I haven’t written anything in a while. I’m starting to think that I drank all my creative juices before the age of 15. Been so deprived of writing for me, I damn near spilled my soul in my thesis prospectus.
Started watching SATC 2. Remembered how complicated relationships are and decided to go to a bed race. A bed race. Alone. After the initial excitement was over, I walked home, ran into a guy who I met freshman year on the bus and whose path I seemed to cross every semester. He just spilled his soul in his thesis prospectus, too.
Oh, RU. It was a good run.
I need a good run. It’s all been as easy as sticking my left foot in front of my right, my right foot in front of my left. Repeating.
Damn.
Everything was so sure a year ago. Of course I was going to get a job publishing in NYC. Because certainly that was my dream.
And R. Kelly said I could. (Think Space Jam, circa ‘95, ‘96)
We would be engaged within a year of graduation, marriage on our 10th anniversary. I would find my dream house/apartment and be a homeowner before the age of 26. We would wait until we accidentally got pregnant and I would start working from home more often so I could watch our babies grow. We would travel, work in fulfilling careers, learn to do all the things we wish we could do, grow to be just the people we wanted to be. And we’d love with a love that was more than love, I and my PJP.
No regrets.
It all seemed to be falling together so flawlessly. Until it got close and started to shake me screaming: SNAP out of these fairytale dreams. The college-career-marriage-house-kids-happiness formula. C’mon Carin… this is like when you, Nicole, and Doni all wanted to be dentists and buy fabulous houses right next to each other on a cul-de-sac, to raise your beautiful families. It ain’t real, chick.
So what is real? Carrie and Big losing the “sparkle” and letting tv and take-out take over their lives?
Ugh. The surrealists weren’t geniuses. They were cop-outs. I can do this stream-of-consciousness shit all day, baby. All day.
