I’m tired
of thinking about the future. Perhaps commitment to a man, procreation with a
little one is a destined path which I am actively deviating. It’s easy enough to cease motion and devote
all of this energy to the ‘other’—Frost’s haunting road less traveled. But I
hate that guy’s poetry, so I hate his stupid unchosen path.
I can’t take part
in a wedding procession. I want the 85 year-old me to navigate my next move.
Perhaps she would tell me to stop thinking so much, and quote the classic
‘analysis is paralysis’ wisdom of her youth, and use the time to masturbate.
She is a kooky old bird.