Day Eight:

I just sold a duffel bag on eBay so I’m basically an entrepreneur.

Do you think everyone in Australia is hot and stylish, or just the hot and stylish people?

I always find myself reaching for detox tea while eating something like chocolate or popcorn. That’s irony for you.

I can’t stop listening to the song you played me. Even when it’s not playing it’s in my head, and now it’s in my character’s head, and none of us can escape.

I’m trying to decide where I want to go next. Italy? Greece? Mexico City? Ecuador? New York City? New Orleans? There are so many places and my heart always hurts when I say goodbye.

It’s very unfair that you made me like you.

I tried to explain what was different about neighborhoods in Kansas versus neighborhoods in Arizona. I didn’t do it very well. It’s hard to put gritty sand against lush greenery. Burning asphalt and crystal-clear pools against rolling backyards not confined by fences, and people who will wave and ask you if you’re okay. Childhood memories against adult perceptions. I think the things people spend money on are different here, but that’s probably not true.

I always know where I am unless it comes to my own head. I wrote an essay about it. It helped.

It may be the best thing I’ve written, that essay. I keep coming back to it, scouring the pages, reading and re-reading. I’m hoping for some kind of truth, I think. Something that will help to make sense of why I do the things I do.

When do people decide what they want to do with their lives? I’d like to wander Whole Foods and have really warmth-giving, random conversations with the people checking me out there and leave feeling faith in the goodness of humans. I’d like to go to Italy and get really drunk on excellent wine and dance down cobblestone streets. I’d like to write a novel, one that I won’t hate once it’s published. I’d like to have witty banter with someone I also trust enough to make extended eye contact with. That’s tricky for me sometimes. There’s a lot to be seen there.

If you scoff aside the beauty of the Midwest, I don’t like you. At least not as much as I would if you could see the life in the sparkling green, the neon spring and damp summer and rolling hills (because Kansas is actually the seventh flattest state, thank you very much).

Crying helps, sometimes. Other times it just makes your cheeks and neck and pillow very wet, a reminder that you are not as strong as you want to be and that nighttime is hard.

I read an essay yesterday by a woman who thought that everyone who can’t sleep at night should unite in some sort of productivity. I think that’s fairly genius. Everyone who watches the minutes tick by just wants to not be alone even more than they don’t want to be awake. Wouldn’t that be a beautiful thing?
I mention beating hearts or sunshine in almost every thing I write.
What exactly did you think was going to happen?

I keep saying, "I'm not always sad," but maybe I should stop explaining myself. Maybe I am sad all the time. Maybe only sometimes. Maybe just more than normal.
Is it this hard for other people to be positive and live in the moment and stop their minds from racing, tripping, ahead? I'm running out of ways to describe my "racing thoughts" and "racing heart." Maybe I should just learn some breathing exercises.
I think I should know how to successfully sew ripped jeans and cook rice.

You're the one stealing fire, so don't even try to blame me.