Sometimes when I am asleep, and the wind is coming in through the window of my childhood bedroom, I can almost feel you here. For a sleepover, the way we used to do all the time. It was just our clothes then, I didn’t know what was mine or yours. It was our day then, we never left each other’s sides. It was our life then, a pact that if we made it to 40 and were still single, we’d run away together and live on the beach in Mexico. I always wake up in a sweat from those dreams now. Now I live in your phone as an unknown cell number, I live in your photos as a girl you used to know. I live in that stain I left on the carpet of your truck when my bubblegum ice cream melted. Now I’m the most hated girl. For twenty-five years in a row. If you’ve never been the last choice friend, undiagnosed depression at a very young age, artsy but filled with melancholy girl, then you’ve never been the most hated girl. But I’ve worn her skin all my life. At first it was the separate group chat with 9 memb...
There I was, standing with a forty pound backpack on my back, in a bus full of people, hotter than I’ve ever been in my entire life, thinking about how I used to get nervous on travel days. (I promise this isn’t about Europe, keep reading.) Something about packing the bag up and being at the bus stop on time and blah blah blah always made me anxious to even think about. But this was my 19th public transportation since we’d arrived in Europe and I was finally used to the feeling. When I start to worry, I ask myself what’s the worst thing that could happen? And then I count backwards down to a realistic situation. 1. I’m not going to die. 2. I’m not going to lose all my money. 3. I’m not going to get hurt. 4. I’m not going to get lost because I have all the tools I need to navigate what I’m doing. And then the worst thing that could happen would be like, missing the bus and waiting 30 minutes for the next one. And it doesn’t seem so scary that way. Back in the sweaty bus, I sat ther...