Birthdays, or, the intrepid walk into the unknown and the icy, crippling fear of failure… and all that follows.

I turned 22. To some, I am old (hello, younger cousins, does your mom know you know how to work the Internet? Who am I kidding, you know how to work the internet better than her.) To others, I’m naught but a tiny baby, scrabbling to pretend to be an adult, with my “pretend” job and life and my raw, ruddy cheeks and your patronizing small nods and “knowing” smiles. But, I love you and your Wisdom. Bestow it upon me, oh Wise Ones.

But actually. Please help me, grownups.

But whaddup, world. I can relate to another Taylor Swift song. Booyah. +1 Abby. 21 was a weird year. I started my ascent into legality by waking up with The Worst Hangover Of My Life. Literally. I thought I would never reach sobriety ever again. I’ll spare you the grim details, but the soundtrack of my night was Shots by LMFAO ft. Lil Jon and my morning tune was Cacophony in the Key of My Mother Screaming At Me. Also, it was Father’s Day. Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I just vomited on myself.

A photo posted by Abby Stubenbort (@abbystubenbort) on Jun 20, 2015 at 11:02pm PDT

Annnyyyyways, 21 brought in a slew of Things. Firstly, I was just starting in the Wide World of Media. A tiny, baby journalist, clinging for dear life to a press badge and an iPhone, constantly fearing the jig was up and I gotta get out of the press area, you small child. That never happened. But! I did get over my fear and have (almost) mastered the art of confidently acting like I’m Supposed To Be Here. Even if I’m surrounded by a zillion important people in suits and real cameras and I’m swinging around my tiny Canon. Bring it on, Edward R. Murrow Winners. I’m a millennial. You wish you were me. You want to capture me. I hold the secrets! I know about the Internet! I have all the social medias! Betcha never learned that in fancy journalism school! Ha!

4 the 412 has been this crazy adventure that I found myself on where I get to do things I like and get paid for it. And it’s hard. Bear with me. This job has been working my creativity muscle until it’s pulsating and numb. It’s draining and exhausting and I’ve spiraled into pits of complete creator’s block. Nothing seemed to work. I couldn’t figure it out. Hell, there were days where I turned on the camera and stared blankly into it, opening and closing my mouth like a beached fish desperate for air, squishing my eyebrows together to make my brain work. But through this, I learned that creativity is my backbone. I can take something and spin it and weave it into something that tells a story. Pittsburgh may be small, but it is deep. It is rich and flowing with people, places, ideas that deserve attention. They deserve me to unfasten the light dangling above my head and shove it towards them. It’s okay if I struggle with ideas sometimes, because, PLOT TWIST, I’m not perfect. I can pretend that this job is Always! Fun! And! Exciting! And! Easy! But it’s not. And that’s okay. It’s okay because I enjoy it.

A photo posted by Abby Stubenbort (@abbystubenbort) on Jun 15, 2015 at 12:47pm PDT

Then I graduated college and started school again 12 days later.

Grad school has been this weird (as you can see, my adjectives have also aged with me) place where I'm surrounded by people who know what they want and are creating incredible things that are setting them up for the rest of their lives.

And I'm the new girl in the back going, “yeah, but, have you heard of the Internet, guys?”

I've finally had the realization that maybe I'm struggling to find energy and excitement in this program because it's not what I want to do. “Shock!” cried the readers. Yeah, same, guys. I love film and how a story can make people feel and think and literally be changed for life. A good film (even a bad film) will leave a lasting impression. You can never unsee it. I can appreciate a beautiful shot or an unconventional editing practice. However, I can't do it. I have the story but when it comes to implementing it, I struggle. I am frustrated at the time and care I need to appease professors and stay at pace with my incredible, talented fellow classmates. And to be honest, it's tiring. I don't have the passion or drive to make these films. Production leaves me in a slump. But, I do have the story.

