the good life

The great thing about moving and unpacking is all the great old crap you find. Like those sketchbooks and journals, just brimming with old intrigues. Also, that dusty old ukulele you keep hitting with the door every time you enter the closet in the spare bedroom. You pick it up, play a song in a minor chord, and wish you could still play "Oh, Susannah!" which was the only song you ever could play on the ukulele anyway. The song in a minor chord is a sad song, as songs in minor chords tend to be. Also, you’re making this up as you go along and watching the rain leak onto the relatively expensive curtains in the spare bedroom. You have put a cup on the windowsill to catch the dripping rain, and you think to yourself as you put your chin in your hands and prop yourself up by your elbows, "I live in an old Disney cartoon." And let’s face it, what life is better than an old Disney cartoon?
You write in your journal for the first time since January and pick up a leatherbound collection of Jane Austen’s work. This Disney life is good. Now if only you could get so hungry that your foot looks like a turkey and you salt it and eat it. Also, you’re alone on a raft in the middle of the ocean.

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