Tomorrow I’ll be eighty, sitting in a rickety rocking chair alone, playing with Julie’s grandchildren and Danielle's grandchildren and Max’s grandchildren, with no kids of my own, and with no husband. And then I’ll look in the mirror and I’ll say, “Now I hate myself AND I’m ugly.” And my boobs will be saggy and I’ll have a mustache and then I’ll look at Drew who’s eighty-three and he’s happily married to another eighty-three-year-old, with beautiful bouncing exotic babies. And then he and his wife will point at me and say “Hey look! There’s the girl who hasn’t gotten action since she was in summer camp after seventh grade! Now she’s this lonely virgin who hasn’t even played spin the bottle yet, and now it’s too late for boys to see her because now she’s old and she’s too old to have babies anyway.”
It’s beginning to get hard to tell whether I’m asleep with a nightmare, or just living my life.
Notes: This was...um...interesting. I guess I was really upset that the much older boy from my after-school writing class, Drew, wasn't interested in me. For some reason I took this to mean that nobody would ever want to do me, and I thought that at age eighty I'd still be bemoaning never playing spin the bottle in middle school.