allez psg
It came to me while I was standing in the fitting room with these goofy tuxedo trousers on.
I squinted in the dim store lighting and looked for the outline of my butt in the mirror, but lost it in the billowy folds of excess fabric. I thought about the football game I watched the day before, the six hour-long conversation about past and future from today, and all of the food I'd ingested in the past week to make the trouser waistband cut into my belly in such an atrocious way. I also thought about the chick flick I had watched recently, the possessive girlfriends of my friends, and this guy I liked for an entire year in high school (today is his birthday). When you break these thought streams down into segments, you begin to realize how petty everything is, I continued in my head. I shook it off.
I wriggled out of the trousers and thought about you. I wondered where you were and whether or not you were happy. I began to put my four sweaters back on, layer after layer, all in the while trying to remember what your face looked like. It was easier than I thought it would be and harder than one would expect, given the fact that my fingers remember (cannot forget?). Is this what it will feel like for the rest of my life? I jammed my foot into the remaining sneaker and pulled it on. Surely not.
I paused for a second before I opened the fitting room door. With my fingers wrapped loosely around the handle, I thought about the passage of time, the possibility of achieving happiness in adulthood, and ways to procure organic produce without going broke. I was reminded of my old age this afternoon. I've been listening to the same sappy love song from 1995 all week. There's something about undying dedication that sounds completely foolish and disgusting to me, but I can't seem to turn the song off. For the past two months, I've been spinning free, with a little sweet and simple numbing me (wrong song, wrong year). It's been fun, but time's running out, and I'll have to face the music soon.
On my way out, I thought about Bruce Springsteen and concentrated on how hot he was in the 80s. Every day's been feeling like Sunday night/Monday morning for as long as I care to remember. I'll take what I can get.
I squinted in the dim store lighting and looked for the outline of my butt in the mirror, but lost it in the billowy folds of excess fabric. I thought about the football game I watched the day before, the six hour-long conversation about past and future from today, and all of the food I'd ingested in the past week to make the trouser waistband cut into my belly in such an atrocious way. I also thought about the chick flick I had watched recently, the possessive girlfriends of my friends, and this guy I liked for an entire year in high school (today is his birthday). When you break these thought streams down into segments, you begin to realize how petty everything is, I continued in my head. I shook it off.
I wriggled out of the trousers and thought about you. I wondered where you were and whether or not you were happy. I began to put my four sweaters back on, layer after layer, all in the while trying to remember what your face looked like. It was easier than I thought it would be and harder than one would expect, given the fact that my fingers remember (cannot forget?). Is this what it will feel like for the rest of my life? I jammed my foot into the remaining sneaker and pulled it on. Surely not.
I paused for a second before I opened the fitting room door. With my fingers wrapped loosely around the handle, I thought about the passage of time, the possibility of achieving happiness in adulthood, and ways to procure organic produce without going broke. I was reminded of my old age this afternoon. I've been listening to the same sappy love song from 1995 all week. There's something about undying dedication that sounds completely foolish and disgusting to me, but I can't seem to turn the song off. For the past two months, I've been spinning free, with a little sweet and simple numbing me (wrong song, wrong year). It's been fun, but time's running out, and I'll have to face the music soon.
On my way out, I thought about Bruce Springsteen and concentrated on how hot he was in the 80s. Every day's been feeling like Sunday night/Monday morning for as long as I care to remember. I'll take what I can get.