All posts by TheDarkHorse

INFJ and the Feeling of a Calling

Passenger airplane with a boarding steps in the morning sun

So, the INFJ is often referred to as the “advocate” or “counselor.” We’re also known for having “callings” or “vocations” rather than just believing that one day we will get a job.

And I have to say, this is so true for me. And I’m wondering if this is true for any other INFJs out there?

If anyone has read this blog for a while, you probably know the story of my journey. I ran away to LA because I really wanted to make movies that would inspire people, that would change world, and that would help the underdog. Growing up, all I heard was “You’ll fail.” and “Do you know many people actually success in that industry? Get your head out of the clouds.” and “One day you’re going to have grow up and get a real job.”

But I never did. I never did grow up. I never did “grow out of it.” The concept of working a 9-5 job that I hated simply for a paycheck was just never enough for me. The thought of spending a life working at H&R Block or something, feeling unfulfilled every single day, left me feeling nauseous, depressed, anxious, and upset.

ice cream
Actual photo of my facial expression working in retail…

I then spent a bunch of years running around, trying to find myself, “trying to grow up” and be what everyone thought an adult should be, and it all went horribly! I wound up working in retail, hating my life every single day. Wishing I had a life with meaning, with purpose, and with excitement. I got working holiday visas to Australia and New Zealand. Hoping that, if I had to work boring jobs…at least I could do it in a foreign country. But of course, just when you think you’re safe….

park

 

My misery got so bad that I broke down and my years of depression and fear for the future exploded into an uncomfortable wave of anxiety and panic disorder that lead to me becoming agoraphobic while working in a foreign country. 

Long story short… It’s taken many, many, many years for me to ACTUALLY grow up, and do the most adult thing possible – Find myself. Know myself. And know what it is I’m meant to do in this world.

And that’s THE EXACT SAME THING I’VE WANTED TO DO SINCE I WAS A KID.

I want to tell stories. These days, the stories are a bit different from when I was a kid. After the years I spent collapsing from panic attacks, killing myself slowly with depression, and the period where I was even too afraid to leave my apartment… my stories obviously now tackle issues like mental illness.

And I’m not in film. I’m a writer now. But I love it. And I love being able to reach out to people. I love being able to inspire people. I love that my voice is being heard. I love everything about it!!!!!!!

So, I guess , here’s my thing – Yes. I’ve always felt like the advocate. And I’ve always felt like I’ve had a calling. And I was told for years that that was a sign of immaturity.

AND IM ASKING WHY?????  When someone wants the world (and to help the world) Why is that met with hatred? With disgust? With the idea of “Oh, that’s childish.”

And the other thing I’m asking is, do any of there INFJs out there feel this way? Does anyone else ever read the personality traits of INFJ and just be like… Holy Fuckballs That Is Me To The Core!

yasss

 

And I guess that finally, the other thing I’m saying is this: People suck. And I honesty (and unfortunately) believe that most people don’t live the lives they want. They settle because it’s easy. Because it’s less scary. Because it’s what those around them are telling them to do. So when they see someone who really goes for it – who grabs life by the horns – I think it makes them jealous, and angry, and probably even a bit insecure about their own life, which then makes them (and perhaps even subconsciously) try to put people down in order to not feel so bad about themselves.

So, what that longwinded paragraph is trying to say is –

IF YOU FEEL YOU HAVE A PASSION,

GO FOR IT!

world

 

The world is yours, take it and blow it up! (metaphorically of course)

 

~ The Dark Horse

(Was the proofread? I mean… I suppose you could say that)

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I’m Living In Brooklyn Now!

brooklyn

So, this is a follow up to my last post, which chronicled the completely insane week of July 31 to August 7.

I’m happy to say, I survived. And I’m now living in Williamsburg, Brooklyn… and I don’t hate it. That’s right! I don’t miss the Upper West Side at all, because Brooklyn is

so.

damn.

cool.

Yep… totally happy. Wow, I love all these obnoxious cafes, and ugly fucking hipsters who have too much money and no jobs! HOW COULD I POSSIBLY HATE A FUCKING PLACE LIKE THIS? 

