53

Back in the days when I considered myself a writer, I fantasized about and feigned the despaired and pained life. I drank lots of coffee, read Anais Nin, and if only I had less sensitive lungs, I would have smoked too. And then I changed majors, or actually got one, and I forgot mostly about the dream of going to Iowa for grad school and being famous as a result of my critically-acclaimed short stories.

I lost nearly all of my old stories and poetry and only a handful have survived my moves and break-ups. I came across those few this morning as I was searching for proof that I did indeed cancel my gym membership at Boston Sports Club THREE months ago (you guys suck it). It's funny how the stories we write about others are really about ourselves. It's also good that I ended up in business; I don't think I could have supported myself off my writin'.

I thought I had given back all of the pictures of my ex-boyfriend. At the time we broke up, I didn't want any reminders of him. (What can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic. *insert eye roll*) I came across one that must've made it through, coincidentally my favorite, stashed in between those old stories. And then I thought about how weird it is that the only picture he has of me in his house is one of me walking away from him.