20 November, 2009


Dear self, I hope I don't die, especially not on the plane home (well I like planes so I actually would mind that less than anything). This summer I would always think about what if I suddenly died. And I always thought it would be okay. Now I think, always, shit, please let me get home before I die. When I was a kid, before God, when I was really scared of dying I'd imagine that the years I'd already lived were this sort of weight keeping me alive. I've lived eight years, I remember thinking; that's something. Which doesn't really make sense. Unless you're a baby in the Middle Ages, you get more likely to die the older you get. I'm closer to it now than I was at eight, especially if I die at the age of 21 hit by one of the infernal Lothians Buses. I might just be paranoid and lonely, but I always think the people riding in the Lothians Buses are staring at me. I wonder if they can tell I don't belong.

I was not patriotic before, I know I live in a country of ugly money and too much sun, but please God deliver me and drop me back into the mass of it, America, dirty and self-centered and out of control and utterly divorced from any past. I can't stand walking down streets that have been here forever.

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