A rat touched my foot on a hot, sticky night in June.
It was the night of a small housewarming for my apartment, which had been moved inside by thunderstorms and intense humidity (which had made my hair blow up like Albert Einstein). It was simple—we were walking on the street, we heard shuffling, and a rush of three rats scurried onto our path, the last one using my foot as a ramp.
I did not scream, nor did I even address it. Because if a rat touches your foot, there are two people you become. You're either the person who turns the night into an evolving recollection of the ramp-rat, tugging your friends' arms and saying, "REMEMBER WHEN A RAT TOUCHED MY FOOT." Or you just swallow up the memory of the rat, much like it had swallowed up the garbage, and you move on. I chose the latter—much like the rat had chosen my foot as a ladder.
After only living in Brooklyn for a week tops, seeing exactly one open mic, and posting one allotted photo of the sunset, I went back home for a family vacation. . It was on this trip, that I realized that life might actually be real.
What does this mean, Alex?
I mean that, life isn't about preserving your safety by living within the confines of your room, or replaying memories for the sake of self-torture. Life is supposed to be about looking up, taking risks, eating an ice cream cone for lunch after digesting ample amounts of lake water from your little sister dunking you repeatedly under water.
Life felt real for once. And if I were an onion, you wouldn't even need to peel a full layer to invoke a fresh batch of tears. It's like the things I'm just now noticing are beautiful are making my body freak out in an attempt to hold onto them. Like the way my parent's laugh at the other's corny joke, or my younger sister refers to a specific dock in Lake George as the place for her wedding reception photos. I find myself cherishing the present moment before it can leave me.
The fireworks on the fourth of July had me mouth-open, tears-streaming, fly-catching as I watched them sizzle and pop over a lake. I used to avoid fireworks at all costs. As little as a year ago, you could find me hiding under a blanket, shivering, and listening to a hauntingly muffled rendition of America The Beautiful all alone. In my 23rd year, I finally understood why fireworks exist—they are quite beautiful.
My days of limbo and carelessness are gone. They have to be. I can't afford to be either of those—I can't afford anything, actually! I'm broke as hell!
All this to say: I cried when I said goodbye to my family today.
As time ticks on the first day of work, my time feels so precious that I don't want to do anything with it. Almost as if being stagnant will stop time from passing.
It feels more real every time I come and go from our home in New Jersey. I probably shouldn't be so emotionally attached to my parents, but I am! They make me laugh (at my own jokes), listen to me (when they're not on Facebook), and always make me feel loved (don't have a snarky response for this one). It's scary! To leave them! And my sisters! Little old 23-year-old, teenage Alex should not be responsible for herself. But she is, I am. Disgusting!
So, I wept dramatically as I hugged my sister goodbye and she said, "See you on Saturday, idiot!" Because I quite literally will be seeing her on Saturday. But that's not the point! The point is that today, when I was hungry, I had to go grocery shopping. And then—then—then, I ate a BALANCED DINNER. It's too adult, I'm going to be sick. I feel like I'm disappointing 11-year-old Alex by not going absolutely ham in the candy section of the grocery store. I put away all my clothes when I got home—yack, yack, city?
Why am I here, writing this? Why are you here, reading this? Is that comma grammatically correct? I don't think so. WHY ARE ANY OF US HERE?
I kind of started to get bored of my maudlin rants and attempts to understand the human psyche. Like yeah, we ALL want to know the meaning of life, but can we leave that for the sleepless hours of 2 a.m. - 3 a.m.? Maybe we want to be entertained, Alex. Entertain us!
I've always been so afraid of being boring, but maybe the problem is that I've always been trying much too hard not to be.
It's an exciting notion that maybe the last 23 years of self-loathing were completely unnecessary. Even if the peace I felt was for about exactly 14 seconds as I pondered this advice, told everyone about it, and then promptly forgot it so I could stay awake until 4 a.m. thinking about how everyone probably hates me.
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