Once upon a time the shtick was to have no secrets. Then I got better at “interpersonal connection,” as in, I learned how to make my problems other people’s problems; so here we are.
R. went to the first day of eighth grade in big Zoomer jeans and the little butterfly crop-top we bought together in Hongdae. Coming home, she said no one at her new suburban school dresses like that. No inspo. This might be a difficult fall.
I had a surgical thing done to me that has thrown my hormones out of whack, again. All the crying and texting gets old, but the real problem is forgetting how to concentrate, and how to be lonely; which are, I said, the basic things when it comes to writing. That makes sense, said my companion, but do you think when it’s going well it isn’t lonely? I said I thought so. But maybe the better answer would be that it shines a light through the loneliness. The loneliness rings out like a metal bowl.
