Chapter 2

I see that my mom follows me on here, so I can’t talk about the good stuff anymore. Sorry, guys.

Time to write… Okay… Write some stuff. I really am kind of flustered because I know my mom will be reading this.

Today was blah. I had a to-do list of about seven or eight things long. I knew what to do, I just need to do it. That’s my problem… That seems to be my problem with everything in life: doing it. I know that I need to apply for jobs, but I would rather hang out with friends instead. I know I should only watch one episode of Criminal Minds before bed, but I watch six. I just need to do what I’m supposed to be doing.

But really, what AM I supposed to be doing? As a former pothead, I still get moments where I’m like, “Dude… Like… *takes sip of Arizona Peach Tea*… Why are we here?… *laughs*… What is the point?” I don’t know what I’m doing. Am I supposed to? Am I ever going to? Am I supposed to be a teacher? Do I get a serving job, or a corporate job? Do things happen for a reason? Or do things just happen?

I just read this over in SJP’s voice, as if I were Carrie Bradshaw. I’m actually Samantha. I think every group of friends who I’ve had the “What Sex in The City Character Am I?” chat with have agreed that I’m Samantha. Only I’m Samantha wearing a cat shirt instead of a cocktail dress, sitting on a porch in South Minneapolis instead of a rooftop in Manhattan and drinking grapefruit juice instead of a cocktail.

This cat shirt is probably the most worn shirt I own. I got it from this guy I lusted after in treatment. I sat behind him in lecture every day for quite awhile and wondered if, when he turned around, he was looking at me. It turns out he was, and we had a brief on-and-off long distance relationship. Not really sure what happened there, but we were supposed to get married and have Super Children and he would play me the guitar and I would… yeah. Yeah. Yeeeeep.

There’s something about guys in early recovery that really drives me wild. It’s like my mind thinks, “Trish, that guy’s pretty broken. And you are, too. If you glue those pieces together, it will create something beautiful.” In reality it looks like a kindergartener’s art project that the parent doesn’t really want to keep but feels obligated.

I’ve learned to really enjoy being alone. I never feel obligated to let anyone know what I’m doing. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. I don’t have to talk about my feelings or why I’m crabby or sleep next to someone at night. Sure, I miss parts of being in a relationship. I miss the sex and those feelings of excitement when you’re getting to know someone and staying up late, laughing and talking and kissing. But if I had a boyfriend, I probably couldn’t sleep in this ex-boyfriend’s tee shirt anymore, could I?

Time to go. Hard to type and smoke a cigarette at the same time.


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