Ten years from now I see myself hunched over my eighth glass of champagne in a French restaurant (window seat), dreaming up ways to escape the banality of every day life. Alone. Without a husband, without children.
I will feast on the souls of men to compensate for my own, and discard their hearts like how you would bones. The only thing I will have commited myself to is a psychiatric ward where my feelings will be chemically induced and where my thoughts will be chemically repressed. With such aid of narcotics, I will see the world through rose-colored lenses and frolic in our paper towns full of paper people, blissfully unaware of the unbearable lightness of being. Like a sheet of paper, I will drift and breeze through the crowd, and someone will ask,
"Who is that?"
To which I will reply, "Anyone."
I am but a possibility.
.......................................................................................
C: Interesting. Reminds me of a mixture of the druggie books I'm so fond of and girl characters from John Green novels. And honey, ten years from now you won't be hunched over your eighth glass of champagne. You will probably have fallen off your window seat in a slump and passed out in a very unladylike manner. And you will be snoring.
C: It's a fictional free write, dumbass.
C: I thought you were talking about yourself! I'm seriously LOLing.
C: Actually, I probably wouldn't mind if that was how my life turned out. Maybe I'll revise it and add a cat.
C: LOL I WAS GONNA SAY SOMETHING ABOUT A CAT.
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