Black as Your Soul...

Once upon a a very long time (four years) ago, in Fresno, California I was a 20 year old girl standing outside the local philharmonic concert hall...


Nine Inch Nails was launching its first album and tour in over six years, and lined up outside the venue was a sea of black. Black hoodies, Tool shirts, band merchandise, and more black eyeliner than a MAC counter, spread as far as the eye could see. And there I stood 3000 miles from home, waiting to get into a show to see a band who made synthesizers, industrial beats, self-loathing, and singing about doing creepy stuff with animals new again. I was the girl in green, dark green mind you, unwilling to give into the peer pressure of safety-pinning messages to my clothes and smearing my makeup to show the world that I was hardcore enough to hear Trent Reznor screaming about drug abuse and cutting himself.

Amazingly enough, directly behind me, were two guys in non-skinny jeans and college Tshirts that, dare I say it, looked comparitively normal? As I was, and still am prone to doing, I eavesdropped on their conversation, and what followed was something I remember to this day:

"You know I don't think I really belong here anymore...I just don't think I'm as angry as I used to be. "

It was a rather innocuous comment, but in a sea of people who were pumped up and chanting, "Head like a hole, black as your soul, I'd rather die, than give you control," it wasn't the sentiment I was expecting. It resonated with me though, because while I'd never been the goth queen, and parts of NIN terrified me, I had enjoyed the music but never felt like it was my scene. To be frank, I never had enough of that anger inside of me, but I was too young or to determined to realize that at the time. For years I had been writing scathing editorials and opionated columns in my high school newspaper, and without that outlet in college, I had channeled my predilection to rant into angry people music.

But the fact of the matter was, it wasn't me.

And if I'm honest, neither is the title of this blog.

A Redhead Rants

Yes, I am a redhead, yes I am heavily opionated, and yes I have been moaning and groaning about my albeit-not-that-badlot in life. However if there is one thing this blog has taught me it's that while I've got miles to go before I become, or even figure out, "Who I Want to Be," holding onto the anger of the down-in-the-dumps twenty-something isn't helping me. I took this angle for my blog because I am struggling to figure out what to do with myself, and I was frustrated with the fact that I have lived my life as a series of steps in which everything I have done was to prepare me for what comes next. Right now I'm on a plateau, with no real sign of what to do or where to go, so all I can do is move forward.

To keep walking and hope I am heading in the right direction.

And I can do that with the steadfast knowledge that whatever I am standing on has a steadfast foundation. Through all my ranting and uncertainty in this blog, I've learned that the ability to even express myself in this way means that I'll be ok and it will work out. I have a family that loves and supports me; always has and always will. I have a good education and the means to keep pursuing it. Moreover, as much as a I complain that it's not what I want, I have a job, which is more than a lot of people can say in this economy.

So now it's four years later, and I'm heading into the middle of my twenties, and I'd sooner repeat high school than stand in line to listen to a band tell me how much life sucks. I can read the newspaper or talk to my friends to know that. I still have flashes of abject irritation, but it rarely stays hot enough to channel into a scathing commentary. Instead it slips away into weariness or is forgotten as soon as my head hits the pillow.

That might mean I'm giving in and growing up, succumbing to the man, the world, and all the ways it gets you down.

But really?

I'm just not that angry anymore.

Besides, look around. Pink's more my color.