Have I lived a life worth writing about? I ponder this as I lie in bed at 11:30 am, not hungover but still feeling guilty about drinking alone in my room last night while watching TV because it was too cold and I was too lazy to go outside again. That doesn’t seem like a life worth writing about. Middling between the quasi-punk stylings of my early 20s and the aspirational reality of my early 30s, I think: well, I did plenty of wild things when I was younger. But now? The things worth writing about have slowed to a snail’s crawl. Is it interesting to feel lost like this? Is this what people want to read about? Or should I pick a direction and hurtle myself down that road, even if I have a sneaking suspicion that’s not where I should be going. Although being torn doesn’t feel very interesting, either. Perhaps I should just ride the coat tails of my own youth, which is slipping away from me, and write about that. Forever.
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