I started this blog to track my progress.
I started this blog to see if I could make it.
I am not sure if I have made progress.
I am less sure of what making it will ever look like.
I am 22 years old.
I have been a waitress for 8 years, and I don’t usually hate it.
Unless they ask for lemons.
My brain thinks that airplanes are for sleeping, so I am out before the stewardess points to the exits.
Stewardesses are like waitresses that don’t get tipped.
I’ve written a book. It’s even published.
I serve people pad thai and spicy coconut chicken soup.
Home is starting to be my default place.
That is backwards from most of my life.
I swam in the hudson river yesterday.
I was surprised that it was salt water and cut my knee on a barnacle.
I like the word barnacle.
One day I will wonder what the hell I’ve done with my life.
I might have written 5 books by then, and they might all be published.
There are children that wake up hungry every morning.
Where do dreams come from?
I started writing because I was afraid of being forgotten.
I started writing because I wondered if I existed.
There are wars and floods and fires and rapes happening now.
I wonder if I will ever know what making it really looks like.
I serve food to fat people.
I am 22 years old and does beauty matter?
The word “we” makes me feel less alone.
These circles get smaller and smaller.