It’s so obviously time to be moody.
You can’t write it better than this, can you?
Girl finally gets the chance to move into the City she adores. Girl starts packing up stuff. Girl is assaulted by old memories, not all of them good, as she sorts through every last ticket stub she ever saved, every plastic doodad, every credit card offer. That last is a stumper, really, until you consider Girl, who feels guilty rejecting offers, even bad ones.
Girl gets sidetracked making a journal entry about how Tribe is so clearly the new Orkut, which so obviously was trying to be the new Friendster, which is going the way of SixDegrees. And also, Girl would like to extend the apology to seven of her Dodgeball friends, whom she apparently text-messaged at 01:00 Sunday morning from Club Six while the MSG was indisposed.
Girl still has not eaten dinner. Girl is on a hunger strike: no food until books are packed. This will take a while.
Girl is on a memory strike, too. Please make a trash bag big enough, Large Random Corporation, for all of this bullshit, these tiny flags of tiny countries she once visited that have since dissolved into islands, slipped away from their neighbors, and become trompe l’oeils.
Girl gets stepped on, repeatedly, by a cat who will have no part of this striking thing. Food must still be eaten. Scritches must still be received.
Girl is on a packing strike, a feeling strike, a living strike. Girl hides in her bed and refuses to connect except through cheap crab-imitation social-networking websites, and even then the connection is lost due to her overwhelming apathy. Girl keeps thinking that it will be so good to live with an independent friend, so she doesn’t have to be so alone and yet doesn’t need to take care of someone else. And yet Girl cannot move a book, close a box, toss a piece of paper.
And to think, it was all so bright and cheery just two days ago. That she can sink so heavily into seaweed and silt without consideration for that brightness is something no one wants to remember.
But you do.