I’ve done it again. Fallen into the trap that I was born in.
Our lease ends in the city’s second-best neighborhood, so I sign a new lease in the best one. It’s not even intentional since my only requirements are high ceilings and high-speed internet.
I iron a Burberry polo and throw on the fake Rolex. I put on a good show, slightly altered financial records lifted from the bag my mom bought me at Macy’s.
I mean every word that leaves my mouth, but only in the moment.
The neighborhood is gorgeous, old mansions, shady trees, brick sidewalks. But I only like it so I can tell people which part of the city I live in when they ask.
I am so fucking shallow.
Blame the town I grew up in, just don’t blame me.
Back at home things are a mess. Half the apartment is in boxes, there’s a house guest, and we are pet sitting. Only the important things have been spared my cardboard and duct tape frenzy. Dishes, Laptops, pills.
“It’s scary how you can go from being fucked up to being productive seamlessly,” She tells me.
Therapists have told me this. I never agree because it would be like admitting all the horrible past events are my fault. But they are right. I like living in the mess.
It’s when things settle down and I can breathe that I start looking for a distraction. Another mess.
I always paint the most beautiful fucking pictures.
Just look quickly.
They may not be there tomorrow.