Giving Up on Twenty-Six
I was already late for work, and my stomach was upset. It’s not even my stomach. It’s like I got sick with the flu and ended up with someone else’s body. The old one was like a machine, eating and shitting and hungry and languid, always wanting and never satisfied. Always tired and seeking out booze like somebody’s grandfather who lost his way to the liquor store.
This new one wants for nothing. I feel like an impression of a drug addict, I feel earthquakes in the deafening thud of each heartbeat. Never hungry until it’s too late, never tired until I’m asleep. The last body felt human, this one is alien. I don’t know who’s it is, but I don’t mind it, change is good.
I had a vision of being twenty-six when I was twenty. I had a bunch of things that I don’t have now– status, material wealth, experience. I don’t have any of those things, well not really. I live out of my suitcase and I always seem to have just enough money to survive. Sometimes enough to buy drinks for my friends or bottles of whiskey. I bought of pair of tights with cats printed all over them. I bought a dress for five dollars on sale. These have been my material purchases in the last five months.
I am not the person I thought I would be, maybe I’m better off. I failed in some way. I can relax now. The time to be whoever that was has passed. I am happy to know that. I can live now without that image in my mind. I can bury it with the other failed dreams. It’s better this way, I got lucky.