We tell ourselves we’re not special because the news wants to make sure we know that, our predecessors want to make sure we know that, our bosses want to make sure we know that — do we know that? How little we’re entitled to? Just want to make sure we all know that.
It’s 420! Time to take mile-long walks into the woods, lock yourself up in the basement, climb into your treehouse, or go wherever the hell it is you have to hide out to smoke weed these days.
But Mrs. Brick’s grievances extend beyond being asked if it hurt when she fell from heaven on the regular. What’s really grinding her gears is that all the womenfolk in her life are Grade A Certified Haters — how else might we explain the fact that she’s never been asked to be a bridesmaid in any one of her friends’ weddings?
I know it’s totally uncool to listen to jam bands past your 17th birthday or once the lease on your Jeep Wrangler expires — whichever comes first — but “Crush” is still a really sexy song.
Isolate yourself until you’re lonely and not just alone, until you can’t stand to stay away any longer, until you begin to wonder why you holed up in this jail cell in the first place. Everything, everywhere will feel like a jail cell.
And one by one, the elevator empties; the temptations dissolve and the whispers quiet and there’s just you left, you who set your sights so high, you who is best suited to take this thing as far as it can go, you who wants to soar.
“If you’re interested in visiting movie houses, there’s a ton nearby. The Home Alone house is in the suburbs, and John Hughes shot basically all of his movies here,” someone offers. My eyes light up like I’d just snorted any number of white, powdery substances.
It’s a little depressing; that this thing you counted on to add significance to your life becomes one more stamp in your sexual history passport. Because one day you’ll meet someone who makes time stop and you’ll think maybe they would’ve been worth waiting for, you’ll want to give them one of your firsts. You haven’t completely run out of firsts yet, after all.
Go to the liquor store and spend no more than $12 on a bottle of wine. Buy Yellowtail or Barefoot or some other Native American-inspired brand that you used to drink in college when you wanted to feel sophisticated. As the cashier swipes your debit card, wonder if it’ll get declined.
I forget sometimes. I forget that I’m not playing a role. I forget that, if I’d stabbed someone, I’d be in therapy right now trying to forget. I’d be afraid to come home alone. I’d hold a steak knife in my hand and feel different about it.