my old bedroom

Okay, so I mentioned that I am spending the night at my parents’ in preparation for an early morning journey to my brother’s wedding shower tomorrow. At this very moment, I am sitting in what was my bedroom and is now my parents’ “office.” It’s very interesting to be in a space that was my sanctuary for so long – especially during the dark days of the late 80s when I was in high school and wore all black – not in a goth way, just in a bitchy way – and only communicated with my family over dinner to “pass the salt” or “fuck off.” We’ve come so far since then. Now when I tell them to fuck off, I’m wearing blue or pink.

I’ve mentioned in previous posts about the issues I face as I try to determine whether or not I’m an adult and when I need to hang up the kiddie things and all that shit. Unlike my friends who’ve gotten married and procreated (does that mean I’ve concreated?), it’s not as easy for me to define my evolution. Yet that evolution has still happened, is still happening. Dammit.

Funny to be sitting here writing and drinking a glass of wine and remembering. After graduation, in an attempt (a successful one, I might add) to not let me turn myself into a movie of the week, my parents allowed me to have anyone (boy or girl) I wanted spend the night and drink booze, post-commencement. As long as we stayed here and weren’t out getting drunk and killing ourselves. And really, why go through the huge hassle of high school only to splatter yourself on the pavement at the end of it all? So pointless. A few people came over, we drank really cheap, shitty beer, passed out on my bed fully clothed, and that was that. I’ve never seen any of those people since that night.

I remember when this uppity chick I was trying to be friends with spent the night with me in junior high. Bugs were hitting the windows in my bedroom because the light was on inside and we’re in the fucking country at night. It gets really dark out here, which you forget living in the city. Anyway, this bitch was not familiar with the bug-hitting-window phenomenon and frankly seemed a little put out by the whole experience, so I decided to tell her that a dead man was tapping on the window and would eventually break the glass and kill us. She called her mother to come pick her up. Maybe that was when I discovered the power of storytelling. Storytelling – it gets rid of dumb bitches.

Okay, I’m back from refilling my wine glass. While helping myself to free hooch, I thought I’d check out the food sitch. Not that I’m hungry, just nosy. There is literally no “snack” food. Everything has to be prepared with other shit. Lots of pasta, beans, grains, veggies, spices, etc. No quick in and out. Which is why my parents are healthy. Thank God they drink.

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