I’m tired of not being able to go anywhere. It’s not that I need to. I just want to know I can.
I miss second-hand bookstores. A lot. Didn’t really realize how much, until I looked up from reading All the Light We Cannot See, realized it’s so good I want a copy of my own, and was reminded that BMV – one of my favourite haunts – is closed. And it sucks.
I dug into a folder from 2010 to find a photo of my niece and me for her birthday, and my god, this is self-flagellation. Keep your hair shirts and cilices, if I want to self-mortify, I’ll revisit 2007-2010. I miss being skinny.
Not that I was that skinny, but what made me think I was fat in 2010? This photo folder is pushing my 2020 self to have a good long cry in the shower.
I really just want to wake up and magically be a hundred pounds. I want to take a potion, fall asleep, wake in a pool of dappled sunlight, open my eyes like Princess Aurora after being kissed, float away on my tiptoes to a full length mirror, and sing the opening bars of Creed’s My Sacrifice to the newly revealed outline of my clavicles. Hello my friend, we meet again…
Can I just have all the cake I want? Can I never have to worry about trifles like calories, or cholesterol, or fatty organs and having to eat fish and leaves forever?
We finally have a car! I kind of felt something. Just a little something. A little bit of excitement, a little bit of happiness, but mostly relief. I feel like I’m supposed to feel something more, but I got nothing. My brothers are way more excited about it than I am. Am I dead inside? My mother suggested we do some sort of cleansing exorcist voodoo by dedicating the car to God, because “you don’t know who used to own it.” I promised to take it to an abandoned parking lot and sprinkle it with holy water. Maybe do a little dance. Burn some gris gris. Which I haven’t. Where would I even get holy water? I think swinging a censer would make for some dramatic visuals though.
I hope my mom doesn’t read this. Her glare of death is as potent now as it was then.
The dealer detailed it before handing it over to us though. So there is no trace of the previous owner, except for very meticulously kept receipts. I found them all, folded neatly in a plastic envelope, in the glove compartment. Each receipt conforms to the dates in its CarFax report. What a stickler. Hopefully a Protestant. Maybe Episcopalian.
Sorry Mom, that was the last one. I promise.