On December 21, 2012 the world was supposed to end. Instead of doing anything remotely excitable or festive, I sat on a pile of clothes (because I am not responsible enough to ever put them away despite my age) in my childhood bedroom and took dumb photos of my self on my computer in between reading Lydia Davis. I wasn't even getting laid or drinking a tall can, which may sound juvenile but also like an easy enough vehicle to celebrate my own mortality. At least, I knew I existed in those last moments on Earth. That's the sad thing about the 'digital age,' that there or no physical time capsules we can leave to aliens, or our 50 year old selves, or they are limited in that sense. The difference between the two is lost to me. Pixels, bookmarks, digital music, blogs, and status updates are equally as fleeting as decaying photos and paper, I suppose. Alas, the world did not end and I am happy.
I feel like a glorified 15-year-old most often, unfortunately sans neon hair dyes...
I have come to terms that I am the girl who trips at least once daily, spills various perfumes and liquids in my purse, spills on myself or others, breaks glassware, break telephones, drop phones in pools, and gets phone stolen in Europe, etc.
A lot of my male friends have or have had death wishes, but lately their wishes have been being granted.
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