind. How quick I am to dismiss the things that work out in life. In fact, more things turn out beautifully right than the other way around. I spend my days on a rampage over the many things I have to do, complaining constantly that there truly isn’t enough time in the day. Meanwhile, this woman I know nothing about catches a quick ride on an elevator sans waiting period and she embraces it for what it really is: a break.

So as it happens, life does give you a break every once in a while. You just have to acknowledge it. Instead of listening to the negative, it is time I heard the good. Life is busy, you get the picture, but it is those pessimistic thoughts and comments I truly have no time for. My undivided attention seems to go in the direction of the more disparaging remarks, its time they took a back seat to more elevating expressions. Goodbye cynicism, hello enthusiasm!

One of the Guys

On Sunday the best friend and I ventured to the gym. While he’s more into the weightlifting and the “meathead” stuff I give him a lot of hell for, I’m more into running and cardio. The cool thing about us though, when I’m finished running and he’s finished lifting we meet in the middle and he helps me work out my abs (weakest part of my body). Afterwards we launched ourselves into “Trader Joes Mode” since we both have quite the addiction to organic food. Lots of well-spent money later, we were watching football games; cheering, of course, for opposing teams over a beer or two: a favorite pastime for us both.

Being the farthest thing from a “girly-girl,” the majority of my friends are male. While I have a select few close girl friends, all of which a far cry from dainty themselves, I’ve found in my lifetime there is a very good reason why guys stay friends for so long. Ever notice guys never have scheduling issues when making plans? They make friendship seem so effortless, just pick up the phone and pitch the idea of grabbing a beer or getting in a work-out session at the gym. Why do guys have such long lasting friendships, as opposed to their counter gender?

Simple, guys form friendships minus the drama-minus the bullshit. I’ve found guys have straight-forward conversations with one another. They say what’s on their mind with no concern for the reaction or the result. Guys, like life, are messy; but while they may not always be totally honest with their female counterpart, with each other they simply are …themselves. When was the last time you saw a guy pull some vindictive crap with one of their guy friends? Exactly, doesn’t happen. Guys aren’t down with the vicious name-calling or the taking of sides. So naturally over the years I’ve found it much easier to be friends with a group of guys, and my best friend is no exception.

You see, in my old age, I’m becoming “one of the guys” more and more, but I kind of dig it. He’s my best friend and we like the same foods, movies, music, activities, etc. etc. Like all friends we have several differences, for instance his love for non-fiction baffles the fiction guru inside me; but while we have a hard time sharing books, we are both avid readers. And at some point in the midst of our lazy Sunday hang out session, I had an epiphany.

While we are constantly in search of the key to strong and lasting relationships, it is the guys of the world who are on to something. In the midst of their more vulgar and less than avant-garde conversations, it is the men who have found the key to being part of a healthy and enduring couple. What is this “key” men have discovered?

Togetherness, hang-outs, mutual interests and hobbies…need I say more? What seems like such an outdated and obvious concept turns out to ring true. Consider this, my best guy friend and I have a number of things we like to do together. We like the same grocery stores, we are hopelessly addicted to all the shows on Showtime and HBO, and we are health-conscious. We share a love for all things baseball and we are full on-full out nerds. Bottom line: we do things we enjoy, together; and all of this in mind, it occurred to me the very reason my relationships have failed in the past. I have boyfriends, but have I ever had boy-friends?

Considering my former relationships, each guy was my boyfriend, and of him I expected your standard “boyfriend” responsibilities. Dates fully equipped with movies and dinners, and something miraculous every February 14. From these guys I expected love letters/notes/flowers/candy etc. etc. Meanwhile from my guy friends I expected pressure-less dialogue, sporting events, a quick beer after work, and the list continues…

At the age of twenty-three I have realized that I treat the term “boyfriend,” like a job title. Like most girls, there are qualifications and standards I have set for a boyfriend, but when it comes to my friends I simply choose to hang with the people I like hanging out with, the people with which I have the most fun. Maybe instead of perusing through my own version of a guy’s resume before forgoing a possible relationship with him, I should consider the obvious. Guy’s friendships work because they hang out with who they want to hang out with, guys do not worry themselves about the company they keep. They are comfortable in their own skin when hanging with friends. So what are we doing girls?

Maybe it’s time I erased the concept of “boyfriend,” from my mind and concentrated on the very apparent thing I’ve been missing. Maybe it’s time I stop treating my “relationships” like a career, and just embrace the friend?

