I drink to calm my nerves.

Or do I?

I don't know.

I had an interesting conversation with my sister-in-law last night.

We talked about debt and poverty, and the true meaning of poverty, and investing in oneself. What it means to invest in oneself.

She is, in many ways, me, seven years down the road. A woman with no debt, but nothing else, either.

It gave me a lot to think about.

I am still frightened by the whole UK business. It'll be okay. It's always okay. But I am very anxious.

I pour my fear into letters. I write them on a typewriter, an honest to god typewriter. The precise, unevenly inked black letters marching across stiff grey stationary expresses my fear as much as my words do. I fold them up, creasing them severely with my fingernail, and send them to my friends.

I must apologize to them for sending so much fear.

I am drinking expensive gin and watching 1984. The bleakness suits my mood tonight.

I am ripping all my cds onto my computer, in preparation for getting rid of them all.

I rip one that I have had for fifteen years. I remember begging my dad for it. We had left the safety of our tiny town, and were in a big city, a mall.

There was a big display. The cd had just come out. I begged. It felt so posh, so grown up, so big city, this cd on this cd display.

I begged, and he told my mom, who bought it for me for Christmas.

Looking back, how silly I was. How small town. How naive. How wonderful and sweet and trusting.

I miss the old me.

The editor of my hometown newspaper recently posted a bunch of old photos on Facebook. Being a friend of my folks, he had a number of photos of me, from 13 through to 16.

Ah, I feel like a whole different person, now. I don't even know that girl.

I need to sleep. Tomorrow is a big day of adulting, and I'll need all my willpower.

Be well, my friends.

.

Rosie.

Before&After