There’s nothing quite like living in your twenties—the world at your feet and enough gut to believe that you are something, that you are a remarkable human being. I sometimes wonder if I ever cared this much about not caring at all. But America tells me that I should be all I can be and I will be what I want to be which of course is the best I can be. The entire team of soccer moms has already rallied for me. Knobbed knees on wooden kneelers, my grandma prays for me too, you know. I once knew a man who ordered a macchiato every day as he parked his 911 in front of the cafe. He told me that one day I will be split-britches rich and have a nice home and go on lots of vacations and working as a perpetually skint barista will have paid off. But living abroad for the last four months has taught me that all fluff is excess. I have mastered the tricks of public face, of institutions, of responsibility, responsibility, responsibility. It has never appealed to me more than to live the rest of my life without the weight of the world on these dirt-scuffed shoulders. I want to read books and drink coffee and spontaneously combust when my plane touches down on Friday night. I want to affirm the things that have already been written.
The best part is, once you can no longer reconcile these splitting versions of yourself, you find comfort in that you know nothing at all.