A good guy friend of mine once reported back to me after a date he had, with a very compelling girl, a thought she had. This twenty something girl told my good friend that at the end of the day all she really wanted was someone to watch her shows with; and inside this simple and yet profound thought, lies a truth I’ve been missing. This girl really has something here! Maybe it’s not just the guys who have this thing figured out.

A Sweet Escape

Six years ago Frank Warren, founder of the PostSecret web project, launched a concept that opened the eyes of humanity. The project invites people from all over to write their own private secrets in the form of a homemade post card. The cards are anonymous, making them each unique and incredibly captivating; but these confidential comments can be found in other places besides the worldwide web.

Anyone acquainted with me personally is most likely aware of how large a “nerd” I truly am; even in shops like the Red Door I’ve been known to make a bee-line to the store’s literature (that’s a true story, my friends can vouch). Truth is, the content isn’t what makes or breaks a book for me. Instead I’m a sucker for an author’s diction or creative layout. So when I first discovered the PostSecret project in book form at the Urban Outfitters in Charlotte, I was sold.

As I perused through the book reading the secrets of people I had never known I found myself shocked, mortified, immensely saddened, elated, and impressed. There is a touch of intimacy involved when reading such private thoughts from even the most unfamiliar. The concept of anonymity is brilliant in a very soothing way, as I reveled in each secret I considered how genius it was for Warren to embrace such a new idea. The notion of people revealing intense parts of their lives under unknown personas is a very creative market for literature. I wondered why no one else had tapped into it, and then once again Urban Outfitters delivered and I found Bill Shapiro.

Similar to Warren, Shapiro captures some of the more passionate moments in the lives of real people. However, unlike Warren, Shapiro focuses on one particular bursting emotion: love.

Shapiro’s web project and book is titled: “Other People’s Love Letters,” and is filled with the private letters of affection only meant for the eyes of one. When I came across this book at the store I knew instantly I had to own it, and from the moment I picked it up I couldn’t put it down. I literally read this book from cover to cover, which is plausible considering even the covers are plastered with love letters. The letters are authentically pieced together in the book in their original form from post-it notes and coffee napkins to e-mails and cards allowing the book to hit even closer to home. It felt almost forbidden to read them, and yet it evoked some rather intuitive emotions.

All these letters from all these people got me thinking, and I found myself breaking out my own former love letters. I sorted through letters from high school and letters from college. I sorted through letters written for me, and letters written by me. With each letter I was bombarded with assorted feelings. I could literally remember how it felt to write them, and in turn, how it felt to read them. I became nostalgic for some of those old feelings, while simultaneously horrified by a few. A couple stirred laughter, some brought tears; but all in all, it was a nice hiatus. I wondered, what do old love letters do for you?

Shapiro’s book is proof that I’m not the only hopeless romantic using letters as a refuge from the real world. Who hasn’t written a love letter or two in their day? They are a window into a very fervent time in one’s life, and reading them can stir a multitude of emotions.

Looking through letters written by former love interests proved to be insightful. Each individual had a very distinct way of speaking, in this case writing, their thoughts and feelings. I became fascinated with the various wording each individual used. Consider our ability to say one thing in many different ways. With each letter I discovered similar themes, whether they were of heartbreak, an expression of love, rejection, or confusion the differences in these letters were the way each message was conveyed. I wondered, do we fully comprehend the magnitude of our words?

For example, some words sting more than others. Some words have the ability to make us melt; others make us want to punch something. The way one chooses to present something in words says a lot about them. Deciding the proper wording in order to describe, explain, or state something can alter the way one perceives that particular message. Maybe it is just the aspiring writer in me who puts such emphasis on words, but it is something to think about.

Once a boy referred to me as “magic,” we were in the beginning stages of something that had the potential to be extraordinary; and to this day all other descriptive words pale in comparison. That’s the funny thing about words, the right ones just sort of stick with us. 

Re-reading my own former love letters and those in Shapiro’s book was a sweet escape into the romance I’ve been missing in my own life, but it was so much more than that. The anonymous concept of the book allowed me the opportunity to take a deeper look into other’s more intricate emotions. I find the people who contributed to the book or Shapiro’s online blog to be very bold, while their identities are never divulged it takes a lot of courage to put that sort of passion out in the open.

I wonder if we refrain from the art of writing love letters because we fear putting ourselves out there for another. We could learn a little something from those who provided their own letters for the world to see. When was the last time you wrote someone a love letter/e-mail/note? In the age of text-messaging and tweets have we forgotten what it felt like to receive a real dose of someone else’s emotions on paper?

