Oh, That's Who I Am Now.

Okay.

I tried for three days to find a suitable picture for this godforsaken post, but apparently you cannot get any picture of “old people sitting outside of apartment buildings” without paying $40 dollars for the very few photos of that thing. I will not pay that and I will also tell you that I screamed at both my laptop and computer for hours and then screamed at my own reflection, questioning whether or not I had ever seen any older people sitting outside of buildings, or IMAGINED IT ALL…so you know… that’s where I’m at. Thanks, internet.

It’s the last weekend of the month and I’m tired from working. Working both during the week and on the damn weekend. It never ends. I suspect that your reaction may also be, “we are also tired from working.” Heard.

I have been able to take minuscule breaks. The kind of breaks that are just long enough for my body to say, “oh, I guess we are alive?” It’s the questioning tone that makes it all so saddening. Maddening. Both. I go downstairs and smoke a cigarette. I stand in front of my apartment building and wonder why again, I thought that choosing a place without an outdoor area was going to be, “okay.”

“I can just go downstairs when I want to smoke, or walk, or have a coffee,” past me said. Past me was being disingenuous to me at all points in time. One of those, “who do you think you are exactly” things you say to yourself, but brush off in attempts to really want to be that person - if only for a brief moment. Like the kind of person who doesn’t buy snacks. Or the kind of person who will not order another unwise choice of martini, when said person has not been anywhere fun for months. Fucking hell. Get the snacks. Get the martini. And probably understand that the outdoor space is crucial to your work, because you don’t live in Paris (yet) and you can’t sit outside and have a coffee and a cigarette. This is America, Jack. You shut up and let freedom eagles poop on you. You shut up.