He’s got an exotic accent that makes you feel worldly and cultured and a charm that makes you feel like you’re in a Jane Austen book. He doesn’t quite understand America (or English, for that matter), and that makes him just adorable enough for you to want to put your non-European lips all over him. He’s perfect. But he’s really not.
It’s this separation from others’ souls that makes the everyday bearable by leaving me unburdened, free of the emotional baggage, real or imaginary (most often both), of others that I choose to carry. This is why I long for the big city. I want to look at strangers all day long, and I want them to remain strangers until I choose otherwise.
You don’t realize that the reason there even are leftovers is that everyone else smarted up and stopped imbibing; you just admire your own liver’s prowess and the new-found numbing of your taste buds and chug away. “YES! I AM TOTALLY HAVING THE BEST TIME RIGHT NOW! wait, are you taping me? why are you… LOLZ, where’s my drink?”
Today I had an out-of-body moment. I was sitting in a chair in the hotel room that my family has recently moved into until their relocation out of the country, hands tucked under my feet, head cocked to the side, listening to my mom tell a story about my dad falling asleep in airports…
I realize that I’m not broke broke. As in, I’m not starving or living on the street or having to drop out of school. I can still afford to have a place to live and to pay for my cell phone bill and even to feed my terrible, unjustifiably ravenous closet. But I’m still, unfortunately, dependent on my parents, and this fills me with guilt.