Sleeping in 2016 was a sport, a fight with the hot summer air and a dependency on the weight of a cotton duvet. A first job that doesn’t pay. Folding rayon shirts over and over in an air conditioned store in Harvard Square. Putting my best foot forward and falling on my face. Long car rides to the corner store four towns over. Feeling sand in my canvas shoes as I walk home from the beach. Washing my hair in the sink. Laughing along to the screech of a broken portable organ. The New Years Party that was infiltrated by some scrawny high school juniors. Later that night when I noticed my mom was more drunk than I was. Running around the outskirts of Boston with people I barely know, making plans for our futures that we’d decided would be intertwined. T.V. dinners, shitty stickers, rocking chairs, and Jewish pre-school.
My life – a movie. And misery is a vehicle of change.
Feeling unsatisfied with just a few drinks. Drinking more.
Developing an obsessive compulsive addiction to oatmeal.
Sleeping until 11, in limbo between middle schools and the nightmare medication for Vietnam veterans that allowed me to do so.
Playing the fool when men talk to me.