On this hot, sunny afternoon I am still nursing a hangover from the night before. I sat outside on a balmy evening, a jazz band played music across the street, I drank far too much beer.
Now I let sweat pool at the small of my back, lying in the luscious grass dad swears grows too quickly, trying to bronze my skin with the UV rays.
The most recent lockdown, the long, dark days, feel as if they never existed. The whole year feels like an unpleasant, strangely familiar fever dream. Each season sectioned off by very specific, anxious feelings and interspersed, limited social events that stick out because there were so few of them. I can’t work out whether I have processed it all or not, or whether the coming months and years will bring sudden moments of “what the fuck was that?”
I think, however, that my current philosophy is to juice the life I am living now, this hot, alcohol infused summer, for everything it’s got. I am exhausted already, but blissfully so. I think we all deserve this.
