I refuse to let my life be like one of those short stories in The New Yorker. I grow up to be some miserable 30-something and all the men in my past who fucked me over emotionally or psychologically come back to apologize and blegh.
Live in a windowy cabin out in Wyoming or something with a dog I don't show much emotional attachment to with three-sentence descriptions of my therapy sessions with a woman as cynical as myself...
And then I find out 4/5ths of the way through the story that I have an illegitimate half-brother living in South Carolina who's in debt up to his ears and could really use the financial assistance of his half-sister who so happens to be a renowned textbook author...
The story ends with a really, really subdued "this would be heartfelt if it were a film" scene where I've made a passive decision to give my half-brother some few thousand dollars so he can take care of his wife and two young boys, one of whom is some kind of genius and is enrolled in a fancy boarding school for young geniuses based on his merit alone.
You know, to be honest I'd rather have a more Star Wars-based life. The Force would run strong within me and I'd be a bad-ass Jedi and maybe I should pick something I know more about, but I don't really care as long as I don't end up in some passive, Valium-reduced short story.
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