When people ask me what I want to do with my life:
I wish I lived in the 1800s so I could be married to some guy I don’t love and have a secret rendezvous with some woman. We would have this illegal affair where we do crazy shit like talk about our feelings and actually achieve orgasms. We send fancy, handwritten love poems (no email yet kiddos!) to each other sprayed in rose scented perfume. Then eventually after several years we accumulate a large sum of money and run away together. Then we change our identities and move to North America where we live in hiding and plant potatoes. Along the way we’ll obtain a friend named Mary (because one of those wont be hard to find when everyone named their kid the same fricking name), drink tea out of teacups because that sounds lit, and bake bread. We’ll wear matching dresses and those stupid looking adult size baby bonnets. Like you have not lived until you have tried these bonnets. I know people wore them for racist reasons but try them because they keep your face nice and warm and toasty (they are a death trap in the summer). We’ll swim in a babbling brook (nude because bathing suits didn’t exist and we’re lesbians, duh!) and adopt an anne Shirley to keep us entertained and she’ll write exquisite literature for us and do wacky things like make bets and break her ankle while falling off of a roof. The whole town will think we’re just bosom buddies who are both widows and we laugh at them behind our cottage door while we made plum pudding. When we die we get buried in a conjoined grave plot and historians will be like “oh look at what great friends they were” even though we literally ran away together, across the Pacific ocean for each other, live together for most of our lives, slept in the same bed, raised a daughter together, drank tea together everyday, wrote letters to each other confessing our love and probably died holding hands. Maybe I’m thinking about this too much?