racing through the street, bright lights reflecting on ya

Dear You,

I spent the day resting. I stayed in and read, finished up Intermezzo, which was beautiful and fascinating and not what I thought it would be but another Sally Rooney home run all the same.

My brother visited briefly. We went to a Blazers-Lakers game, which was fun because live sports with my brother will always be fun, but the game itself was nothing much. The Lakers were sitting most of their key players, including Luka, meaning there were a lot of names and faces on the court that I’ve never seen in my life. Combine that with the Blazers being their usual boring, identity-less selves and some whistle-heavy refs, and you get a game that just didn’t have any real flow or energy.

We did yell a lot for Bronny, who I think made all of one (1) assist.

We otherwise did the usual thing of eating well (I always eat well with my brother) and drinking a little too much. My journey into martinis continues to grow.

(After that one good martini I had months ago, it has now become the drink. I feel like I’m chasing that sense, that flavor. That strangely clean taste mixed with that briny, sharp tartness of olives.)

Last week was a blur of doing things with friends combined with the strangeness of work. Strange in that my coworkers are all strangely busy, in meetings after meetings, investing a lot of time and care, and I just…don’t. I’m getting my work done, and I’m attending all the meetings that I need to.

Beyond that, I have no real thoughts about work. I cared more about befriending my friend’s shy kitten than anything going on at work.

(I also get this weird feeling that I was hired without any real plan for what I’d be doing, any true idea for my role.)

So I’m taking my paycheck and benefits. I’m thinking about furniture. I’m thinking about trips to Vancouver and Mexico City and wherever else. I have this story that I’ve shelved for half a year that I want to rework, and I have a good first line to maybe unlock it.

It’s a weird thing to have spent the past three years thinking only about employment and then an awful job, to be so consumed by work (either obtaining it or complaining about it), and then being in a space where I can afford to not think about it so much.

But also feeling the weird anxiety about it all. More than ever, I feel like the bottom could just drop out, and I’d be back where I started.

(Though, a realization: My stress dreams used to be about high school marching band. Without fail, if I was extremely stressed, I’d dream about band. That finally stopped a few years ago, but now, my stress dreams are about the camera store.)

I hope you’re well. My lips are chapped. All the Burt’s Bees chapstick in the world couldn’t moisturize these lips. I’m back to thinking about tattoos. It’s weird thinking about a future.

Love,

A

dream, ivory - milk