Once I told my mom that if we moved to a nicer house (it was a few blocks away, and for sale), that I would do better, be happier, that everything would be okay. She told me that we couldn’t afford it, and I learned that I was too poor to be happy.
We weren’t poor, but that’s not the point. Why didn’t she tell me that prettier surroundings don’t make you a different person, that wherever you go there you are? I still think about that house sometimes. I don’t know why. I still loose myself in thoughts of who I could have been.
When I think of the future, I am still trying to grasp the things I wanted then, the things I bought would make me good enough. The nice clothes, makeup, house, job, friends, hobbies. I’m still hoping that enough applications of Creme de la Mer will dissolve my skin and transform me so that I don’t have to be myself anymore, so that I can finally be someone better.