Not Where I Was Supposed to Be When I Got Here

I had big plans- I got accepted to New School so I was going to move to NYC. Write the next Great American Novel. Buy a old warehouse and convert it into my shabby, chic junque, oh-so-very-retro-modern home with a farmhouse sink, claw foot tub, recessed lighting, stripper pole, and round bed with a mirror over it for shits and giggles… I would be invited to art house openings, MTV unplugged, wine tastings, and exclusive book readings. I’d show up wearing a gauzy peasant dress, combat boots, messy hair and a pierced lip (which was pretty wild in the early 90’s.) And I’d have cats, lots of floppy, aloof, well-mannered cats.

Ya, that didn’t exactly go as planned. Robert Frost can kiss my ass, “Not on the left, not on the right, but right down the middle!” Road less traveled, is there such a thing? It’s all on Google Maps now anyways…

So much for being some mysterious , enigmatic female version of Californication. Now I’m just middle: middle class, middle weight, middle America, middle aged… Lost in the aisles of walmart, hunched over my cart, contemplating solid or gel deodorants, doing coupon math. One of those pathetic cliches who lays in bed at night, hoping the mortgage check doesn’t bounce, wondering how to manage to pay for all the teenage paraphernalia and rights of passage, and wondering where & when I left that gutsy, punky, fuck you bitch I was the summer of ’89…

But I do have 4 cats….


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