I can’t believe that Publixes in Sarasota don’t carry my stupid bougie yogurt.
truck is returned, empty of boxes, and I’ve condensed everything I can’t put away until I get a dresser into one cardboard box and my suitcase. The apartment is sweeter than I thought it would be, even though it’s always colder than I’d like (‘for the dog’). I like the kitchen. That was the first room where everything found a home.
BUT there’s a plumbing issue, so we can’t run any water or else it bubbles up from both of the bathtubs. We don’t have internet yet, so here I am at the Selby library so I can look up everything I’ll need to finish this job application, so I can go to the bathroom. So I can get a little dizzy when I walk in and remember all the times Miranda and I came here three years ago because our house was always hotter than we’d like, because we didn’t have internet yet, so we came to look up everything we needed and filled canvas bags with books and movies and went back to sit on the floor and make beads and wait for Tom to bike over with a jug of cheap and terrible wine from the Winn Dixie (that isn’t there anymore).
I finally heard that fun. song on the drive over, after months of hearing about how it’s inescapable, and it made me so sad. I don’t know if this is a theme in every song written about being young and hedonistic, or just the ones from the last five years, or maybe just this one from fun. and that one from MGMT, but they seem to be conscious of their desperation. All the nu-psychedelia and animal accessories you can cram into four minutes won’t stop you from needing to worry about bills.
I was worried about nostalgia crippling me when I came back, but I’m missing the way I’d live in an evening a lot more than the people I’d live it with. All I want to do is drink to excess, sit on my back porch and smoke. I haven’t had a cigarette in five days. It’s hot and I want to sit and think about all the work I should be doing, and all the work I tell myself I’ll do after I finish this and go back inside.