So, like, end of the summer, huh? Every one of my days was exactly the same so it went by really fast. I griped about getting up early, groped about in my messy room for poorly-fitted “professional” clothing, avoided two homeless people while I went to get a macchiato and a pastry, sat up in my office with a legit lexis window up, a illicit westlaw window up, and an internet window up, flicking boredly from stupid blog to stupid lexis and so forth. Then I went to lunch with some lawyer or maybe two and told the same damn stories about myself, choking myself with how insufferable I really am. Then I got back and worried about lots of things — how much money I was spending, how awful next year would be, how low my billables were, how behind I was on the memo, how soon I could leave. I got coffee at three with my false friend who always laughed at my jokes and asserted I was the most quotable part of her day (apparently, I was, since she quoted me to the partner in charge of the matter I was bitching about one day). Then I went home, changed into very unprofessional clothing, ate a sandwich at Barnes & Noble while reading a children’s book, and then waited for Adam to call and suggest a movie or hookah. Then I wished he wouldn’t leave and then he would leave and so I went to bed slightly too late, grumbling about the time I have to get up and the lack of decently cold temperature in the room. (Unless this hypothetical day is a Friday; then, we make very strong drinks, and watch a movie with the expectation of fucking later. Highlight of the goddamned week, seriously).
I don’t know. Is this my life, like, for reals?
Most of it is my own fault, I know. All of it, since no one is making me live any particular way. I’m unfairly underplaying Adam’s ability to be interesting and I’m not meaning this to criticize him — I’m the tedious one, so tedious I’m irritating myself all the time now. I just feel like I’m stepping headlong into the sort of cliched suburban tedium that pretty much guarantees that I will marry Kevin Spacey, or be Kevin Spacey, or have children named Donnie Darko or Enid/Rebecca or, heaven forbid, Juno, who all hate me and whose hatred I passively allow because, who am I kidding, I fucking suck.
I need Natalie Portman to come tell me how to make poses which, like, no one will ever make again, so I can feel that EACH MOMENT OF MY LIFE is UNIQUE and have my boring, fretful life of blending in TOTALLY TRANSFORMED.
On the upside, you got a car and became comfortable enough to talk on the phone while driving. That’s a plus, no?
That Natalie Portman moment always makes me feel better too.
I just looked back on this comment and am horrified by it; I’m pretty sure I meant it sarcastically. Just to clarify.