Nothing Holds and That’s the Plan

The last plants I bought died because I forgot about them for two weeks and then remembered all at once. I watered them thoroughly, attentively, with genuine remorse, and they died anyway. I’ve stopped buying plants that require long-term commitment from me.

We’re bored faster now. Trends arrive and disappear before you’ve finished forming an opinion. Goodbyes and fresh starts pass each other constantly in the doorway. What I want from a life isn’t complicated to describe: enough sex, enough money not to think about it constantly, luck showing up at reasonable intervals. I want people around me who make me laugh and push me somewhere I wasn’t already going, who take the arrangement seriously and expect the same back. I want to feel safe and challenged and thoroughly fucked. None of this is compatible with routine.

Somewhere along the way I learned not to let things in too deep when there’s a real possibility they’ll need to be cut loose. Not out of coldness—out of basic self-preservation. The roundhouse kick to whatever bores or drains or darkens the room is faster and more honest than patience, and the space it clears is almost always better than what it held. Every ending carries this sensation of a misty summer morning: something heavy dropped, the day suddenly full of room.

The version of yourself that moves on quickly tends to arrive somewhere better than the version that holds on until something breaks. Baby, it’s a wild world. Might as well stay light on your feet.