I can melt over beautifully crafted words that will grip me on the heart and brain and squeeze and squeeze, leaving me breathless and flustered. Words are powerful. My power exists at the light touch of ink to paper and not behind plastic and lenses (metaphorically of course because my hand cramps up if I write too long #Tbh.) I've always reached to writing when every other form escapes me. It's like my brain and fingers are running in a heat faster than my mouth. My mouth is always lagging behind, tripping over itself time and time again to stay even slightly near my brain. So I write. I write it down and keep going and going until I need to stop and proofread because the sentences seem to keep going on and on and on and I forget how they started or what I was even talking about or the proper punctuation what is a run on sentence?

Okay. Prepare yourself for some insightful words from a confused and lost 20-something, also known as Every Blogger On The Internet.

I feel lost. I still don't know what I want to do. “No one knows what they want to do!” says you, knowing Wise One, my elder. But, you whimsical, jolly, wizard man with your scraggly beard (I’m sorry, I'm just envisioning you as Dumbledore right now). But. That's terrifying. I can't not know. I need things guaranteed. And I'm having a lot of problems with this Life thing where I can't guarantee anything. I'm running circles around myself, trying to outdo my past self. Do more! Work harder! It's not enough! It's never enough! Don't sleep!

But, I recently heard a quote from one of my heroes that literally brought this out of control train that is my life to a complete hault.  

“Nothing here is promised. Not one day.”

I need to work hard. I need to keep jumping, climbing, crawling towards the Top. But, in the same vein, I need to enjoy life. Life, this beautiful paradox. Life, this messy, fantastic chance. It's hard, sometimes, to see the bigger picture and realize, hey, things can be worse. But you have to try. Otherwise you'll drive yourself into the ground. Unhappiness. Dissatisfaction. Fear. Why should these define me?

Okay, I'm taking off my wizard cap and stepping off my soap box.

The point I'm trying to make is in 22 I'm opening myself up to chances and listening to instincts rather than extensively thought out and vigilant career moves like a chess game (I do not know how to play chess.)

I miss theater. So I'm going to get back into theater.

I'm tired. So I'm going to listen to my body and maybe chill for like, a sec.

I have thoughts. So I'm going to write them down.

I’m not sure where I'll be this time next year. A graduate degree down, in tow with a fancy little beret and another polyester gown. I don't know where my career will be. I don't know where I'll be living. Some things I can guarantee: I will be short; I will be addicted to coffee; I will still enjoy petting dogs. But the rest? Who knows. And that's scary. I'm scared. BUT! That's life. Life isn't chess; it’s Jenga.

Hi, welcome to my 22nd year. Hope you'll be apart of it.

I love you.

When your brain is just #done & my newfound love of Furries

I'm pretty good at losing my cool at a ridiculous speed. I practically burst into a tiny fiery ball of frustration with hardly any warning. Like today when my computer decided to stop being a computer and start being my arch-nemesis.

Sign one is Severe Attitude. As in, if you dare talk to me while I am Stressing, I will eat you alive with vitriolic, acidic responses, that are usually questions or monosyllabic. Like this conversation from today:

Mom: You get your own room and bathroom on vacation!
Me: *furiously trying to unfreeze computer* k.
M: Yeah the guy called me back...
Me: Okkkkkkk??????? *does the eye squint thing, as if saying 'anything else to waste my time?'

Sign two is Ignore Completely. This one speaks for itself.

Mom: I'm making hot dogs for dinner.
Me: .....
Mom: or hamburgers, whatever one you want.
Me: .................
Mom: Alright, dinner will be ready in an hour.
Me: ............... !!!!!!!

Sign three, the final sign, is System Shut Down, i.e. loss of motor skills, ability to form complete sentences, and usually, yelling.

Me: *to myself* You stupid, piece of sh*t computer, why aren't you working, oh my god, I'm going to..... UGHHHH. I AM SO MAD, OH MY GOD. I'M GOING TO THROW YOU OUT A WINDOW, I AM SO MAD, I AM SO MAD, I AM SO MAD, etc.

This is then followed by hysterical sobbing.

So, yeah, today was super annoying. I fought all day with my computer, trying to make a video, which in turn clogged up all remaining memory in my computer, which then slowed it down, which then decided to have every app have a pop-up at once telling me my space is full, which led to me dying.

