My hand smells like Munchos. I ate the whole bag, with little thought and zero regrets. The salt burned the roof of my mouth. I’m wondering if the inside of my mouth is what it feels like to be trapped in a salty ocean that’s burning you from the inside out. The ocean is an unforgiving monster and that’s why I love her. Same with Munchos.
6 month, 1 year, 3 year, 5 year. Plans. I had them.
Fuck that sunscreen song
Who am I? I just looked at my Facebook album of profile pictures to see. Ok, I like a healthy mix of glamour shots and funny shots. I’m self-deprecating but not in a humblebrag way. My hair looks healthy – clearly I eat organic foods so it’s obvious that I’m paying attention to Gwyneth Paltrow’s product "advice" and suggestions. Ok. Good. I’m not a see-through living inside my mother's house. I’m still relevant, I’m still a cool person. I exist. I just saw it on Facebook! I exist in the context and framework of a 20-something Known Individual Who Does Things. I haven’t slipped away into the black hole of suburbia life in your 30’s. That Golden Retriever? Not mine. No way. I have a sleeveless shirt with a threatening tarot card on it. I have stacks and stacks of literature next to my bed. A healthy mix. Some junk, some health books, Richard Hofsteader,Vanity Fair, Harry Potter, Sheila Heti. Good thing I have all those things. All of the things.