Stream of Consciousness and Year End Review

How does one begin a "stream of consciousness" essay? Should one start with the first thought that darts briefly across the mind, and continue to write the following thoughts as they occur? Or is the art of  the "stream of consciousness" narrative mode more convoluted, more planned, and therefore more tricky? Personally, I haven't written much in the way of "stream of consciousness" literature. Not that much of what I write could be considered literature. Its not. But anyway, I have always always been opposed to the very idea of "stream of consciousness" literature, ever since my freshman year at UNM, when I took a graduate level Irish Literature class and read James Joyce's "A Portrait of the Aritist as a Young Man." At least, I tried to read it. I have to admit I was bored and never quite finished the book. And I felt justified in my failure to grasp his point based on my impressive A- at the end of the semester. But I've become more curious about Joyce since my summer visit to Ireland left me with Joyce's name ringing in my ears. Everyone in Ireland is just so stinking proud of their famous Irish writers. And I've begun to wonder: is there more to Joyce than I, the inexperienced and admittedly lazy freshman, could appreciate? Is there really something to this idea of "stream of consciousness" writing? And so, like all great egoists, I have determined to attempt my own "stream of consciousness" blog posts rather than do any actual research. So far its not going very well, as you can probably tell. I think I've been thinking too hard about this. And I am fairly certain that the point is not to think, but to write. So here it goes. I shall proceed to tell you everything that is on my mind.

The main subject that has been dominating my thoughts as of late has been, well, me. Actually, its the Air Force, and Phillip, and the fact that Phillip just joined the Air Force out of the blue last month. But mostly I think about how it affects me. Note the egoist theme continues. I'm constantly thinking about the effects on me, and about how, after joining up, he was immediately scheduled to leave for basic on November 9. I feel quite a bit like there just isn't enough time to process all of this, that the moment I become slightly used to the idea of him joining at all, I'm being required to give him up. And soon. And give him up not only for the 8 and 1/2 weeks of basic, but for Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years. And our 2 year anniversary. And boxing day. And, as my 11-year-old cousin Noah so kindly reminded me, the series finale of "The Office." Speaking of "The Office," we've been watching it all over again on Netflix this week. That show is hilarious. And uncomfortable. And I can't believe it is coming to an end.

Nope. I'm not ready to stop talking about the Air Force yet. Because I think I can handle him being gone. I really, really do. And I think that my thinking I'm strong enough to handle it is just another glimpse of my egoism poking through. But really, I'm planning to live with my mom and dad while Phillip is gone. This will save rent, and I'll get to spend the holiday season pretending to be a little kid again. I won't have to miss my family at Christmas because we are spending it with the in-laws, like last year. Not that I didn't have fun with the in-laws. If you're reading this, in-laws, I had fun! I loved it! But I missed my family desperately. Which leads me to my next fear. Or is this the first fear I'm mentioning? Its hard to keep track when you're writing "stream of consciousness." Anyway, after Phillip is done with basic, he goes to "tech school," where they train him to do whatever kind of job he gets assigned to at basic. And after tech school, which could be 2 months or 2 years or something in between, and I may or may not be allowed to go along with him, they will give us (ok, him, not us.) order and send us off to any old place they see fit. And it could be somewhere totally awesome, like England or Germany or Hawaii. Or it could be some God-forsaken wilderness like Oklahoma or Kentucky. Actually, I don't know if there are any bases in Kentucky. But there could be, and that scares me. Not because I don't like Kentucky or Oklahoma. I've never been to either place. But they don't sound good.  And selfishly, the thought of being sent somewhere boring or miserably ugly or cold only scares me a tiny bit less than the idea that I will be moving far, far away from everyone I have ever known or loved. Except Phillip of course. But he doesn't count. Because he's the one dragging me there in the first place. So its all his fault. Its his fault that I may have to miss my little brother's graduation from college, or the 1 time a year that my best friend comes home from Thailand. But do you want to know what scares me even more than all of that? I will have to make new friends. Yep. I, Daniella, who many, many people seem to believe to be an absolute extrovert(where did you get that silly idea, anyway?), am terrified of making new friends. See, I like my old friends. I've had them all for quite some time. And really, they are absolutely wonderful, amazing, perfect for me friends. I've quite literally never had to make a friend out of nothing before. I've always, always been introduced or thrown together with them in some way that produces almost instant friendship with very little effort on my part. Its true. I'm a lazy friend-maker. So friend-making scares me. A lot. Anyway, this all sounds terribly whiny. And I desperately don't want to be whiny. I think, in my obvious egoism, my real biggest fear is that people will find out that I secretly am whiny and not as tough and strong as I want to be. Because I am determined to be a brave, supportive, suffer in silence military wife. And I really don't want to fail.

Apparently, sometimes its important to cut off your stream of consciousness when it becomes too annoying or scary. This whole business is definitely harder than it looks from the outside. I think Joyce probably was just a slightly lazy "stream of consciousness" writer, so he didn't bother to redirect his thoughts whenever he became boring. Way to keep it real, Joyce. *Fist bump* But right now, I think I would like to redirect all of our thoughts back to me, my egoism, and my blog. Because today is the 1 year anniversary of my first post on this blog. That's right, its a blogiversary! Happy bloggy birthday to me! Or should I say you? Can I talk to my blog like its a person? Is it appropriate blog etiquette to wish your blog a happy birthday? Or should I just congratulate myself and move on? Most of the blogs I read post a pretty picture of a cake or party hats or sparklers and say "Hurray! Its been a whole year! Thanks for reading, everybody!" But then again, most of the blogs I read have way more followers than I do. So there are lots of people to thank for reading. And what they are really saying is "thanks for coming here every day and making AdSense go crazy so that I can make tons of money and stay home posting random crap on the internet." Or something like that. And since I am not making any money off this blog, I don't feel that this occasion deserves a pretty picture of a cake. That's right, blog, you don't deserve cake! You will only get cake when you start making me money! Haha just kidding. That's mean. Here's a picture of a cake:

See! I even googled "blogiversary cake" and got you a pretty image from http://artstuff.typepad.com/. But really. Seriously. Thank you all for reading my blog. I have such a blast writing it, and it warms my heart that you guys faithfully come here and put up with my shenanigans and write such nice comments. I do it for you, peeps! Oh, and if you are actually still reading this post, thank you for reading this post. Holy crap, it is long and dramatic and crazy and random. If you are still reading, then you get a blog follower of the year award. But only if you comment on this post. And become my follower. And tell your friends about this blog. And make me lots of money. Ok, not really. I'll love you just the same if none of that happens. I promise.