At least, I can pretend that they are. I have so far to grow yet, but I am pretty okay for now.
It's the events circling the non-events that get me; the implications and the results and what it is to be twenty seven and dealing with those results. It's the things that put my hair on end. The things that gut me and make me dizzy. Those things.
I mean...it's dark here. Cut me a little slack.
So anyway, here's me standing in my truth, or whatever colloquialism you prefer to assign to the following.
A Letter to a Piece of Trash
You are the standard against which all garbage is measured. You ruined my favorite store; how dare you. And since nothing is real unless it's compared to 1990's grunge, you are Alanis Morissette's proverbial black fly in my Chardonnay...except the fly is a scab and the Chardonnay is obviously a vintage Montepulciano because I'm worth at least that.
For some reason, you had better advocates than me but that one's probably on me though...you picked your behavioral counselors and the advocate I picked ended up going to jail for child porn a decade later so...yeah.
I miss my favorite store but I don't miss the flight response that kicked in when I realized that you work there now..? I don't miss the hiding in the nail polish aisle and the not being able to see straight. I do not miss the cruel irony of having to go to that store to pick up my meds for which you are, in part, responsible. I do not miss the terror I associate with seeing your dumb fucking face. Get out of my head.
I came to Iceland to make something of myself, but I'll admit that I came here, a tiny bit, to put an ocean between us so that I can finally go grocery shopping in peace.
PS: Obviously, I forgive you. But still, stay away from me and probably everyone else.