The Ex-Factor

Following suit with the inspiration behind my last blog, I’m still writing from Mayberry; although, while the location remains unchanged, the topic a far cry from the last. As I expressed in the previous entry, my return home has been the soothing getaway I unknowingly needed. My homecoming, while rare, typically unfolds in the same manner each time. You see, as my hometown is gushing with the wedded bliss of my peers, I myself find the return to this country haven enticing for another reason.

There seems to be some truth behind the theory that every guy has “the one who got away,” but for girls, we have the one we can’t quite shake. The ex we keep waiting on deck, just in case; and no matter how much we debate the premise—who doesn’t have a former flame in the crosshairs of failed new relationships, or boredom (what have you). Once upon a time I ran these streets of Mayberry, and when I wasn’t hanging around bonfires and participating in the rolling of houses, even I had a dating life. So who is this guy I can’t quite shake?

As a teenage girl growing up in Mayberry I had the one guy I pursed consistently, and although life happened and took us in very different directions, our contact has never ceased. If you’re reading this and thinking to yourself that you don’t have a past suitor with which whom you maintain contact—well, this girls not buying it.

We’re are living, breathing, bleeding, feeling humans, and the underlying truth: we don’t want to be alone. Sure it’s easy to revel in solitude from time to time, we all need it, but the affection of a previous companion does tend to ease the blow. So we keep them around, it’s simply human nature to hold on to what feels comfortable, rather than what feels right. The dating culture can leave you shaking in your cute little boots at times, who doesn’t crave the undeniable and never-failing attention of an ex?

This morning I opened my eyes to find myself in the room I woke in each morning in high school. Moments like these make me nostalgic for all those past elements and the ex boyfriend is no exception. As it turns out, the visit between he and I over all major holidays is about as predictable as Christmas Day itself. Rest assured this isn’t a story of “guy gets girl” or even the true love/happily ever after fairy tale most small town stories end with. Our relationship didn’t end sour- it just ended, making the rendezvous over the last few years effortless. So why do we refrain from getting back together?

Simple, it’s not meant to be. Our ill-fated relationship is the connection to a past life, one that I often find myself slipping into from time and time. Who am I kidding—I still get my mail there.

So this then raises the question of why do we do it? In my case, the road to my former days goes through one particular ex. The re-hatching of the old is never a good idea, and yet, in my world it’s become a guilty pleasure. However, over time my mindset after each visitation has shifted from the “maybe one day..” to the remembering why and acceptance that it will never work. We’ve all heard if it didn’t work before, why would it work now, but if you’re like me and desperately hold on to the theory that sometimes people and situations change—wake up.

The truth, as I’ve come to find, is that people and situations do change. We grow apart. For me, I left my small town and I adjusted. It happens to all of us, and for him and I, our transformations pushed us even further apart. You see, while I was high-tailing it out of Mayberry he stuck around, and in a short time frame I’ve met new people and experimented with new things and new places. To say we are worlds apart does seem a bit melodramatic, and yet, there is some accuracy to it; and inside all this long ago talk thrives the infamous query of: when does one hold on and when does one let go?

This examination doesn’t stop at the reoccurring ex-relationships, either. It’s relevant in the present tense, as well. It’s a concept I’ve yet to master, although there have been moments I thought myself close. So we like the cozy feeling of latching on to someone we’re already comfortable with. It’s not new or exciting, but it is familiar. It’s safe, but come on, we only live once-why not embrace something unexplored. Sure it seems kind of scary, but what’s to gain by holding on to the old?

At the end of the day, no matter how many times I attempt to justify it to myself, until letting go becomes a definite, rather than merely an option, I’ll never move forward. Therefore, not only am I refraining from giving someone else a chance—I’m not giving myself one. Life is, after all, about advancing, looking in front of you instead of behind. We’ve all heard it before, and yet when will I give up the good fight, and cut the ties to the former love?

It’s almost 2011 people; I’m getting back to the basics-anyone with me?

...the little things.

A warm welcome back to the Holiday Season, after all, tis the season of good tidings and good cheer. Along with the Christmas season comes festive lights, gift-giving, and my assured annual return to my small home town.

If you didn’t already observe, I’m originally from the real-life town of Mayberry. True Story, born and bred on the same streets Andy Griffith once ran. My emergence from Mayberry is quite the conversation starter. However, while Andy was running wild in Mayberry (or Mount Airy, as it’s properly called), my own stomping grounds lie more one town over, Mt. Pilot (Pilot Mountain).

My baby sister is also a current Charlotte resident, and while she and I are similar in all sorts of ways we differ in our feelings toward our hometown. While I love the hustle and bustle of this vivacious city of ours, she relishes in the simple and quiet return to Mayberry. So naturally, she high-tailed it home a week before I made my way up I-77.

