In another life, I’d be in a brownstone. It would be nine am and I’d be running around the apartment while tying a scarf around my neck, crossing my fingers I don’t slip and strangle myself. My roommate would be finishing up her cereal in the kitchen, looking all zen as much as I look all frazzled.
I’d grab a frozen burrito from the freezer, heat it up in the toaster oven and munch on it as my roommate and I lock up behind us and head towards the subway. We’d talk about our plans for the day. Then we’d part ways as she goes one way and I the other.
In that other life I’d be working damn hard. No one would care if I had a degree in business management. I’d be a production assistant kissing ass, perfecting the cafe latte my boss wants every 10.30 am sharp. It would be The Devil Wears Prada only I wouldn’t be in a fashion magazine — just the third best paper in the city that nobody bothers to read.
Lunch would come and I’d sneak to the park with a burger in hand, bottled water in the other. On my lap would be my notebook where I would scribble ideas I’d have of the city, my future memoirs, my future bestselling novel. Dreaming is free, so I might as well dream big.
I’d be carried along with the flow of people going home, going to bars, going somewhere far, far away from work. I’d pick up my roommate from the coffee shop she’d be working in and off we’d go to grab dinner at the nearest convenience store. Cheetos is a meal, nicely paired with a red Chilean wine.
We’d sneak into one of those old buildings. We’d go to the rooftop with nothing but our cameras, our hopes, and a flask of brandy. It would only be then that we’d feel we can really make it big in the city.
(Written Jan. 5, 2012. Image Source: Reeve Jolliffe)