Sometimes I convince myself that dying alone would be ok, if it came down to it. All you need is a bunch of money, some responsible caretakers and a ukulele. I also need to learn how to play the ukulele. Or I think “How long would it take someone to find me in my apartment, should I perish unexpectedly and without a warning text.” I just multiply my post-workout ripeness, carry the 1, and assume someone would be on the case within the week. Good thing I no longer have a cat who would be eating me by then – even though he had food in his dish.
But I’m not actually afraid of dying alone. It’s the living alone that becomes burdensome. Thankfully, I have a really lame imagination (I’m being sarcastic), and don’t ever (all the time) picture myself single for life (What?! Yay!! — no), and instead am able (nope) to appreciate my brilliant qualities (German mustache, unexplained bloatedness, big teeth that make people think I look like celebrities with big teeth) as a person and believe in myself (believe in Oprah).
Maybe I should consider it lucky to have felt what “in love” feels like, in my life. But I want something better than my previous experience with that. Something that lasts.
During his tenure as a guidance counselor at the high school, my Dad would sometimes say “_______’s a neat kid”. It referred to some stand-out quality about a student. Something that differentiated them from the crowd. That made them unique. And acknowledged their spirit.
I wanna be a neat kid. Maybe then I’ll find another neat kid to hang out with.
And for tonite, I’m gonna pull back the sheets and spoon my laptop (it’s the big spoon) and fall asleep dreaming about drinking LA tap water. I don’t know what it means, but I can’t seem to stop dreaming about almost doing it.