A while ago, I was living in Tirau in my own house, with two cats and a garden, and a job that was cool sometimes and sucked other times, and I ran lots and ate little and I was really skinny, and things were ok.
A while after that, I was in China, in my own apartment, with no cats and no garden, and a kitchen I didn’t use, and dust on my floor and in my lungs, and I job that I mostly hated, and cheap baijou in the fridge and PJ Harvey on my computer, and things were kinda shit.
Then I was in Auckland, trying to be a health warrior and save the world from fat and also trying to live on crackers and gin, and I sucked at both, and things were mostly shit.
And then I was in Hamilton, breaking bones and tendons but also trying to run marathons, and also trying to work in an office with women who wore heels and makeup and hated the sound of my crunching carrots every hour, but I had cool friends to run with and drink beer with, and things were sometimes ok, and sometimes shit.
Auckland again, and a room where my pillow was four metres from my microwave and six from my toilet, where I biked to work every day and crashed every other day, and my manager thought I was stupid and my boss thought I was nuts, and I ran in the weekends when I wasn’t injured, and it didn’t matter how things were because, so what. What else was there? I had a job, and lots of people don’t have jobs. I had a place to sleep and eat and listen to PJ Harvey, and lots of people sleep in cars and lots of other people don’t even know who PJ Harvey is.
And now I’m here. Here is Mexico, and here I live out of Airbnbs which are sometimes nice and sometimes average and sometimes clogged with black hair. I run every morning but I’m not skinny because I run 50k a week instead of 100, and I eat tacos and pineapple instead of protein powder and carrots.
Here I sit at my malfunctioning computer every morning and every afternoon and write about probiotics and Alzheimer’s and men’s wedding rings and erotic asphyxiation. I walk. I go to the dentist. I buy carrot juice. I drink tequila. I make soup out of packets and sometimes I add onions. I go to bed alone and I wake up alone. Then I do it all over again.
And mostly it’s ok.
And sometimes it’s shit. It’s really, really godforsaken fucking lame and I have no fucking idea why I’m doing this and I miss my cat and my garden and running marathons, and I know I’m so lucky to be doing this and I know people would kill to be doing the same but Thailand fucked up my teeth and I have to stay here until they fix it, and I miss my mum and I miss having wines on the porch and shopping in Rotorua and drinking water out of the tap and owning more than one pair of shoes.
2 thoughts on “just scroll past this one.”
If it’ll make you feel better, I feel like I’m on hampered wheel. Day and day out doing the same shit over and over with no plan at all. I work at a dermatologist office and I’m a freelance writer between putting in insurance claims, sleeping, and talking to my cat. You’ll figure it all out sooner or later, best of luck!
I don’t think I’ll ever figure it out, but maybe I’ll get a cat I can talk to. Thanks 🙂