Some words to describe the stage I’m not yet entering, because I still can’t stay in one place long enough to have a cockroach-infested apartment or to meet a potential father or the desire to do such things. But uncertainty, fear and a screwed up world are already present themes in my potential futures.
My dearest daughter,
I’m writing this to you at age 27, at which point I still don’t know how to change a diaper.
And I have to tell you right away, I live in a world where planes crash unexpectedly, and love doesn’t always win, and I eat pesticides for breakfast. My neighbors fight when they’re drunk and my friends have cancer and twelve-year-old students sell pot out of their lockers at school. I’m sorry darling, but this world is no place for a child.
I’m looking at a beautiful bouquet of flowers on the kitchen table that your potential daddy bought me three days ago and they’re wilted because I forgot to change the water. The sink is dirty and the recycling bin smells like sour milk and Coca-Cola. My home is no place for a child to grow.
But goodness it would be so gorgeous to meet you…
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