My sister, like my mother, fell head over heels for her high school sweetheart. Two years into college and they hold strong; so when on day two of her holiday break she ventured out to visit him and his, she came across a rather shocking, and yet customary event. The fence around the farm directly across from our parent’s home had been torn down, allowing everything it kept in- an easy escape route; and as my sister walked down our long driveway to her car she was passed by a cow, just out for a morning stroll.

Yes, this is also a true story.

You see, in a town so small these odd occurrences are anything but rare, and when you get inside county lines you step outside your present life and immerse yourself into what some would call a new world. Sounds pretty dramatic, right?

So I’ve been home for not even twenty-four hours, and already I feel it, Mayberry sort of just does that to you. Christmas Day opened with the fall of snow. It’s your perfect storybook White Christmas. Underneath a thick blanket of snow my mother and I curled up on the couch; she with a copy of the Mount Airy News and me with my laptop lounging in my lap. On Tuesday I’ll be Charlotte bound and back to a hectic routine. Back in Charlotte, I couldn’t tell you the last time I ate breakfast in the morning before work or the last time I took a nap in the middle of the day. Truth be told, I can’t recall the last time I dried my hair before walking out the door, but back in this small town from which I came, time just moves slower. The youth married away young, and the nightlife: nonexistent.

So nonexistent that the things we found to entertain ourselves in high school would probably shock some of you. In high school on those Saturday nights when we had nothing to do, a group of us ventured to the grocery stores before they closed (at ten) to purchase 12 packs of RC Cola or store brand soda-curious as to why?

..Because “canning” was the house favorite and the chosen pastime of all us small town radicals, and for those of you who are unfamiliar with the activity of “canning,” use your imagination.

In our Jeep Wranglers or our pick-up trucks we drove at high speeds down country roads and took turns hurling full cans of soda at street signs. Not as easy as it sounds by the way, and if you so much as nicked a stop sign you were deemed the winner. These sporting events were, of course, saved for Saturday night because the entire town flocked to the high school’s football games on Fridays. This is the world I was brought up in, and the world I was ready to leave behind. So why does this homecoming bring assorted feelings?

With the loss of our power came the slow death to all our electronic devices, no matter how previously charged. My sister was forced to put down her Nook, my other sister her Wii, and my brother had to retire his text conversation with the girlfriend; and when my laptop finally bit the dust there we were, together as a family—technological barriers lifted.

This Christmas break I felt myself slip into a previous life with my mom’s homemade candy and a Christmas tree still decorated with ornaments I made in grade school. With a computer and phone dead I had lost touch with Charlotte and all the people I would have been spending NFL Sunday with. The roads were far too rough to trek on, and so with blankets and the company of each other my family and I savored the peace and quiet of Sunday. No plans were made, no stressing about the upcoming first of the month and all the bills it brings with. No concern for deadlines and work, only sweats and thermals with good conversation.

It occurred to me that these are the simple pleasures I’m missing in Charlotte. Could it be that the very simplicity of Mayberry, which I’ve spent my adult years bolting from, was exactly what I needed?

Life is messy and life is loud, and in this short break from the lively urban society, which currently has my heart, I let go of all the pressure and just existed. When the power came on, all I wanted to do was read by our lit Christmas tree. I watched my sister and her boyfriend exchange Christmas gifts and it brought such a smile to my face. I’m quite grateful for the people in my life, but why is it that in all the chaos of life it takes being snowed in and stuck in a small town to notice it?

When do we take a break from life to remember the little things? The little things like a “goodnight” phone call, a handwritten letter, or the simple “hello” from a stranger you ride the elevator up with in the morning. These are what living really is-embracing each other; and while technology is a god-send at times, could it truly be a catch-22? Now that we have such advanced tools are we losing touch with humanity? We text, we IM, we e-mail, we tweet, we facebook; are we solely communicating through technology? Will we ever put down the Blackberry for the real, face to face conversation for which we may be starved?

Cliché

My mother met my father at the young age of sixteen. She was your typical high school sophomore: lively, erratic, and pleasant. It was your classic story of cheerleader meets jock. Only it was much, much more.

Thirty years and four children later, my mother and father have one of the more compelling relationships I’ve ever known. In my own twenty-three years of life I’ve met my own partnerships head on, and the ride has been a far cry from subtle. I have often considered the relationship my parents have with one another in correlation with my own relationships and those of the people which surround me, and the comparison is not kind.

The present-day couples, (sorry Mom and Dad) are cultivating in a much different time and a much different world. I know this is one of the more cliché things to write about; however, criticize if you will, recent events have made the issue re-surface. What is a blog, if not a chance to write it out of one’s system—am I right?

