Watching people drive the wrong way down my one-way street is perhaps life’s greatest pleasure.
That, and getting on a plane with intent to cry. Intent to cry, airborne. Ordering a drink and becoming airborne, unexpectedly, drunk.
That and a sleeve of mosquito bites gone unnoticed until some days later, when there’s nothing left to think about.
Nothing but life’s greatest pleasures. That this is good, good, good. To be sad all the way through–holy business, really.
I shake my hands when I am about to panic, though they are steady now. I shake them hard and fast and usually it does nothing to help but I think, at least I’m trying.
If I’m at work, an hour can go by without banking my mind.
No memory of 40 conversations I surely had because, look. The receipts in the drawer have my name. Seven letters then eight more for luck. Telling me where I’d been–just there.
Let me know because I don’t–how it all gets better. A little at a time and then looking back, all of it. Because it does, truly. I’ve seen it.
I’d just like to know how this happens, so as to induce it. Pitocin for an anxious girl seeking self acceptance without the laborious expulsion of a fetus.
Because sure, I am okay. But I am also desperately in debt to all the time I’ve spent feeling otherwise. In debt to myself, really. A bitch of compiling interest.
There are lots of beautiful people. There are many brilliant writers.
There are so many blondes with bangs and big eyes that type for hours then backspace.
However, it is perhaps life’s greatest pleasure to one day know that even so, it is my difference that I genuinely like.
For all the times I’ve been made to change, wished to change, or otherwise, there exists now an equal amount of desired continuity. In the person that I am, in the people that I love. And a love for all of that.
So I suppose. Life’s greatest pleasure can be sitting here on the porch. Watching confused drivers.
Sitting here self medicating because damn–I just can’t get enough of me.
Take good care.
Al. x
