It’s eight o’clock on a Saturday and I’ve just rented Grosse Pointe Blank on Amazon because I’m in love with John Cusack and I have nothing better to do.
I’m 37. I’m desperate for my life to change. I spend Fridays and Saturdays either watching old movies or writing a novel I have no guarantee will ever see the light of day.
I have no desire to ever buy a house. Owning the trailer I live in now has been experience enough. I’d rather spend my life on travel expenses than a mortgage. Domesticity scares the hell out of me.
Since my youngest is 16 going on 17 I have no illusions of ever being the picture perfect mother. I raised my kids on Dracula and zombies instead of Disney. I don’t exactly fit the ideal.
Cookie cutter life is not for me.
I’d rather live out of motels and apartments than to bend to the demands of what society calls normal life.
I’ve always been an odd duck. Not that it really bothers me. I’d rather be that than the myriad of variations on the theme of beige. There is no sequence of events that could have ever landed me in that situation.
I think … I think … once 16 graduates high school … I’ll have to make some decisions.
One: what am I going to do with the rest of my life? Ideally it would be to move to Iceland and spend my time writing novels and short stories which include fantasy themes and enough scenes of horror to produce intrigue.
Two: since I’ll be nearly 39 once my children are grown, can I get away with still not growing up?
I mean, I did the whole college thing. I got a respectable job that will support my family and put a roof over our heads. I’m doing the office thing, fucking 8 hour days, dying in the corporate machine. Someone shoot me.
No, I’m happy. Happy I’ve got enough money to provide for my kids. Happy I can buy groceries. Happy my bills are paid for. But it’s not enough. It never will be.
And, as usual, I’m desperate for change.