A few weeks ago I had an epiphanic moment while watching Sex in the City. This is the episode where Carrie has been given an eviction notice by her recently-axed fiance, and is scrambling around to find money to buy the apartment from him. When deemed an undesirable loan candidate, she realises she's 35, without a regular job, financial asset, or security.
Then I saw it - the foreboding flash of my future existence: 35, single, lala fashion writer/stylist, living in a rental apartment, and spending all my laughable salary on shoes. I'm already on the right track - I just need the rental property. And so between morning peak-hour traffic and evening baths I've been thinking about changing my destiny.
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Today was hat day.
The gossamery drizzle fell like mist, and the air smelt like spring rolls and peanut sauce.
Days like these pique solitaire constellation.
Soldier on, it teases.
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Yesterday I waded through the sea of black in oatmeal.
After many piccolos of champagne I jumped into a taxi with strangers.
Between Flemington and Federation Square we tallked about horses, bets, and jumping into cabs with strangers.
As I drove myself home, the post-footy traffic on Hoodle Street gave me time to think about dinner provisions.
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