I fixed it. I also ordered an external hard drive in a red-visioned hysteria.

It all comes down to perspective. My life is digital. I mean, seriously. My college major in the 21st century is digital media. I run social media for my club at school. My job relies on digital video and social media. Every paper I've ever written is digital. Once my laptop goes up in flames, I go up in flames.

So, it makes sense for me to freak out, right? Well, not really, apparently. My mom was yelling at me for yelling at my computer which then made me yell at my mom for yelling at me for yelling at my computer. But, I don't think she truly realizes that it would be a Big Deal if my computer died. I would be SOL.

I hate how addicted/reliant I am on my computer, but not really. If it really did bother me, I would find other hobbies other than... well, this. But alas, I'm digi-chic, what can I say.

I went to the furries yesterday. How's that for a segue.

The video I was trying to make earlier today, was a video from the Furry parade for my job. Every year, (since 2006) Anthrocon is held here in Pittsburgh and it starts raining cats and dogs (and bears, and foxes, and birds, and wolves, etc.)

I fell in love with the furries yesterday. They are some the sweetest and nicest people, and this was only from my experience at the parade. I've never seen so many people, so unabashedly themselves. With over 1000 some critters walking the parade, I was truly amazed. I could feel the happiness just radiating off of them. Can you imagine for being mocked and ridiculed for something that is a part of you? Something that brings you happiness?

I loved every minute of this parade. I felt so drawn to them -- so invested and empathetic. The thrill and exhilaration they must have felt with thousands of people lining the convention center to cheer them on, must have felt so special. 

I love the uniqueness and creativity that builds the foundation of this con. There truly is nothing like it. It makes me upset when people recoil from them because they don't know anything about them and they're not willing to learn. It saddens me that people make such hateful and crude assumptions because to them, it's not "normal."

Can you imagine a world where we all were Normal?

I love anyone who wants to break social norms. I wanted to shout middle school motivational posters during the parade; Be Who You Are! No One Else Is You But You! Be The Best Version of Yourself! You Are Special! I felt so warm and bubbly and light that I could float, float, float... Just from the high from the parade.

Think I'm crazy? Go somewhere where you're getting the rawest and most vulnerable version of a giant group of people in their element. Go where you can see people for who they are, without the walls we put up to be Socially Aware. Go and tell me that you don't want to hug every single one of them and also cry.

As I mentioned in my last post, I'm still building my mosaic. I still am figuring out who I am. I am opening myself up to new and different and exciting. I am stripping myself bare and vulnerable, so I can experience newness and freshness, without judgments clouding my thoughts. 

I want to exist in a positive world. I want to exist where people just love and love and love. I want to exist in a world where a girl can shave her head and not be mocked for losing her "femininity." I want to exist in a world where a boy can be interested in makeup and fashion and not be subjected to homophobic slurs and sexuality assumptions. I want to exist in a world where people can wear their fursuits and proudly talk about their interest in the furry community... because, what these all come down to is individuality. Every individual is beautiful and special. Every single one.

At the risk of sounding sappy and guidance counselorly, I'll stop babbling... but self-love is important. I'm working on it. I hope you are too.

Always,

A 

My Comeback: "Pseudo" Adulthood and the Art of Getting By -- My graceful ascent into the notorious "20-somethings."

I turned 21 two weeks ago. I wish I could say that it was Instagram Top Page worthy -- you know, the cute girls in a dark club wearing those plastic glowing necklaces, with a drink in their hands, smiling with their eyes shut, flinging their hair super sexily all over the place. But it wasn't. I, apparently, spent most of it puking.

I don't remember most of it, if I'm being honest. And the next day, my stomach wanted to remind me what I did -- time after time after time after time.... you get the point.

But now I'm "freshly 21," as the bartender at the baseball game told me, and I'm still revelling in the fact that people want to see my ID.

"Yes!" I'll shriek at the waitress/casino guard/bartender/any poor soul who asks if I'm 21. I'll whip out my wallet with gusto, pull out that tiny Rectangular Card of Validation, and thrust it into the face of the bored civilian, puffing out my chest as if I'm saying, "Yeah, go ahead. Tilt that bad boy around and see the shiny plastic layer on top. That's the real deal. I'm a grownup, B*tch."

