I'll Admit It.

If it’s time for me to start being brutally (and I mean, brutally) honest with myself, then honesty comes with a continental lemon, salt and a lofty price. The kind of price higher than any Anthropologie label hand-sewn dress all patch-worked together somewhere in the back of the store under the piano music and above the Indian floor cushions. The kind of price that today made me stare into the beautiful displays of clean white paper and plastic sculptured into a pristine, indoor, oil-heated winter and want only to lay in the display of fake snowballs and never get up again. I did lay in it. I laid in it and wondered why they would put out winter-related displays in August. I laid in it for what felt like hours, which in truth was about the time it took for my mother to purchase an overpriced sweater and the clothing store-bouncer to ask me what did I think I was doing, crushing someone’s artwork? My Mom pulled me up and rolled her eyes at me, motioning for me to follow her out the door. We walked out onto West Broadway and she told me I was being a dumbass. People take internships to create displays like that. I told her it sounds like they’re the dumbass for paying money to play with paper, then thought better because really, that’s what we’re all doing. Also it's Summer, I told her, it's their fault for having the wrong season indoors. You need to go visit your friends or something, she told me. Get out and have fun: I’m sick of you just going places and…laying on things. I texted Ana that night and she told me she was planning on visiting a friend in South Jersey; maybe it would be good for me to get out.