Late Twen­ties


We’re too tired, now, to talk about lone­li­ness— now I just keep a hard and soft ar­bi­trary list of cou­ples who shouldn’t have out­lived us. No par­tic­u­lar rea­son. They’re just not as good. It’s just

not fair. Some peo­ple find peo­ple, other peo­ple don’t. Ev­ery cou­ple of months I light the hard copy on fire, start again. The re­sent­ment is get­ting all cal­ci­fied, a new body part. Late at night

the idea of an­other twenty-five years of men­strual cramps makes my cramps worse. Leav­ing the city, leav­ing the in­ter­net, sinking, creep­ing

ex­o­dus night­mare fuel. New wishes: in­stant preg­nancy for those who want it, a par­tic­u­lar shield against Lyme dis­ease, con­cus­sions. A shield

around all of our par­ents. The height of all our new stakes makes me dizzy. She de­served that apart­ment, you bas­tards. She re­ally de­served that job. It’s time to stretch be­fore we

go danc­ing. It’s time to ad­just this med­i­ca­tion again and again. It’s time to meet an­other woman from the in­ter­net. We reached the crit­i­cal point

of al­ler­gies and debt, crit­i­cal mass of back to school and eat­ing meat again. Ev­ery day I make a point of say­ing I love this place out loud as I leave

the apart­ment, one hand slid­ing along the door jamb, lest it be taken away from me. Aw­ful mag­i­cal think­ing. As if be­ing grate­ful is ever an ounce of pre­ven­tion, now.

Af­ter all that, who knew there are so many dif­fer­ent ways to not want to have sex. Caf­feine still makes me edgy.

Time is a sud­den ravine: The first time I turn down the ra­dio

to try to find some­one’s house. The first time an adult mem­ory is that was ten years ago, now. I have to see my friends as many times as pos­si­ble be­fore they all get mar­ried, oh god.

I have to take a walk just to leave the house. I will pay you to say, You couldn’t pay me to be in my twen­ties again! over and over and over.

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