She lays down on her side. She’s anxious again. The unknown reasons of this condition contribute to it’s bitter effects. She’s tired of sprinkling Zoloft into her meals. Co-dependence is never a co-incidence. “God Damn World” is the only thought that rides the loud breeze in her head.
Closer now to 40 than she is to 20, she longs for a carefree attitude. All the times she would go off into the night with only recklessness and men on her mind. It was like being strapped to a corkscrew roller coaster and only noticing when it stops. She wants to say that “those were the days”, but that just makes her feel older.
It may be a counter-evolution. There was a time in history were reaching 35 made you an elder. You were old. Then medicine made 30 nothing but a third. Now, in this time of stress and 70 miles per hour, 35 is the age of wear. She’s aware this may not be true for everyone. But for her it causes sleepless nights. It causes her ovaries to sing for worth. It causes dreams to become luxuries.
This should never be true for anyone.
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