In Williamsburg, people are still wearing fedoras. MOTHERFUCKING FEDORAS! 

brooklyn1

This photo should tell you everything you need to know. I want to punch that girl in the face.

I went to Whole Foods yesterday and they have an oat milk vending machine…. Humans of planet earth… please, let me repeat :

OAT MILK VENDING MACHINE.

oat milk

If there actually was a God, he would obliterate this fucking hellhole into oblivion.

Right now, Im at a cafe and there is a guy next to me with glasses, pierced ears, shaved head in the back, spiky hair up front, in a gross tank top, with tattoos, wearing a fanny pack cross his shoulder, black jeans rolled up to his knees, with white tube socks, and Adidas sneakers that looks like they’re from the 80’s (AKA: He bought them for $100 from one of the many insanely expensive “thrift” shops in Williamsburg. He’s drinking an ice coffee that he ordered with, of course, oat milk.

Remember when hipsters loved soy milk? Then they hated it. And then it was almond milk, but that too wasn’t the miracle cure they had been hoping for. Then, there was that brief fad of “raw milk”. But now, it’s oat milk. Williamsburg smells of the greasy farts of too many hipsters who consume nothing but oats.

OH MY FUCKING GOD. I’m not making this up. Now a group of 3 hipsters just walked in to order and this was their conversation:

hipster 1: Yo, dude, we need to get a shot of you on the train. It will be, like, great for the vlog.

hipster 2: Man, this is going to be such a great collaboration. I’m so happy that we connected.

hipster 1: Yeah man, we’ll call the video something like, Freestyle in Manhattan, or like, Brooklyn, or whatever.

Hipster 3 remains silent. Probably knowing deep down how completely meaningless his life is.

hipster

But like I said, I’m not upset. It’s a great neighborhood. Everyone here is totally cool. Like, the coolest. They’re so trendy, self-obsessed, and glued to their social media that they’re honestly the best people in the world.

How could you not like this neighborhood?

My Life Went To Hell In 1 Short Week…

hell

So, let’s flashback to July 31st… Ah, I was so young, so naive. So innocent.

I thought I was about to move to an apartment on the Upper East Side. I was packing up my things because we had to vacate the apartment by midnight.

But then, at 3pm, my new roommate texted me to say that he decided to go with someone else…

CAN YOU FUCKING BELIEVE THAT?

And I was losing my apartment 9 hours later…..

AND THEN I WENT INTO MELTDOWN MODE.

rampage

***Actual Footage of Inside My Soul on July 31, 2019***

 

I was scrambling.  I was desperately messaging apartments and texting everyone and anyone I knew saying I needed a couch to sleep on.

The hours went by and no responses came.

It was now 11pm. I went into critical meltdown mode. I had to realize that it was possible I might have to hop in a cab and head to the airport. I had to accept that this could be the end of my time in New York.  The thought of a hotel for a night crossed my mind… then I saw the prices for last-minute hotels in NYC during the summer months, and I quickly discovered that wasn’t an option.

I had to get serious.  I said, “What can I carry on a plane home, and what can’t I.”

My lamp. My desk. Had to go

My pillows, sheets, blankets. Had to go. 

All my books. Magazines. Notebooks. Had to go. 

Clothes I hadn’t worn in a while. Had to go. 

les mis

I was near tears, throwing my entire life onto the curb of 82nd street.

THEN, FINALLY AT 5 MINUTES BEFORE MIDNIGHT, a guy I had slept with a few times messaged me. “Sure, come over.”

I couldn’t believe it. I was still in the game. But, I needed to pack light. This random guy was already doing me a favor, I couldn’t bring my entire life over to his place. I needed to accept that all the stuff on the curb was gone. Out of my life.

 

I stayed with him for 2 days. I worked during the day, and visited apartments at night. And oh man, once I lowered my standards…. the places I found…..

There was the Indian guy in East Harlem who wanted me to share a twin-size bed with him. There was an apartment of Korean guys who had walled off a section of of their living room with plywood to create a “flex bedroom” (AKA: A small, windowless box made of plywood) and they wanted $1,300 a month (not including utilities) for it. And there was another place on the Upper East Side I found on Craigslist. It was a super tiny room in a 4-bedroom apartment for $1k a month. I thought, ONLY 1k A MONTH??? I’d living in a closet on the Upper East Side for that!

amy sedaris

The broker wanted first, last, security, and a 1k broker fee.

