And the nomination for best original impression goes to…

I’m house sitting for someone with an Emmy. Of course, when I saw it, I immediately picked it up with reckless abandon; it’s slightly heavier than I imagined, but an appropriate weight, I think, for such a prestigious piece of whatever it’s made of. I’d like to thank the Academy! And Lio, the long-faced wolfish dog with whom I am cohabitating for the next four days. 

I signed up for Rover when I first moved to Austin because I really needed the money. These days I do it mostly for pleasure. I get to sleep in linen sheets, clean my butt with rosewater wipes, and use knives that cut sweet potatoes like warm butter. If I’m really lucky, I might get to see an Emmy up close. And I guess hanging out with a dog is kinda cool, too.

In preparation for this staycation, I picked up two new books: Michelle Zauner’s Crying in H Mart (finally), and Jia Tolentino’s Trick Mirror. I spent 45 blissful minutes in BookPeople, picking things up and putting them back down, just like the good ol’ days. I would’ve taken the full hour, but for some reason I always need to poop in bookstores and I’d rather die than ask for directions to the bathroom. 

I’m usually reading one, two, or three books at a time, and all of those voices coagulate in my head to form a writing voice that is never truly my own; this is the voice I’m using right now, a voice I would certainly butcher if ever asked to, oh I don’t know, read this blog to a room full of adoring fans. 

I think I’m at the stage in life where I can recognize what’s good, but I don’t exactly understand how to be good. Sometimes I think good things are just true things. If something is real, how can it be wrong… right? I’m really sitting at someone else’s kitchen table, I’m really thinking about eating the other half of this sweet potato, and I really should take this dog for a walk. That’s all good. 

People say the best way to get good at things is to imitate the people you admire. That’s why I know every word to every Paul Simon song, and why I have a pullulating collection of books of essays by women. I’m decent at impressions, but I’m also getting impatient. When do I get my OWN voice? And when do I find out whether or not I end up with an Emmy?! 

Last night some friends hosted a show in their backyard warehouse. T read some poems and prose, “more like a speech” he said, to open. I found myself listening closely, tasting each word at first, but soon found myself instead thinking only of myself; how my words don’t sound like his, how his words are good and different than mine, how I can write a little more like him, how that might make our mutual friends talk to me a little longer between sets, how I shouldn’t have worn white pants on my period, how to check for a period stain without people noticing you’re checking for a period stain, how to drink quietly from a plastic water bottle, how to act less stoned, how to ask someone to tell me their name again even though I know I’ve met them before, how I’m wasting my energy thinking of myself while my friend shares his delicate musings on dams, on familiarity, on interior life.

The craziest thing to me is that these people, these real fucking artists, keep inviting me to things. I try too hard. I want too much. I have the thesaurus tab open, and I’m indubitably uncertain that I’m using any of these words correctly.

So who are you when no one is looking? I’m curled up in a ball, cradling a bag of Honey Sesame Cashews. And even still it’s a performance, because I feel uncontrollably compelled to post that shit on Instagram! If I would’ve known the first essay of Trick Mirror would deal with this subject directly, I probably would’ve gone back for the Beginner’s Guide to Intuitive Eating.