Twelfth letter
I turned thirty-one last weekend at the Confetti Pool Club and I couldn’t be more underwhelmed.
I wish I could go back to thirty. It was so wonderful the power I felt coming out of my twenties–but only freshly out. I had enough life experience to be a b*tch, but still had glowy skin. I had my impending trip to Oaxaca coming, and an exciting sense of mystery. I had just figured out how much I loved white eyeliner. I stopped wearing a bra out in public.
Eleventh letter
Meanwhile, back in the States, I’ve lost nearly all my worldly possessions except for my most sensitive documents, a guitar, my diploma, and five plastic bins of books and horror movies (arguably the most important things).
And my 2007 black Toyota Corolla, rescued from impoundment in Washington state this last weekend. It returned to the safe, Baptist hands of my family complete with weed, unused condoms, travel-sized lube, a battery charger, grass seed, loose CDs, trash, and a $500 fee.
tenth letter
I promise I want to talk about writing. But I also want you to know it gives me peace to be able to count on how quickly things change. How they never turn out quite as I need or expect–even simple things, like coming home. I feel like I’m always on the precipice of having exactly what I need
seventh letter
In my life, I have these moments where my instinct to run and escape is so equal to its futility, I’m not quite sure what to call it. Like if fight-or-flight had a violentlysurrender™ option. Sometimes, the feeling gets so bad, it collapses in on itself and I go into a state of shock. Something like a panic attack, but worse.