But how long will this excitement last? Will I remain a "cute" short girl my whole life? Into my 40s? Lugging my caravan of children around? Getting ID'd no matter where I go? Bars? Casinos? Car Rentals????? Will I ever peak adulthood??????? Will I ever become a real person!?!??!

From what I've read in listicle* after listicle on Cosmo and Buzzfeed, 20-somethings are a glorified, manic pixie dream. Everyone seems to romanticize the I-Have-No-Money-Or-Food-Or-Stable-Job-Or-Relationship-But-Life-Is-Great that I see in almost every "indie**" flick nowadays. But I don't want to be there. The unknown terrifies me. Not knowing if I'll have an income, terrifies me. I need money! I was raised in a generation where we're seen as gluttonous, self-obsessed tyrants, but yet everyone hounds into us how we need to Save! Save! Save! and everything is so expensive. So how much of our money, is really benefitting the economy, right? When I need to pick up student loans for my grad degree, after my parents so wonderfully, amazingly, supportively, adverbially, paid for my undergrad, I don't see myself going out and spending all this cash that would qualify me as gluttonous, self-obsessed, tyrannical, etc.

Where am I going with this? I don't know.

I feel older. I started this blog when I was a pimply, hormonal, confused 16-year-old thumping away on my Peptobismal painted Dell laptop. When the most horrifying thing to happen to me was a B on a paper.

I could include a boring anecdote here about how I've grown over the years, mentally, emotionally, academically, how I've really stapled down my "writer's voice" and how I have a vague idea what The Future holds behind its thin curtain. But I won't. Cause... ehhhhh. Do you care? Does anyone care?

I find myself to be quite self-deprecating. I'm working on it. I used to take compliments and put them in my back pocket and let them warm the soul, happy that someone thought I was Nice/Funny/Kind/Smart/Energetic/Blah blah blah bleeeeehhhhhh. Now I shy away from them as if they're a poisonous, foot long, tarantula, baring it's blood-coated fangs at me about to tear my flesh from my body. Too visual? This is coming from the aracnaphobe, mind you.

I'm so afraid of rejection. So, so, so afraid of rejection. I can't handle "mean." Mean is such multilayered definition -- and I'm terrified of every oniony layer. I don't know when I reached this stage. I was a child actor, goddammit. I was faced with rejection since I was a tiny baby in some hospital commercial. I was the envy of all the other child actor babies. And then I went on to be the cute-faced, musical theater toddler, singing songs and shuffle-ball-changing my way around the world, as if this was gonna last forever.

Then I hit puberty and hoooorrrrrmoooones. I've always been a ??????????????? person. What that means is I know a lot but not really. I can memorize vocab definitions as if I'm the Lebron of vocabulary. I can analyze the sh*t out of any short story and probably find some other literary device that is woven so deep within the binding, that it probably doesn't even exist, but I'm so confident, you'll believe me. But when it comes to me... Abby.... I'm a big case of ????????????.

I change what I like at an almost constant rate. People, food, music, clothes, hobbies, perfume scents. I see this as extremely selfish. I'm working on it. But because of this, I find myself thinking I'm not good enough. Why don't you know what you want to do, Abby? Why aren't you a better writer, Abby? Why don't you know more about film, Abby? Why do you suck, Abby? Why even attempt to have a brighter future, Abby? Stop, Abby!!! You're the worst, Abby! BOOOOOO, ABBY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I put on this front of Hell Yeah, Confident Girl, but in reality, I'm just as big of a mess as the next college-aged person. I love this. I love when you say this to An Adult, and they say, "Oh, of course," as they tilt their head to the side and give a close-lipped smile. "No one knows what they want to do at this age!" BUT YET, we have very important life decisions to make?! And when we don't know what to do, we're humiliated for it and called gluttonous, self-obsessed tyrants!? Who made these rules?

