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I don't know how I keep finding ways to survive.
It's so weird seeing my friends tweet about the flow of their routines, which are suddenly moving very differently than mine.
On my way to the mall I passed a man selling goldfish from a nifty little station built out of a bicycle. If I were in a French film, there would be a shot of me—having just taken an unconventional path that goes against my responsibilities—gazing pensively at the goldfish, then it would jump to a shot of me struggling to cradle a small water-filled plastic bag in my lap, my new fish friend swimming around inside. It would become a symbol of character development and plot movement.
I didn't buy a goldfish (I wanted to), but I just know: When shit inevitably hits the fan, it dies.
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