Earlier today I went to use the restroom at the bookstore I was at, and this elderly lady accidentally opens the door into my stall. Instead of immediately closing the door and apologizing, as most people would do, she stands there and makes small talk. This got me thinking about why old people make me so sad. When I was younger I used to believe that once you get past the age of 50 you'd run out of original ideas and have nothing left to say. But lately I've been realizing that the elderly talk quite a bit, and I think this is because they haven't run out of things to say -- just the opposite. I think that they have, and everyone has, spent most of their lives biting their tongues, for fear of embarrassment or of opening up too much. And when you get to that certain age where you can see the metaphorical light at the end of the tunnel, you just start talking about everything -- anything. And don't stop. It would've been nicer if I could've come to that epiphany when my skirt was safely around my knees, but either way.
I've never actually had to apartment hunt before this summer, and I never realized it was so exhausting. I have managed to find this amazingly adorable perfect apartment within walking distance to my new school, but it's through a co-op so I have to go through a rigorous application/interview process in order to get it. It's worth it though, if I get this place it'll be perfect. Once I get settled I'll throw a beautiful dinner party with my closest friends and toast to a new life.
In other news, I failed my road test a couple weeks ago. After I failed I threw myself against a chain linked fence and sobbed unabashedly. It was embarrassing, yes, but you would cry too if it happened to you. I mean, it's a skill that people who can barely read can conquer. So, it humbled me. My mother said that I was only so upset because I'd never failed at anything that I'd set my mind to before, but I think I was just pissed off that I wouldn't be able to drive.
Also, I went to the Whitney this past week-end to get some art, and there was an artist by the name of Buckminster Fuller on display. He was pretty impressive, but very architectural/scientific/mathematical. And it got me thinking. Now, I don't consider things like that "art", but maybe my definition of art is wrong. I think that art, by definition, is strictly non-functional.
Lastly, I've been reading this great novel "The Myth of You and Me" by Leah Stewart. It's a story about the strangest of best-friendships between two girls. Here's a great quote: "A person is not a suitcase, with a finite number of items to unpack. A person is a world."