I keep having to remind myself that I start school tomorrow.
This summer came and went like a flash in the pan that produced a barely-nutritive amount of scrambled eggs.
When it began, I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed; so fucking excited for a wealth of possibilities.
Things happened. I mean, time passes and — by default — the future becomes the present becomes the past, and its contents shape us as human beings. But I think I experienced the minimum amount of personal growth.
Three months is kind of a long time. It seems like a whole year has gone by since June, when I was cleaning graves with a knife at the Jewish cemetery as penance for parking in a handicap space. And it feels like even longer since just last week, when I finished my summer writing project in a blaze of short-lived glory.
But the more I think about it, a lot happened this summer. And why should the fact that I didn’t earn any money, travel abroad, or take part in a career-launching internship limit my perception of myself?
This summer, I:
-Joined the Free Sushi Podcast. I love those dudes and I always enjoy being the Elaine character in any cantankerous group of four.
-Spent Fridays bonding with the C.C. Crew
-Finally cleaned out the basement (and the porch!)
-Had great sex with an elusive asshole several times
-Realized I’m happier alone
-Saw Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros on an outdoor stage
-Threw a party
-Started a screenplay
-Lost and gained the same 15 pounds twice
-Drove two childhood pets to death-by-injection
-Adopted a kitten. Lola Yenta is bad ass.
-Taught myself through much pain and suffering that I am, in essence, a good writer, and that shit will come together if I let it.
-Listened to Kanye West’s “Power” on repeat. A lot.
-Finished more books than normal. And by that I mean: one.
-Attended several epic soirees
-Blew a guy wearing an ankle bracelet
-Smoked enough pot to forget the rest
