My hair is longer than it usually is. It looks strange to me. I don’t really look like me. I ripped my wrist and my forehead. I look like Frankenstein from some angles. I have scars that would scare your mother. They scare mine.
And for all this. I used to think I was immortal. Clearly I’m breakable. I don’t know I’ve been broken, is that the same? Death seems to be in the air recently. Not my death. I’ve lived more than half my life.
I remember turning ten, and my best friend’s father told me, “Ten, then twenty, then thirty, then forty.” I thought he was crazy. Forty? And now I’m 50 now [when I wrote this].
I was talking to someone outside Starbucks two days ago. It seemed so normal to have coffee, and I remembered my life 10 years ago when it was scones and coffee.
This is going to sound depressing, but it’s kind of true. I have to consciously try not to cry so people don’t stare at me over my Christmas roast.