I feel that there is no such thing as “growing up.” Some people glean knowledge and certain sensitivities as a result of experience; however, you can enter adulthood¬†and still feel the overwhelming urge to buckle at the knees and cry when bills need to be paid, cars get towed or work runs one hour too many in a week.

Of course there’s nothing new about this idea, but I think that it’s of greater value when you consider how relatively weak, new and infantile one can feel the instance that challenges with no clear answer arise.


The walls in my building are paper-thin, but I thrive on the misplaced sense of human intimacy it provides. I enjoy the disembodied din of human activity — the chime of elevators, the clinking glasses, the sputtering and halting sound of hands cutting through water and the disarming, jovial and sometimes melancholic release of distant, pealing laughter.


I don’t really feel much of an affinity toward New Year’s as a holiday. I feel as if the solemnity of January 1st is something ceremonious and only detectable because ¬†society chooses it.

I don’t feel as if there is a clean slate, let alone one that required cleaning. The near imposition of the calendar year has required me to slow down and regather the pieces that I already had on hand.

Reflection is a constant for me and it is not something that I can pick up and drop per annual rite. I feel as if I should be able to run through a quaint retrospective montage in my head; however, that’s just not where I am as of now.

As of now, every thought of substance is ricocheting through my brain like a pin ball. I can’t decide if I have something to look forward to, or if I should tend to irons still in the fire.

The calendar does own a piece of the process, however. My lease is coming up, bills need to be paid and planning in both my professional and personal life seem to run concurrent. All that January 1st marks for me is the pre-sneeze pause before the resumption of the December 31st status quo.

If I were to have one wish for this year, it would be for sufficiency. May 2015 be enough.

I live in an apartment in Huntington. At a glance, it looks sufficient. It’s spacious, there is a gas range stove, elevators that move you from a floor to the next, and windows that both open and close. At the end of a 40-minute commute, you can hit the cramped gym and get an evening view of the National Harbor.

There’s one problem. It’s awful. Everyone has an awful apartment at some point in their lives. Perhaps it’s awful because your roommate thinks that the refrigerator doubles as a trash receptacle. Maybe it’s so small, that you prepare small meals next to where your shower. In our case, it’s like Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell — each hosting a new variant of torment. A new level of dysfunction sets in every two weeks almost religiously; most of which are a mite too embarrassing to document here.

As nylon pantyhose dries on the lamp beside me, I feel as though I’m in living in a 1930s dumbbell tenement. I’m not a picky soul. I just crave consistency — something that constantly evades me.

I think the frustrating thing about my gripes at this point is that it falls squarely into a crusty, dated city-dweller meme. The city is played out, but unavoidable.