Thursday, February 23, 2012
The Kite Runner
No one wants you to see what’s in their bags when riding close quarters together on the subway. No one wants you to know what they’re reading, what they’re writing, or what they’re listening to (Unless you’re that person who blares episodes of The Real World on their phones without using any ear-buds). If people looked inside my bag they’d probably be a little distraught to find a ripped up and half eaten box of chocolate covered hazelnut hearts. Maybe I did go to the dollar store on my lunch break and maybe I did buy them for myself because I got fired from my job and instead of needing a drink, I needed to extend the sadness of my situation by also getting fat and consequently feeling even more sorry for myself. Or maybe my fiance bought them for me on Valentine’s Day and I’m just exhibiting self-control and taking my sweet time eating them. Half a chocolate every other day, one whole one if I worked out that morning.
Maybe they’re love chocolates not sorrow chocolates.
…And maybe the letter that crying twenty-year old is writing is a ‘thank you’ and not a suicide note.