Nola.Bird

And then comes that point post-grad when you realize that yeah, actually, the last four years were a waste of time and money; you are inherently unemployable; ignoring the existence of your degree might be more useful; and you’ve chosen to begin your rebellion against all the unhappy lies about how great education is, starting with needless and incorrect use of semi-colons. 

;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

(Picture above: shit I know how to use but will never use because who the fuck cares when I can’t even get hired for a minimum wage, basic labor, OH MY FUCKING GOD A MONKEY COULD DO THIS BETTER, AND FOR THE TOP SHELVES, HELL HIRE A GIBBON, THEIR LONG ARMS WOULD WORK REALLY WELL FOR REACHING HIGH UP JOB!!!!  FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING FUCKS WHO FUCKED UP THE ECONOMY AND FUCKED ALL OF US OVER.  End of hyperbolic rant.)

That the sign of being grown up, which does not necessarily mean that you’ve lost childlike wonder or such, is when you realize that there are bigger things in this world than lil’ ol’ you.  I really do love Portland.  I really do hope one day to settle here.  But home is where I need to be.  To help, and spend time with family. 

When you willingly and knowingly put another person as a priority over one of your desires/priorities, I think there’s this little imperceptible shift where some jagged part of you smooths out and sits in with the rest of you going, “Well then.” (and in my mind, that little part then affects a British accent and asks, “What time is tea?” because I am awesome like that, and so my roving pieces are too) 

You’re a little more at peace with yourself and the inherent nature of circumstances beyond your control.  Making the best of things suddenly doesn’t seem so bad, but simply a way of life.  (which is not to at all say that you don’t continue to strive.  no, it doesn’t mean that at all.)

When I was nine, I found out that the man who raised me, whom I still consider my father, was not biologically my father.  Before that even though, I’d noticed physical differences between myself and my older siblings.  I am shorter (a lot) for one, my hair a different shade of brown, different eyes, a nose that is apparently not from my family, and skin that tans rather than burns.  So, when I got bored today and rented “Love Actually” and the Portuguese actress popped up, it again peaked my interest.  And then when I got distracted and began searching the internet for other Portuguese actresses and people to look at (sidenote: A2 mentioned, he comes from part of the U.S. with a decent sized Portuguese-in-the-diaspora population, that it was pretty obvious I was Portuguese.  He guessed, actually.  First time someone got it correctly) I was glad to suddenly see girl with features similar to mine.  Something ‘round the eyes… the shape I guess.  And my nose.  In profile, several times, there was how my nose looked!  My family all have these very English, or Swedish, or sometimes German noses, but never a nose like mine. 

I’m twenty-three, and finally, I know where my nose came from. 

And to explain, this is my nose: