When You Let Yourself Be Gutted
In September 2012, I purchased a portable cassette player. From a dinky thrift store that smelled heavily of cigarette smoke and a sweet, middle-aged woman who questioned why this gangly teenager had cassette tapes in that day and age. The player had served its purpose, was outdated. Perhaps it did and was — thus ending up in her store. The music was worth it though.
A friend once called me a hooligan and a hipster, and I’ve dragged that description onto every website’s “Tell Me About Yourself” bio section. This friend also liked to point out certain habits of mine as being grandmotherly. I liked to sleep early. I called people dear unironically. I didn’t have a TV or social media. I had regular afternoon tea. I sent snail mail.
We’d go on road trips where she’d ask me to point in a direction and we’d drive until we got to an unknown area to explore. She sobbed on my shoulder about her mother dying and stayed up late with me when I had panic attacks. We’d find old diners to try their pie and sit in fields talking of our dreams and blowing dandelion wishes.
