Life is a game of chance, a series of lucky breaks and coincidences, cause and effect.
But fuck if we want to talk about it that way.
No, we’re humans. We like patterns. We like stories.
I careened into adulthood while bumbling around at a night club in South Africa, drinking whiskey and puffing endlessly at Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes. I sat at a table of people far more witty and interesting and worldly than I, and I tried and failed, in my young, drunken stupor, to understand how some rural hick fleeing a narrow little town and a failed abusive relationship had somehow ended up here on the other side of the world. I felt like a fake. A poser. A white American girl running around the world for the opposite reason most folks did.
See, I wasn’t running away to find myself. No. Indeed. I knew exactly who I was.
I was trying to run as far and as fast from myself as possible. Read More »