Going Native

Helllooooo 2016.

Yea, so, pulling myself out of credit card debt sure as shit isn’t going to happen this year. Nevertheless, I’m vehement to make this year, 2016, the year I become a fully functional adult. Already there are ambitious plans in place for domestication, and I’ve recently revisited my addiction to Credit Karma (after a two-year hiatus when I couldn’t bear to look at my credit score). Frugal is the 2016 battle cry.

Why? Because, as was announced at the company holiday brunch by our co-president, I became a single [dog] mom in 2015. I have responsibilities now. And even though single parenthood is going to alleviate in a few short months, as my boyfriend and I have decided to move in together (holy fuck adulthood!), I’m still up shitcreek because we need the following: money for an application fee plus first month’s rent (just in case), a couch, a dinner table, silverware, a coffee table, a door mat, a shower curtain, coasters, throw pillows, oven mitts, bowls, a coffee machine, and sure-as-shit-fucking a wine opener. All the good things. Right now, I have a debatably overweight dog and a fuckload of takeout containers I reuse as my tupperware. Actually, scratch that last: my boyfriend bought me a Rubbermaid 40-piece tupperware set because he once overheard me bitching about how I’ll never achieve the P. Diddy lifestyle living like a hoodrat with my takeout containers. We also, post- a dinner out at an overpriced Colombian restaurant, stole a potted plant (actually it was on the sidewalk where people throw shit out, so we asked no questions, pulled up the car and threw it in). Thug Mansion.

I feel the evolution already taking place, as I trade in my daydreams of the next city that I’m going to partyrock-conquer for long, internal tangents about the importance of thread count. One of my friends referred to her sheets as ‘paper sheets,’ and I thought, “Those are all of my sheets.” So, I have to reform. I’m trying to distance myself from Ikea purchases, invest in good socks, and maybe take out the garbage in the kitchen more often, instead of waiting for it to overflow into a public health hazard. These are very awkward, uncomfortable growing pains I’m going through. Everything in my body is, naturally, resistant: “I can’t be tied down, I can’t be tied down,” I keep telling myself. But the place where I’m expecting to move to, you can buy a mega-cannoli and two cappuccinos for $8. My local spot charges $4 a cappuccino. Mind you, we had 3 shootings on my street in 2015. Why is this place charging Manhattan prices for a cappuccino?

Am I doing it all for the cannoli? Kind of. I’m also doing it for the space, the scarcity of hipsters and bootlegging landlords, the price of housing, and the greenery, since my dog has developed a penchant for dead leaves and discarded Christmas trees, apparently. And did I mention the space?

My first week back from Christmas break, my room turned into Jumanji-land, what with my bags, my neglect pre-departure, the Christmas presents I received, my half-alive plants, and the fur-bunnies collecting in the darkest corners of my room because my dog is shedding like a motherfucker for some reason. In the dead of winter. Also, I almost instantaneously caught a cold as soon as the El Niño left New York City. So, I was effectively hot-boxing in disease this first week as well. But I guess I should start getting used to spending my weekends catching up on sleep lost during the week, doing laundry, and cleaning the apartment, instead of running off wildly into the wind, getting drunk with my friends, and spending money I don’t have. Ohhhh, those were the days…the days that led to my perpetual shit-swirl of poverty today, but regardless…

Rehab is a crucial part of domestication. I want things. I want a collection of mugs that reflect how artsy and sophisticated I am. I want a peeler, because though I can’t cook for shit, I find preparing foods to be cooked very soothing. I kind of also want an expensive sound system, so that I can blast Nicki Minaj while I do my house chores. Things change. I’ve resisted for so long, because for so long my dream was to be a nomad and live off the good graces and bank balances of others while I searched for myself in different pockets of the world. Still is my dream, to be honest. It’s a pretty bad-ass dream. But it won’t happen overnight. I have to be sustainable, and I have to scale. It’s like any business venture.

That’s how I’m going to treat this next year: as a venture. I—my physical person—am a start-up. My ultimate goal is to work less and get paid equal or more, travel, and live the lifestyle of those chicks on Instagram who get to wear bikinis all day and get paid for it if they reach x-number of ‘likes’ or followers. Probably not gonna happen, but ya know, dare to dream. Everyone’s gotta start somewhere, and I’m starting with setting up an evil lab so I can have a place to draft my plans for world domination, in between learning how to cook, incessantly cleaning, and mothering my fat dog…

2016 is gonna be awesome. Hope it will be for you as well!

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