Right, right, so I keep saying I’m going to write things here.
Instead, I fall out of my windowsill backwards, trying to install a curtain rod without a drill.
Instead, I drink campari out of a vintage creamer and spill it down my bra.
Instead, I wake up in the middle of the night hungover, and I look out my window at the graveyard, and I think about being alive.
I swear to myself, yet another time, that I will never again sleep with a boy with a rickity loft bed, because I’m an adult now. I drink absinthe and get lost in the woods. I catch the bouquet at a wedding. I feel bad about my family. I take the first bath I’ve taken since 2006. I make to do lists on legal pads, and lose them. I think about writing letters overseas, or passing out in a Brooklyn subway station.
I need to stop being intimidated by the action of putting words places. I need to start getting more sleep. I want to yell, at everyone, all the time, just how much I love them, and I know they’re having a rough time but of course they are, we’re in our early 20s and everything is a mess. But it’s gonna be fine, I love you, it’s gonna be fine.