#livinthosetwenties justgoforit beacliche beauthentic bewhateveryouwannabe doitforthelove

[joyfullyimportantyouth-blog]

Subject: THE BEGINNING - June 28

To: me right now

Subject: you’re on the airplane RN moving to France in an unintentionally wholesome sundress *when you try to be one notch above “I WWOOF and wear hiking boots with everything and am not materialistic!” but not quite Coachella blog-y and Target is a lil bitch* & oversized headphones that look really dumb but cute in an LA “I listen to DR DRE but I eat chia seeds!” mall way

Dear ME (age 25),

HOLY FUCK you’re actually doing it - strapped in ready for the deep end of abroad antics. It’s not your first rodeo, ol’ gal, but “you know what you’re like” (hint: you were watching Dead Poets Society on the eve of your 21st birthday and purposefully trying to cry to FEEL).

Each trip has felt like a zippy fling off of a tiny cliff. You’ve landed upon the unknown sceneries of NO DRUGS POR FAVOR hostel bars… and long nights of Vietnamese sleeper buses wondering… who am I supposed to be? *NOOOOOO...*

Words like “process” and “expectations” now seem very frivolous, but I guess I had to think way too hard about about these things, like when you purchase an overpriced personalized license plate. I’ve gotten to the point in my life where I’ll digress into thinking I’m not very important anymore (you know, just a little speck in the sand of this sand dune of a world)… until I remember that I’m still that person who hears a Rihanna song and envisions themselves breaking out some very trending YouTube dance moves on a music video set that I fatefully get scouted for, so I can’t make any promises here for modesty. 

Alright alright alright, so what’s the point of this “email” to yourself (or online diary TBH)? So what are you doing right now? Moving to le Sud de France for LOVE. And I’m finally managing to write something down after all of these months of barely seeing friends to make money in a little hometown coffee shop. To do this. I need to remember this time of my life. When I am young and have a hot French boyfriend who says things like “let’s make party” (fair la taufe!) and has a patchouli soul (zero waste!) but wears singlettes with manatees on them (alternative bro the best kind!) who I attended a Shaggy concert with in Colombia and then we got matching Libra tattoos. Let’s not be too deep here…

Things just feel right - very simple (I’ll laugh at this statement when I cry about something probably tomorrow). I was supposed to move to LA when I got back from Colombia, and now here I am. I remember riding in a taxi on the way to Toganga the second day I knew Ao and telling him about my plans to make a dent *find a job waiting tables with lots of insanely attractive people * in the film world, not feeling very confident -- but feeling like maybe I was just being a weenie and insecure, and that could be abolished with a swift kick to the script I needed to start and finish. He said I had to go for it if it was my dream. Where did he envision himself? In the country, with a garden, being a carpenter. My lil mind whizzed around envisioning sweet bilingual children journeying out into the yard to grab some lavender while I looked really MILF-y in some Chanel after my hot “Partner” finished a fence while I finished a script. “Wouldn’t they just love that: the American TV writer with the French carpenter boyfriend?” he joked, shaking his head in skepticism. UMMM YESSS. I got very glowed up about the possibilities. And then we started sharing immodium and being really sweaty around each other and I wondered if I was being ridiculous... and then the rum must’ve gotten to me because I didn’t even question that I was now going to France instead of LA. I didn’t have to wear a “I AM A FEMINIST” shirt to repent my sins of “following a boyfriend,” because fuck it if I got the ‘net to write from anywhere and can finagle my way into reaping the benefits of a socialist non-GMO-y country. So, on this Alaska Airlines airplane eating some processed corn nuts in my wholesome sundress I am...

DREAMIN.’ Whether you count dreamer to be pain au chocolat doodler who has two left techno feet or American girl in France crushing hard on Ricard and her token study abroad S.O. named Pierre who wears Peruvian crystal chokers, you decide. ENJOY + SLAY.

Iz