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  • Writer's pictureChoo Choo

A Warm Gun

Saturday late morning, cloudy, mid-40's, sitting in my quiet apartment double-fisting hot lemon water and tieguanyin tea, the kind that comes in those vacuum-sealed baggies, and that look like contraband. It could just be the HIIT high talking, my muscles so spent from a morning of kettle-belling and mountain-climbing that they've left me in a contented stupor, but I'd like to snapshot this moment in my life because it may well be the last time where I'll feel as if I truly, pardon the cliche, have it all.

That's not meant to sound as dramatic as it does, and that moment could last a month, or it could last for years. But here we are, staunchly planted in 2016, and here I am, wavering around the beginning of the end of my mid-twenties, and I've somehow conned people into giving me a living wage for the most improbable of services. Playing music? How quaint. How bourgeois. Sometimes it feels as if I'm playing a huge trick on everyone, and they just haven't wised up to it yet.

In my spare time I read (lately it's been Knausgaard, couldn't you tell?), and have dinner parties and chamber music salons, and occasionally engage in that most curious custom that is mainly the purview of basic white girls, brunch, and every month or so I make sure to take a mini-vacation somewhere (I call them my disappearances) to appease my insatiable wanderlust. My personal life is, to paraphrase Ron Swanson, "Epic. And private."

All this to say that, cynic though I may be, I am generally a pretty happy person, so the next time I find myself pummeling down a social media shame spiral, I should direct myself to this post and tell myself to snap out of it and go eat some avocado toast.

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