It is my day off.
On my day off, I usually turn myself into a bulbous organism devoted to thinking only about chocolate chip cookies, sleep, and whether or not the cellulite I got from last weeks cookies will ever go away. Occasionally I combine eating with watching 187 episodes of Weeds, then sleeping, resulting in dreams that I'm Nancy Botwin living a daring life of crime, but alas, usually my days off consist of staring out the window into my next door neighbor's apartment.
Having, over the course of the summer, ascertained that my neighbor is also not living a daring life of crime a la Nancy B., today I moved on to other entertainment. I was kind of forced to do so, actually, because some young gentlemen of the patio-re(patioing?)-class decided to use my day off to repatio the patios in my apartment complex, and so I was unable to walk outside.
Around 3:00 pm, after several hours wishing I could go buy some cookies, I decided I really hate clutter. My deciding this is essentially the same as deciding that I hate my apartment. And yes, the decision was inspired by being stuck in my extremely disastrous hole of a living situation for an entire day.
Haunted by my newfound realization (okay, actually I've realized this several thousand times, and go through a "throw everything out!" phase about once a month, only to get tired after I've cleaned about 1% of the mess), I began a merciless rampage of doom around 3:300 pm. Meaning I began to create piles of stuff around the garbage can in the kitchen.
3:45 found me (tired and) reading my old (extremely sappy) journal of "letters to my husband," compiled at the age of 13, when I was an angsty Phantom of the Opera devotee. Seriously, who the hell writes letters to a man they don't even know?!
Okay, so I was pathetic, but you know what, I was kind of hilarious. Now, I have no recollection at all of my being so darn sassy, and having so much interest, and being so, well, childishly naive and enthusiastic. Dude, if you'd asked me at that age, I would have told you I was the world's most horrific cynic, ready to bare my teeth at a kitty cat. And yet, I was writing journal entries on whether "sanguine," is an uglier word than "choleric," or "phlegmatic"!
All this is to say that sometimes I get a little worried that Elisha at twenty-one, con mis drogas de Chocolate Chips, isn't charming or funny or perky or odd at all. But then again, maybe 20 years from now I'll read this and think my children were never half so damned clever as me.
But then again, they might have cleaner apartments. Probably practically everyone does.
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