My Mom in a fit of anger, called me and told me not to move to California or New York, she said to stay between the two bridges; the Golden Gate and the Brooklyn Bridge, I can only assume.

I woke up annoyed, still desiring warmer weather and knowing she probably wants me to stay put in real life. She has so often called me her gypsy daughter. She should feel satisfied that I feel complacent here in this city that I love more than anything right now. She should feel relieved that I feel content in my situation and my life here. I love everything right now.

In celebration of this day, I often give people a month warning. During this time, most likely, I will end a conversation with, "it's only 26 more days until my birthday!", or my personal favorite, "what are we going to do for my birthday?". That way all pressure of coming up with something wonderful is put on my friends, and makes me feel more loved by them.

I also, remind people of what I want. This occurs via social media posts and gentle reminders... "remember those really gorgeous pairs of shoes I loved, that we saw last week?", "wouldn't it be really cool to get flowers sent to me at work? Yea, like really cool".

I love when my birthday arrives and people wish me a happy birthday in a disgruntled tone, as if to say, "let's get this fucking day over with". But luckily enough, my self indulgent personality comes to the rescue, and I vaguely notice.

Those that do not do something grand for my birthday, get an automatic firing. Last year, however, I had a party thrown in a loft by my friend, another friend cooked a mexican dinner, we all drank Jameson, and went out. My girls from Iowa came in to town and I loved it.

I expect slightly more grandeur this year, think loft party (my buddy's loft with a basketball court, movie theater, three bars, and a trampoline), my favorite band flown in to play, porn playing on the big screen, kegs of Gumballhead, a popcorn machine, a vintage photobooth, a giant chocolate chip cookie for a cake (holla at my sis-in-law who does this for me every year), a dj to spin later, dancing. For food, I want my Mom to send me some of my favorites, this means casseroles, meatloaf, and cheesy potatoes. So, just like a buffet of Iowa home cooking. I want a horse drawn carriage to bring me to my party. I also want people to wear 60's style party attire.

Too much? Not really. This is actually an easy do. Annnnnnddddd go. Start planning.

I started another blog and made it anonymous. It has a theme, and it is not devoted to Bloody Mary's. It's a random blog documenting my goals, and seeing how long it takes to reach them. It's not for you. It's for me.

I've neglected this blog and partially because I wanted to and I'm sorry. This determination of finding a job, or trying to discover what it is I'm supposed to be doing has taken control over my life right now. I just want it that bad.

I'm forgetting the "now". I'm wasting away in the future, and this always tends to put a person on edge. You become consumed with what lies ahead, or what life was like months ago, and you forget that life is just occurring right now. I've been doing that and it's not making things pleasant. In the past I have had the patience of a five year old, something I have gradually been able to manage, something that in the last month that has begun to fall by the waste side. So, I let myself slip into the future, and then want everything to just magically happen in the next fifteen minutes.

In discussing "signs" recently, I know that there is no such thing. People use the phrase, "I'm just waiting for a sign" as an excuse to put their life on hold. They wait around hoping that something is going to tell them how to live their lives so that effort doesn't need to be put forth. I found, recently, that I'm doing that, and it's a new phenomenon. I'm waiting for someone to send me some kind of sign, tell me my direction, tell me what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm putting too much pressure on myself.

Life is not about finding the perfect occupation, it's about being. I have completely lost sight of that. In this process, I have transferred thoughts onto things that are non-related. I forget that what you do to earn money is not who you are. I just want to love what I do.

Ah, I feel like I've stepped into the magical world of drama. I feel like I've taken too many things too seriously. I'm chuckling to myself as whoever it is, underlying this ego, is saying, "Jesus Christ, get over it already". I also think, remember when you were like funny? I haven't been funny lately. I just really miss doing yoga, in my underwear.

I skimmed through your photo album, got lost in the stories that filled my head and returned back to find three photos of me towards the last page. You captioned them all. Never would I have assumed you to write something, to be aware of something outside of yourself, but there you are writing "my beautiful daughter" and I soften, as sometimes I do.

I can sit here in my little la la land world and be all dreamy about writing and feel like I have all this free time to really freelance or I can find a big girl job that is M-F, 8-5. I feel like I'm settling on a career I won't be passionate about, but I just can't get myself going. It's this fear thing. So, I end up in these jobs where I feel stifled, because what I really want to do, is write, 24/7.

So, what is it about writing? Why have I spent the last two years holding back and not lived up to the promise that I have given myself? It's this self deprecating fear of failure. It's me feeling like I am not going to be good enough, even if you tell me a million times that I am.

Let me tell you a little story, about my writing self esteem... I'm in college. I'm attending Iowa State University (Go Clones!), sitting in the hardest English class I've ever taken in my life. I'm half-ass paying attention to the lecture, until my prof decides to veer of the subject of Jack Karouac to hand out packets of current scholarships that the English department has available. I perk up, I love free money.

Out of the three scholarships available, and a two week deadline approaching, I apply for the simplest one, the poetry scholarship. Now, I do this out of a mind set of fuck it, why the hell not. I knew, I KNEW that there would be no way I would ever get the scholarship, but I felt it as if I would officially know how terrible I suck at writing and find an excuse to go back into Architecture. I specifically wanted this particular professor I hated to tell me how much I suck, as he would judge the shit out of me.