I'm just happy I'm not from Belgium and have to make these decisions in 7th grade. ***

I'm working on a new positive outlook. I'm scrubbing away the negativity -- no more talking smack, no more critiquing random people on the street, no more Tumblr Social Justice. I don't care. Why do I care? This is me. This is Abby.

During my time in London, I had a loooooooot of time to think about me and life and choices and growing up. I realized that I need to stop living in the outline of a "20-Something." I need to live as just me.

I read Amy Poehler's Yes Please and it was an amazing, funny, beautifully crafted look into life from someone who worked and worked to be where she is. I have so much respect for Amy and look to her for inspiration time and time again. I want to be a perfect embodiment of Real Amy and Leslie Knope -- who in turn, I think, carries a lot more Amy then I think she realizes.

Anyways. Amy talked a lot about coming to terms with yourself -- your currency. She says,

I had already made a decision early on that I would be a plain girl with tons of personality, and accepting it made everything a lot easier. If you are lucky, there is a moment in your life when you have some say as to what your currency is going to be. I decided early on it was not going to be my looks..... Decide what your currency is early. Let go of what you will never have. People who do this are happier and sexier, (Yes Please, pg. 20-21.)

This hit me like a freight train on fire. Like my hobbies and perfume preference, I change Abby Preference a lot, too. I went through my Skater Girl Phase, circa 2009. I went through my Internet Geek Girl Phase, circa 2011. I went through my Grunge Phase, circa 2014. Those phases, mixed in with my hobbies and likes and dislikes form a giant soupy, sludgy pot of self-esteem issues.

I don't want to say I'm ugly... mostly because that's going to come off as a cry of attention. But, also because I look exactly like my mother, but I find her beautiful and womanly, where I find myself just... belchhhhh. Some may say it's because my relationship with the male gender is so confusing and weird and always ends up with me not feeling like enough because The Boy Is Bored and moves onto to another girl.... it's almost non-existant.

But I say, because it was up until... oh, I don't know, maybe, April? I had no idea who I was. I still am piecing together me, but I'm getting there. I've finally accepted that I'm never going to be an Instagram Model... a Really Pretty Person. I will never, ever, be able to put that perfect selfie up, with dewy, glowing, sun-kissed skin, with perfect, pink, perky lips, stomach so tight you can have a full dinner spread on it, and booty so firm, shorts look like they were made to be worn by dat ass.

It's just not me. I was made with curves on curves, and not those size 00 curves. I have like, a normal Kim Kardashian body.

I'm strive for comedy. I love to make people laugh. I can't do serious. Working for a news station, I think, maybe, I'd want to pursue a journalism career. Nope. Too many dying dogs, too many house fires, too many sad, serious things.

I love music, but I'm no where talented enough to be successful in it. I love to sing, but I know there are millions of talented girls who will be the Next Broadway Star, and it won't be Abigail Stubenbort.

I love makeup and hair stuff, but refer back to Really Pretty Person. I will never be the prime candidate for Beauty Gurus.

So where does that leave me? I love to make videos. I love to write (but ONLY when I want to write.) I love to read, but go through phases with binge reading.

I'm like pieces of Old Abby and New Abby being glued together, like a beautiful Abby Mosaic. I am brought to life by the mistakes Old Abby made, with knowledge New Abby posesses. I am a cultimation of Old Abby's failed endeavours with New Abby's Life Perspective. I am me. I am put together carefully and strategically, so that when the right light hits, I glow. I am a mosaic.

I want to be This Abby that Current Abby visualises -- someone who is happy and successful and loves life and everything around her. I'm working on that during my ascent into the 20-somethings.

I have so much more to learn and do and I want to creatively express myself more. I want to stop thinking of What Ifs and squish myself into the outline of someone else. I want to be that successful person, while creating things that will inspire my little cousins who watch my videos. I want to be their idol.

Hello, welcome to my blog. My name is Abby.

Always,

A





* List article. Listicle.

**Are indie flicks even real? now that then Indie is In? What qualifies as "indie?"

*** We had a foreign Exchange student my senior year of high school. He said he had to pick what he wanted to do FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE in 7th grade. I still cry for those poor children. Hope ya picked the right one, you prepubescent babies.