I need to do this thing. In fact, I’m doing it write now. Document the moments when I feel content, woven into myself with just the right amount of espresso threads, like a giant, pro-active rug (which I realize makes almost no sense as a metaphor). That way, when I look back on my youth, I won’t be able to fool myself into believing that I was a constant outpouring of angst.
Sure, I hang on every word Elizabeth Wurtzel pours out, copious stories of broken families and lithium and ecstasy trips.
But not today. Today, I am sunny and wonderful and listening to Devendra Banhart and taking photographs for the new identification that will live in my wallet. Today, I am May in January.
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You only get what you give.