Three poems submitted and I forget about the whole ordeal, until I was called into my advisor's office. My advisor is a nasty woman, the kind of literary who has pretentious books and stacks of important papers laid out on her desk. I sit across from her as she hands me my scholarship for some stupid poems I whipped out of my head a few days before and others that I found from my community college days.

What's funny about this, is that it reveals my confidence level about writing....

"So, did like no one apply for this scholarship or what?"

"What? No, a lot of students applied." She's annoyed with me.

"So, did the others not follow the application rules?"

"No, all the rules were followed by other students." She like really hates me right now.

"Wait, so, I like got this thing? Legitimately?"

She looks at me, gets close to my face, like she wants to end my life, and says "you got this, accept it". This is my cue to make a quick exit and say a polite, "ok, thanks.". As I walk out, I hear her say the acceptance ceremony is two days away.

I never went. I really believed that I would get up there and they would take it away from me. That it was a hoax. To this day, to this very second, I still believe there was a mistake. To this day, the story I create in my head is that the professors got bored reading through 100's of students' submissions and mine just was the one where they decided that they were bored and was all, screw this, let's just settle on this one about dead kittens and childhood recollections of snow. Done.

Story of my life (or just the writing part of it). I'll just thumb through some more of these 9-5 er jobs I hate.

I was to meet up with some friends last night at DeVille, but ended up veering off of the path because I had a craving for a Bloody Mary. DeVille apparently does not do Bloody Mary's, so I had to go to a place that usually does me right, State in Lincoln Park. State in Lincoln Park's Bloody Mary's really suck. Bad choice on my part, because we were forced to sit in a sports bar and also in Lincoln Park.

Funny thing, I decided I want to start a blog devoted to Bloody Mary's around Chicago. I feel as if I could be a connoisseur of sorts on the subject. Unfortunately, while announcing this prospect, I also announced that State would, in fact, be known as making the worst in the city, and the bartender heard me. Oooops. Bad behavior #1.

Also, Mori decided that no longer will she just "take it" and decided that when she received her chicken nachos instead of her beef nachos, she would throw a big fit and have the food sent back. Bad behavior #2. However, this actually paid off because we were rewarded with free drinks and shots. Good start to the night.

Why do I love it? The show is so cringe-worthy, that it's like watching a fucking train wreck happen right before your very eyes. You fit twenty-five desperate women in a room, and it's bound to get a little nutty. This season, they bring back Jake, the desperate male contestant from last season's Bachelorette. He's the guy, if you remember, who broke the "bro code" and let sweet little Jillian know her douche-bag pick for a guy actually had a girlfriend back home. Jake comes to this season, searching for love and is convinced that the girl he is going to marry is amongst the girls who all want to feel his six-pack.

So, let's talk about crazy here. Let's get really real about the crazy that goes on.

#1 I would like for you to look at specimen a., Michelle. Notice that she got a rose, because most likely, the producers are like, hey, we need to keep this nanners chick on the show for ratings. And yes, I was grateful they stepped in. I love watching crazy. She's in love with Jake, and feels that they are meant for each other, like in the way where you have a replica doll made of him and stroke his soft sweet hair every night before you fall asleep and give him milk and cookies and tell him he looks so pretty in his uniform. Errrrr, wait, next topic.

#2 You can't put women together and have them compete for a man without there being blood spilled at some point. Women are just nutsy. Women can get quite insane. I think it's evolutionary or something. It's like their ovaries are telling them they must lock down on this one man to save human kind, and it's only their eggs matched with this one dude's sperm that will save the planet. Girls will fight till the death over one guy, and even if they really aren't that into him. I don't get it.

#3 All seem to have this insane idea about love. This idea that this person and only this person, Jake, is going to fill something that is missing in them, like a soul. It's delusional. I would like to play a drinking game to how many times I heard, "I know he can make me happy". Hey, oh, heeeeeeyyyy low self esteem, I didn't really notice you there waving your hands so violently in the air. People can't fill that little empty place in your heart that your Daddy created, if that were true, there would be no strippers in this world. Story checks out.

So, ya, I love this show. It's like watching the most amazing social experiment. It's full of delusional ideas about love. It's full of drop dead gorgeous girls who end up turning on each other (as opposed to the Bachelorette where the dudes establish a bond with each other). It's a time where I get to yell at the TV every 5 seconds saying, "please don't say that, why did you say that, stop it, never say that to anyone, ever".

If you would like to check out my blog from the Bachelorette... It's where I examine how relationships should be....

You somehow are able to get the loads of food to me, even though we live hundreds of miles apart. I love you for it. I love you for this simple tradition, most likely based upon your sexist ideals, but I still love you for it. It's a reminder, a subtle little reminder that the grocery buying will only stop when I'm married. It's a subtle reminder that I am in fact, not married. This tradition has taken a strong hold, even through a five year career, even through the purchase of my first home, even through a six year relationship, even through moments when you were struggling yourself, after Dad became sick and even though I am perfectly capable of buying my own food. I still love you for this. I love you for your empathetic heart. I love that you show me you love me, but never say it, and I understand how much it hurts. I know that the words drip from your actions, I know that they sink from your heart.

This year, I am in a city I love, living in a little brownstone, knowing who I am, knowing that this is where I am supposed to be. I rang in the new year surrounded by great amazing people, all of whom I adore. This year, I have never been so happy or so grateful.