I'm in a huge, immaculate space. Tasteful leather furnishings, TV's bigger than my car, shiny wood and rugs from Dubai. My parents' house, but they're in Mexico.
Also, my apartment has ants and I have to wait for them to die. There's snow everywhere, but ants in my apartment. Ew. Reason to move? Yes, but I'm going to Toronto for the summer anyway, and then after that who knows. And April I will be in California and/ or Europe. High class problems for some girl desperately trying to drown out the noise of impending mediocrity.
Updike said, what you don't do before thirty, you'll never do. What you have done, you'll do lots more. It's creepy to think this way when you're a few months shy of 27 and amazed to realize you have the same weird life you were always going to have...but not fun weird. Circuitous, ironically funny, ezcematous...
I found myself weirded up, calling my Nova Scotia friend who recently had a baby with a fisherman. A funny thing happened, where she was the one ending the call, promising to call me back later, and I was the one like, no! wait! more! What does that mean? Don't do drugs alone. Also, do I want a baby? I asked her "but, tell me more about you! what else are you up to?" Nothing else. Baby, baby, baby. But what about me? I'd be lying if I said more than "half my homework".
Like Jennifer Egan said, TIME IS A GOON. And my brilliant idea of running away to Ireland is dissolving, into the damp, the vanishing act of an ocean, and dog-shit sidewalk-- reality of everything.
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