My 18-month-old nephew is in that stage of near-constant frustration where he knows what he wants in life but rarely has the agency to achieve or fulfill those desires. He cries a lot.
I feel like I am experiencing the adult version of that.
With my nephew, it gets pretty annoying, all this crying over, you know, not being able to get up in a particular chair or no longer being allowed to hold the applesauce because the checkout lady needs to scan and bag it. I have this awful feeling that, if there is a God, he/she is also rather annoyed with my petty disappointments and miseries.
My only solution so far is to try and have more patience and understanding for my nephew.
It only took a few days for all the things I loathe about Florida to work their way under my skin; there wasn’t much room under my skin for more things anyway. But the transgressive anti-suburban writing comes out just as fast, too. If I ever work hard enough to get a book advance, I think I’ll come to Florida to finish the book, then Europe to edit.
The grande mocha is this century’s big mac.
The great suburban desert landscape that is the Wal-Mart parking lot.
The great washed masses who have never seen a pedestrian before.
This movie called “security device enclosed.”
Middle aged woman drinking pink wine and dancing to the bar band playing a Johnny Cash melody in surf-swing.
The abundance of evangelically-themed businesses, little fishy line drawings. “Agape Shears.”
These were all notes I typed into my phone while out-and-about. I’ve signed up for twitter to facilitate the anthropological note-taking (and also to jump on the bandwagon). Check my account here or through the following flasheroony (oh and friend me {or whatever it is you do on twitter} if you have an acct):