There are way too many tourists staring up at the holiday-decorated buildings. It’s nice, but I’m not in the mood to keep saying ‘excuse me’ and shoving past those who act as though they don’t hear me. I mean, how can you not pay attention when you are in a new place?
I’ve traveled a lot in my life, and never have I gone to a new place without doing a little research first. Don’t New Yorkers have the reputation of being a bit of dicks when it comes to slow walkers? Why isn’t that recognized universally?
I shove past my last family of tourists before I flip them off when they yell. I’m not in the fucking mood. All I can think about is my almost wedding day with Chelsea, and the ring box poking me in the stomach as I walk.
I don’t even want to see if the ring is in there. I just want it gone. I decide to stop at the first pawn shop I see and sell it. I don’t care too much about the money; I just want the ring gone along with the memories.
“You’re parting with this?” the old man with gray eyebrows and a bushy beard asks as I show him the ring.
He picks it up as I nod, watching him examine the ring I spent months agonizing over. I wanted to make sure it was perfect for her. I didn’t want it to be a ring she had to wear forever and hated. The joke was on me, I guess.
“It’s a pretty good cut, I could give you three grand for it,” he offers, waiting for me to haggle.
“Sounds good.” I shrug. I just want it gone.
“Alright, here you are. Square up with Joanie in the front.” He hands me a receipt, and in the front, an older woman hands me a stack of cash in hundred-dollar bills.
“Thanks.” I pocket the cash and make a mental note to find my nearest bank branch.
I’m not about to walk around Manhattan with a pocket full of cash. Pulling out the first one hundred, I hand it to the first unhoused person I see. Then I stop at the bank, already feeling a bit lighter now that the cash and ring are gone.
It’s not like all my anger is gone, but it feels a little easier to let go of now. I don’t want to live the rest of my life angry about something that happened in my early twenties. All that matters is that Chelsea finally knows how I feel and isn’t walking around thinking all is good between us.
Chapter Seventeen
CARI
Aspen and River have arranged a small get-together at their house for New Year’s Eve, and despite being invited, I don’t go. I think Max is going to be there, along with Gus and Emily, and I’m not ready for all of that. My meds are working, and I’m feeling better, but they aren’t magic. I know better than to put myself in a potentially stressful situation right now.
So instead of spending the night at home alone, I have decided to take myself on a date. It’s something Shirley recommended, and while at first it seemed stupid, it’s actually something I’ve been enjoying. I’ve been finding life outside of social media and relationships.
Finding creativity in new ways, along with rediscovering who I am without the parade of likes and comments telling me. It was a little jarring at first, not having the masses telling me who I am and how much approval I didn’t realize I needed. And while I could make a new account, Shirley and I decided that wasn’t the best idea for me right now.
So I am at the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA), walking through the so-called art. I don’t think I am a fan of modern art, so much of this looks like something I could make whenI’m drunk. Like, there’s a plain canvas with a rip through the middle. That’s the piece. I stare at it for a few minutes, trying to find something I like about it, but I can’t. I mean, it looks like someone’s garbage they accidentally hung up.
I’m walking around, and some of the things make me wonder if this is all a big experiment. Like, how outrageous can we make ‘art’ before people call bullshit? But apparently scribbling on paper like a toddler, cutting canvas, and spilling red paint on paper is considered ‘art.’ This is why I wasn’t an art major in college, I could never get past this.
Not to mention the array of random penises in art. Like, why are men so obsessed with their dicks? You don’t see women constantly talking about, touching, or drawing their vaginas, and they are MUCH prettier. But I’m looking at art, and then all of a sudden, there’s a flaccid penis staring back at me. Is it supposed to be a metaphor for something? Maybe some kind of warning for straight women? I don’t know.
Shirley suggested I try journaling on my solo dates, so I pull out my little notebook. It is purple with a bunch of stickers on the cover. I click the pen and start scribbling away about how I feel. It’s mostly about the art and how I don’t understand it.
Maybe I should become an artist. I could buy some canvas, and I already have a knife at home to cut it with. I could make millions from it and not need to worry about finding a new job. That’s another thing I’ve been writing about lately.
It’s been almost three months since my account got shut down, and while it wrecked me, it might actually be for the best. Except that I now have no idea what to do with my life.
As expected, most of my contracts had dried up; they wanted someone who could reach the followers I no longer had. Thankfully, I didn’t have to pay any of them back, but it left me in a weird position, unsure what to do with my life.
I had sort of fallen into being an influencer. I have a college degree in marketing, but I haven’t actually used it. I mean, there was a certain level of social media that included marketing, but it wasn’t like I’d ever had an office job or anything before.
All I know is I don’t want to be tied to an office cubicle five days a week. I had saved up quite a bit, so I don’t need to worry about things like rent, but I know I’m privileged in that way.
I put my journal away and start Googling ‘jobs with a marketing degree’. Millions of results pop up, and most of them don’t sound interesting. I mean, I don’t want to jump into sales at some stuffy office. But then I see a public relations manager ad, and I pause. While I’m not ready to go back into the limelight, I know enough about it. I could write a book on how to make a successful account, what if I managed others? I could still make content, help influencers, go on podcasts, and be partially in the limelight, but not be thrown into it the way I have in the past.
Could it really be that simple? I have the degree, but I have nowhere to start. I mean how does someone even break into something like that? How am I going to show people I know what I am talking about when I don’t even have an account anymore.
People like to see proof, to know that I’m not just talking out of my ass. But I have no way of proving myself without my account being reinstated. And Instagram made it more than clear that isn’t happening.
I sigh. Well, I guess I’ll have to keep searching. I could always get a part-time job if it was really necessary. I know enough about makeup to work at Sephora or in fashion for a boutique. I just want a job that brings me as much joy as being an influencer did in the beginning. When I was new to it and doing it for myself, it felt like a dream. I wish I could go back to that.