I asked, “You want a broker fee for an apartment I found on Craigslist?”

…He stopped responding to my texts.

Then, the guy I was staying with goes, “So…my boyfriend is staying over for the next few days, and he gets really jealous so you have to go.”

I texted my friend and didn’t even ask to stay with him. I simply said, “I’m coming over.”

I got to his place and fell asleep on his couch, I was so dead. The next morning  I woke up to visit an apartment in Williamsburg, AND BAM! That was it. The neighborhood was great, my roommate was fuckin hot, and super nice, and we clicked instantly, and then he said, “But, I just moved in and need to set up the apartment, so move-in isn’t until August 10. I couldn’t pass it up though. So I instantly gave him the deposit.

I get back to my friend’s and he goes, “Look, I have to go out of town for a birthday, and I don’t really feel comfortable with you being here when I’m not.. so, you have to leave.”

I went on Orbitz, booked a flight home for that night and called my mom from the taxi to JFK.

“Hi Honey! What’s going on?”

“Hi mom. My flight is going to land at about 9:20pm, I need you to be at the airport to pick me up.”

(silence.) 

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“You’re coming home tonight?”

“Yes.”

(squeal!) “Oh ok!!! We’ll be there! I can’t wait to see you! Do you need me to pick up anyt….”

(Click.) 

I didn’t have time to speak to her. I had to call work to arrange being gone for a week.

airport

So, after a plane ride, and a ride home from the airport. I hopped in bed, safe in my childhood bedroom.  Little did I realize that I had been running around so much the past few days that I hadn’t been eating or drinking.

The next morning at 9 a.m. I shoot out of bed. I had a massive Charlie horse in my right calf. I jumped up, and instantly get woozy and light-headed and collapse. My parents are both at work already. I try to stand up again, and I get woozy again, and collapse. I try a third time, and start losing my vision when I stand up. I collapse again.

I decide that maybe I need food and water. I try to walk downstairs to the kitchen and again, I can feel my vision blurring and my head getting all wobbly. I collapse. Then, with no other option, I call 911 and literally have to say the lines, “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”  I’M NOT EVEN 30 YEARS OLD! 

 

Long story short. They come and tell me I seem dehydrated, but my blood pressure and sugars seem fine. I go to the doctor just to be safe. I get bloodwork done and a cardiac test. Everything comes back fine. It was just exhaustion and dehydration.

So, that’s how, all within less than 7 days, I lost my apartment, stayed on 2 people’s couches, had to fly home, and even call 911…

But. I’m not giving up. I’m still in this. I head to back to New York tomorrow. I won’t give up. New York won’t win. I let Australia take me down and I’ve never forgiven myself. New York City and all you cuntfuck New Yorkers who live there… you’ve made a powerful enemy. game on.

 

~ The Dark Horse

(this post was way too long to proofread.  Sowwyz!)

 

 

 

 

 

I Hate Endings

folks

So, I move out of my Upper West Side apartment tomorrow, and it’s killing me.

Yes, I hated my roommates, and I can’t believe I somehow accidentally ended up living with a Trump supporter… I hope he chokes on a Freedom Fry in his new apartment in New Jersey… actually, now he lives in New Jersey, so he’s basically already dead.

BUT STILL, despite how much I hated my roommates, I still feel like I’m losing something. I’m losing my neighborhood. My cafes I’ve come to love where the baristas know me by name. I love walking in and having someone scream out, “What article are you writing today?!?”

I’m going to miss my corner Bodega. Shoutout to the West 82nd Grocery! I’m even going to miss my gym, where the equipment was old and crappy, and there was no AC, and old gay men would jack off in the sauna. Classic Manhattan, I say! And again, despite the fact that I hate old gay men jerking off in public, something about losing that makes me sad. It’s like, who, besides the people in my neighborhood who also gym there, would ever believe that the basement of our gym is a 24/7 jerkfest? NOBODY! 

And that’s community.

OH MY GOD. AM I GETTING OLD?

AM I STARTING TO LIKE THE IDEA OF…. SETTING DOWN ROOTS?

