Goddess, I Am.

I went to Europe in the dead of winter – one of the worst winters in recent years, as a matter of fact. People thought I was crazy, considering that I’ve never been anywhere truly cold before. But you know what? I was pretty damned sure that I was going to love it. And I did.

On my second day in Amsterdam, it snowed. And it wasn’t just the little sprinkling as was originally predicted, too. It came down in flurries and torrents while Kitty and I were walking around the central part of the city. I walked around, trying to catch snowflakes in my tongue and giggling madly at every turn. People within earshot cheered for me when they heard it was my first time to see the white stuff. To me, the world was at its most beautiful at that very moment. I found myself believing in magic again, and in beauty, and in grace. I have never felt so blessed.

Of course, the snow eventually stopped falling and all that was left was the cold. But long after the snow turned to ugly grey slush, I still found myself in love with it all. Sure, there were times when my fingers and toes hurt so much that I was pretty sure I’ve killed them, and I was often so sure that my nose would run off without me. But funnily enough, I never blamed the cold. Never could I bring myself to hate it, nor could I stop myself from loving it. It was then that I knew that I was made for this. I was made for the cold.

As I write this, I am sprawled under the air-conditioning with its coolant pump working overtime. I am hot and sweaty and very much pissed off at the world and this infernal summer. It dawned on me that I’ve been feeling pretty much the same way almost my entire life. I hate the heat, I’ve always hated the heat, and I suspect I always will. And now that I have felt what it was like to be deliciously cold on the other side of the world, I now know with all my heart that I don’t belong here anymore. And it just makes me so goddamned angry that I am still here, boiling and simmering in my own sweat and a myriad of lost dreams.

I don’t want to be here anymore. I shouldn’t even have to be here anymore. As I write this, it’s a lovely 10°C in rainy Paris. And I know exactly where I’d rather be.

I want to blog, I really do. But if all I’m going to end up with are sniveling drafts bemoaning the lack of excitement in my life, I figured I’d better keep those to myself. It’s not like nothing is happening in these ‘ere parts. It’s mostly that they’re not exactly the things that I want to happen.

If you want to know how bad it is, hear this: the most exciting thing that has happened to me in the past week or so is The Avengers. Because I was able to ogle my next husband Tom Hiddleston (Loki) in all his glory not once, but twice in 4 days. In fact, it’s so exciting that I’m going to go see it again tomorrow. Whoop-dee-doo.

If this guy tells me to ‘kneel’, I’m down there in, like, 2 seconds. I don’t see what the rest of the human race is complaining about.

Other events that are of equal import include my almost-daily run-in with the screaming neighborhood kids (in which I yell my head of, threatening circumcision whenever they get too close to my bedroom window) and poking fun at another neighbor’s talentless son as he and the guitar-from-hell butcher everything from The Eagles to Nicki Fuckin’ Minaj.

Christ, I miss being a nomad. I’m starting to think that I’m never going to be truly happy unless I’m living out of a suitcase. Or maybe I just need to move. Or volunteer as Loki’s all-around bitch. Where do I sign up?

So today, I’ve making an effort to blog again. Do I miss blogging? I’m not entirely sure. It’s not like I’ve taken my life offline entirely. If anything, I’m even more active online now than I was, say, a year ago.

I blame social media. In fact, I’m taking inventory of my arsenal of social media accounts right now, and I’m ashamed to say that I have reached alarming hipster levels. You name it, I probably have it.

They’re just making it so easy. On average, I can tweet in about 30 seconds flat. On Instagram, I can take pseudo-artsy photos of everything from my cat to, I don’t know, medical carts; add a quippy line or two; et voila! People know what I’m thinking. Now, compare that to blogging. I’m a ridiculously slow writer (these days), and it’ll probably take me an hour or so to craft a semi-decent blogpost. And with me constantly drowning in work, I hardly ever have the luxury of time to hunker down and blog.

I don’t want to stop blogging, though. Or more accurately, I don’t want to stop writing. So I’ll keep trying to, whenever I do have enough moments to spare, such as now.

And in between those moments, there’s always Instagram. So follow me (username: irisgodd3ss) for a shitload of cat photos (and a few cakes, if you’re lucky).