Where Am I?
Good question. Somewhere in South East Portland in my friend Dory's apartment. The sky outside is completely without color and it will most likely snow tomorrow. After a month of illness and workaholism, staying inside with nothing to do but look out of the window in a strange North West state is exactly what the doctor ordered. That and some really strong antibiotics, which are finally starting to work.
Today is Dory's 30th birthday, but she still had to go to work.
When we met, we were 14 and I wasn't even planning on living this long. I was pretty sure that I'd have published my "great anti-American novel" (as I used to say then) by the age of 23 and then go down in a blaze of infamy, partying, writing, and visiting a man in every port. My death would be dramatic and an unfairly early demise, but at least there wouldn't be a wrinkle on my face. By the time we hit 30, I guess we're just happy to have lived through the bouts of partying that we have had and hope to continue forward in a blaze of mediocrity, keeping depression and illness at bay and grasping onto the ones we love.
I haven't written the "great anti-American novel" yet and I'm not sure if I will. My attention span is more suited for the longish-short story anyway or maybe just the spoken word (delivered on stage in my underwear). I'm very thankful to have loved ones to grasp onto and I think that we write our own great novels together through time and experience. The anti-American part seems to be taking care of itself at a federal government level.