Thoughts From the Curb

I’m losing faith in the whole practice, really. Being a person—a woman in her 20s. I’m in school. I go to work. It’s all kinda fucked.

And then I remind myself it doesn’t matter. That I’m the only one in control of this person I’m creating, and nobody really cares if I’ve got a plan, or what that plan is. No one cares, and this is supposed to be freeing. Liberating. But honestly it just makes me feel like getting supremely drunk. 

But instead, dear sweet reader, 

I smoke on my lunch break because I lost my appetite. And I get in the shower if it all goes wrong, cause that’s what I’ve been told to do.

When I’m angry or sad or insecure, I run. And when I can’t run because I am selling kites at a store in godforsaken Boulder, Colorado, I plan the run I’ll take that night. I’ll think it through real well. Exactly where I’ll go, and how hot I’ll be as a result of all the running. 

I’ll run miles and miles. I’ll run until I collapse. I’ll run and then I’ll finally sleep without all the useless thinking. 

What do you listen to when you’re all the way in your bag, dear reader? This is when I need music most. Unproductive anger, or whatever, needs a solution other than pouting and loud music will usually do some kind of trick. 

For me, it’s Territorial Pissings if I’m really mad. If I’m medium mad, I’ll go for Clean Jeans. If I’m brink mad, I’ll do like, Love It If We Made It—I fucking love that song and don’t want it to have bad associations.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say here, other than I’m on my lunch break and I’m not hungry and I’m thinking about running. What do you do when you’re stuck somewhere? What do you do, dear reader, when you want out of your body with urgency?

I don’t know how to do any of this right, and so I go with either complete failure by abstaining from any choice at all, or writing about it. Or both. I think this could be considered a both because I’m just sitting still. 

I’m like Buddha. Sitting still till things make sense—that’s the deal right? I sit on this curb and smoke my silly nicotine and wait for some kind of light to hit me right in the eye. Some kind of light, right? That’s it.

5 more minutes of lunch break, dear reader. Better get going. 

I love you.

Bye.