Do you remember your summer of 18? 18 years, I mean, not 2018. That hasn’t happened yet.
That was the most jacked up summer.
In what sense?
Emotionally. Revved up like a Camaro spinning whirlies on a slick street under a full moon. Flying on an airplane to a beach town when I craved being someplace else, a photographic mountain town with a boy I knew well but had never gone all the way with so he pegged me a virgin. All that latent longing and dizzying depression and unspent ambition and thwarted intimacy and fraught connection pummeling my heart with a whack ack ack!
Yeah, and the feeling that whatever was mine to grab would be gone by the next time round the sun, And the dread of knowing that I was too chickenshit to go for it, that I’d have no one to blame but myself for my pathetic spiraling out.
Have you experienced such self-loathing since?
Fortunately, no, but I suppose it’s there, if I dig for it.