Sweet Jesus Kill Me.

old

old1

 

But then again, I suppose 30 is right around the corner. Perhaps I should embrace the failing kidneys, trick hips, and arthritic knees,

Oh, god, all before I’m even 40 I’m sure…

Or perhaps I need to think of it this way – I’ve only been in NYC for 5 months. I’m still just a newborn New York baby.  Maybe having to move to the Upper East Side isn’t an ending…maybe it’s just a beginning?

Maybe this first apartment was my “starter” apartment. Maybe I’ll actually like the Upper East Side? (cringes…) I mean, maybe, right? Maybe I’ll learn to love my new roommate and make a new best friend?

POINT IS – maybe this isn’t the end. Maybe this is the start. The start of a new adventure. The true beginning to my life in New York!

 

Let’s hope for the best?

~ The Dark Horse

(#NotProofRead, #DealWithIt)

I’m Moving: Or, Joan Didion, You Bitch.

uws

Everyone, I have horrific, tragic, deviating news!

I’m….  I’m…  (chokes up).

I’m….MOVING! 

(Breaks down into tears) 

Oh, it’s just truly the worst thing that has ever happened in the course of human history. My glorious apartment in the heart of the Upper West Side will be gone. How will I even go on?  WHY SHOULD I EVEN CONTINUE LIVING????

And do you know where I’m moving to? Oh, lord, I can’t. I literally.  just.  can’t.

I can’t even tell you! No! It’s too difficult!

Ok. Deep breath, you can do this… Just say it quick, so it’s out in the world.

I’m moving too… The Upper East Side! 

ues

I don’t think you understand.  Upper West Side people just aren’t like Upper East Side people.  We’re a different breed.  I feel like a traitor. I’m going to live on the other side of Central Park.

Upper East Side people are just petty and emotionless. Joan Didion, my absolute least favorite NYC author lives on the Upper East Side.  Gross! 

I mean, did you ever read ‘Goodbye To All That’?

ues1

In the essay, all Joan Didion does is bitch about things and makes mountains out of molehills. She talks about her time in New York City like as if it’s life and death.

That’s the kind of person who lives on the Upper East Side… people who are overdramatic drama queens!

Oh my God, I can’t even believe this. Will I need a passport to visit the Upper West Side now?  Is the Upper East Side even part of Manhattan???? I may as well just move to New jersey at this point. Or Wyoming. It’s all the same.

Ugh. I can’t even fathom living around all those delusional, self-obsessed, melodramatic people of the Upper East Side. I should just drink poison like in Romeo & Juliet. That’ll show em.

Fucking drama queens.

 

Please, pray for me in these trying days to come, I’ll need them…

~ Dark Horse

Oh, My Dear Editor Friend…You Have F***** With The Wrong Bitch.

writer

Oh, Mr. Journal Editor from the workshop today…. Oh, oh, oh, you poor, poor thing.

To anyone out there who doesn’t live in my head and needs context for what’s going on – Today in my writing workshop an editor from a literary journal came by. I read to him the first few pages of an essay I’m working on about my time hustling in LA.

I was told “While I would probably continue on past the second page, It sounds like anyone could have written it.”

Anyone?

A true story about running away and having sex for money to avoid homelessness can simply be written by anyone?????

ANYWAYS... So, I contacted my editor today who has been helping me with this story. I think it’s great. And I think it isn’t written in a normal way at all. In fact, one of the critiques I regularly receive about my writing is that it isn’t normal enough. I’m told I’m too causal, I cuss too much, It’s “like I’m having a conversation with someone.” (which, to me, is an honor, because that’s how I want to write.)

So, I just revised the essay a little bit. I streamlined that shit so fuckin hard that NOBODY can say it isn’t worthy of publication. It’s funny, it’s sad, it’s scary, it’s real, it’s perfect.

 

So, now…

revenge

It’s time to get revenge on that stupid journal editor. 

 

I’m going to get that published. This will happen. Vengeance will be mine. A flame has been lit inside me. A flame you don’t want to fuck with.

revenge 2

 

I’m going to get this essay published because I know it’s good. I’ve worked hard on it. It’s worthy of being read. Let’s do this. 

~ The Dark Horse