In the dating saga of my mother and father there were proper dates, love letters, goodnight phone calls, hell, there were curfews. Today we filter through drunken text messages, meet for drinks late night, and rely on facebook to update us on the objects of our affection. Don’t get me wrong, I myself, am notorious for the “why don’t we just meet for a drink after work,” idea. It seems easier and the pressure, non-existent. Maybe pressure is exactly what we need; perhaps it is the very lack of pressure which is currently sabotaging the dating culture.

So society tells us to watch how often we contact someone, watch how often we see someone, to refrain from laying all our cards on the table in order to express, and simultaneously, achieve affection. The word “vulnerable,” chills the spine of even the more undaunted twenty-something’s, and with all these unspoken, and spoken, rules and guidelines no wonder a girl can’t figure this “love” concept out. Yet this topic begs one very obvious question. Who cares?

All the questions, the concerns permeating in our minds are utterly diminishing precious time in our daily routines. So as it happens, all is not fair in love and war, but if the battlefield of love really does leave you with scars, why not accept it for what it actually is: a learning process. Someone very close to me once reminded me that the world is such a big place, and if you really believe in the concept of “the one,” what are the odds that he or she actually exists here in Charlotte, NC? While this borders the more pessimistic thought process, it sure seems rational.

My small hometown is saturated with my peers who went the marriage and family route at a young age. While it must be incredible to have found that connection with another person so early in life, it just is not in the cards for everyone; and instead of waning away our youth by fretting about finding and maintaining intimacy why not utilize the era? These do seem to be the more prominent, and remarkable, years of one’s lifetime. Is it totally selfish to embrace this time as self-discovery?

At some point should we accept that what is “right,” doesn’t necessarily have to be the “right now?” The truth of it all, there should be some sort of rule book for romance, something to turn to when you’re not quite sure what play to go with when it counts; or at least a guide to throw a flag on the play when you’ve crossed a line. Then would we all be on the same page somehow? Until someone pieces that bizarre work together, rest assured that we aren’t alone in this. We are all just preparing for the combat, and taking each battle in stride.

The Modern Day Aspiring Artist

Last night over dinner and drinks at the soft opening of the new restaurant nestled in Uptown Charlotte, Bask on Seaboard, I had what one might call a revelation. Joined at the table by three of the more stimulating individuals I’ve met in quite a while, I began to consider our current situations and lifestyles. In present company: a writer, an artist, and a teacher.

The other three were very much acquainted with one another, I myself, the outsider to the group. Yet, despite my unfamiliarity with each I found the conversation engrossing. At face value, we have dissimilar taste in music, books, food and beverages. We each view the world in a very diverse manner. Some of us make sense of the world with words, seeing the hidden poetry inside even the more mundane aspects of life. Another perceiving the world through an abundance of colors and design, while the third viewing life through the eyes of young pupils.  So why are we all having dinner together?

Our differences, while vast, made for interesting conversation; each of us vying for our own special place for input; and yet, one large similarity connected us. The writer, the artist, the teacher, and I are currently committed to a two-job lifestyle; and our second position: Server.

It occurred to me, while enjoying a night out with these new friends, that I don’t think I’ve made a friend in Charlotte who was not currently or had previously been employed by the service industry, in some form or fashion. It is this industry which is presently paving the way for the contemporary “starving artist.”

This then poses the question, is the service industry helping, or is it harming those employed within?
Charlotte is flooded by bars, restaurants, venues, and more. It’s the city of possibility for a girl coming into her own from the small town of “Mt. Pilot.” The nightlife is crawling with people of all ages, the city rarely sleeps, and yet in order to be cozy with the nightlife scene, a steady pay check--or in our case, cash flow is vital. So we work, picking up shifts as often as we can all to provide the backbone for our artistic careers. The service industry, if you’ve never been involved, is quicksand.

Under the table at dinner I held the hand of another writer who creates in a much different manner than I do. Hence the beauty in the world of art, individually we are unique; therefore our creations have the ability to speak for us. Inspiration can’t be predetermined or forced, as any who have tried and failed can tell you. The truth of it all, creativity just hits and must be captured; yet, after a night of frustration at work retreating to the next open bar or hip scene almost always just feels right.

So when do the musicians, the writers, the artists embrace these lightning bolts of ideas? At what point do we in the service industry retire our aprons for the pen or the paint brush, and why is this Queen City of ours so hell-bent on drinking away the very art that once made us fall head over heels in love?
...I guess we just start a blog.