I was wondering how long it would take for me to regret this decision.
The answer is 3. Three days.
Three days and I have no idea what to write ...But here’s something anyway.
I’m sure this could be interpreted in a multitude of different ways
so decode it as you will.
She wrote it in a letter.
It was an easy thing to say in jest. As a self-deprecating joke after a couple of drinks. Shouting something loudly at a party where no one’s really listening. Taking all of the meaning out of something so truly heartbreaking.
She used to take herself seriously, but that also came with panic attacks and literal gut-wrenching anxiety, so she searched for other coping mechanisms. Like laughter.
It’s easy to understand why so many people write memoirs. Once you write it all down on paper it does seem truly asinine. All of it.
It’s easy to say the right things to the wrong people, or to say the wrong things to the right people for that matter, but telling the truth to those who need to hear it, well, that’s a whole other story.
Maybe it’s cowardice, maybe it’s self-preservation.
Somethings are hard to talk about and talking about them doesn’t always make them better.
Mostly it just makes them much, much worse.
She left it at the steps so as not to face the consequences of her actions.
Like sending a text message and flipping the screen of your phone over, or better yet throwing it far across the room. Turning it off for 24 hours. Dropping it into the mouth of a volcano. Who needs phones anyway?
The first step to sending a message in a bottle is bottling it up. It can float in the ocean for endless days and ceaseless nights, but eventually it will wash up on shore. And whoever discovers it, whether it was meant for them or not, could be the exact person who you needed to have find it.
“Hey, have I ever told you about the last time I got a nosebleed?”