The Roommates Who Taught Me to Love Being Alive
8th March 2019
In the two years after I graduated from college, my parents divorced, my relationship of two years ended, I quit Teach For America after a single awful month, I started and quit another job, and my therapist gently guided me to the understanding that I had an eating disorder. It was no wonder, then, that I wanted to move across the country, from New York, where I’d lived for most of my life, to California. In San Francisco, I would be new.
Let’s check off the Pokemon points:
- College? Check.
- Divorced parents? Check
- Unmarried with bad ‘relationship’? Check
- Tried fashionable underclass outreach program but couldn’t hack it? Check. (Maybe she ought to have gone Peace Corps.)
- Can’t keep a job? Check
- Therapist? Check.
- Eating disorder? Check.
- Yearning for the Coast? Check.
You don’t even need to read the rest of the article. It’s going to be another Cozy Memoir beloved by the fashionista press.
You know what taught me to live being alive? A high school classmate dying in a rice paddy. That sorts you out right quick.