I remember riding in the car with my brother. Or maybe he was riding with me; I forget. Either way, he asked me if he could light up one of his red Marlboros.
"Sure," I answered, "but just know that I am risking lung cancer to make you happy."
That was a few years ago, and is something that only I remember. I still risk lung cancer each time I see my brother but, today, I risk skin cancer.
I'm lounging, black bikini style, on the deck behind my boyfriend's house. I'm sweating, but the glistening drops of moisture bead and bleed with the sweet sunscreen with which I doused myself. Insects surround me, taste my ankles and elbows. The deathly white liquid attracts them, and I nearly refused to pack it into my suitcase. "Mom, I swear that this is the same sunscreen I brought with me to Australia six years ago."
I don't feel like a college graduate. I still feel like the same lazy undergrad I have been for the past four summers. Come August, I won't have school. I also won't have a job. I'll just be reading Newbery Honor Award books for the hell of it while Anthony Bourdain drolls on in the background. Neither truly distracts me from laziness.
Even if I were home, I would just be blogging about the mundane and inane, throwing together Harry Potter-themed posts and trying to think of a way to mention suntanning and reading and jet skiing in a light-hearted manner that trumps my unsuccessful job search.
I attempted to start Eat, Pray, Love several minutes ago. Tried for several minutes before realizing that all I can think about is Meredith Publishing, the mural I may be painting, and the fact that my mother angrily asked me not to call her for awhile.
I have accomplished nothing except the beginnings of a suntan. Well, that's not entirely true. My shorthand list would include:
-- applying for 15 jobs (all but one have refused me thus far; I am practically counting on the one to disregard me as well)
-- finally purchasing my bridesmaid dress at a vintage clothing store in Indy
-- reading several books, including Dracula and The 158-Pound Marriage
-- managing to make my boyfriend snidely comment on my "not having fun"
False. Gee, thanks for making life at your house more uncomfortable for me because of your untrue generalizations.
I am merely disappointed in myself because I feel as if I have not done anything of worth this summer. I have not applied for many jobs recently. I haven't been reading as much since I have been in Indiana. I rarely take photos anymore, and I have found myself subject to the "do you want any alcoh--here, drink/try/taste/have some of this kind of alcohol" routine. I accept, sometimes unwillingly. I take a sip of Samuel Adams and recoil. "That's disgusting," I say, chasing my lips with cherry-flavored ChapStick. "It tastes like moose piss."
I just need to do something out of the ordinary. See something. Read something. Make something. Do something besides admire Oreo artwork, sing "Farmer Tan," watch awful music videos from the '90s and inwardly lament about my mother not wanting to talk to me.
For the record, this is the awful music video.