Living with Ghosts

Every single time I drive to work, Bad Blood plays at least twice on the radio.  And every time I 295591hear the sad saga about the inadequacy of Band-Aids to cover bullet-hole sized wounds, I try to gather up those “I hate my back-stabbing friend” emotions (it’s a long drive and it gets boring) but I can’t think of a single friendship that ended with knife scars.  I almost wish I could, partly so I could empathize with Taylor, but mostly because even a angst-filled relationship sounds good right now compared to __________ (I’ve got a blank space and I’ll write your name).

We joked about getting all of life’s transitions (graduating college, getting married, moving away from home, moving across the country, starting new jobs) out of the way in two months but the reality of that drastic upheaval is wishing you were part of a T-Swift video just so you’d have some friends nearby.  To the many friends I do have, thank you for keeping up.  Thank you for the texts, calls, letters, and e-mails that remind me that I am loved and in a way, who I am.  I know we shouldn’t define ourselves by who we are to other people, but we do and I have learned how much I depend on those coffee dates and conversations to help me process life and determine who I am and where I’m going.

Taylor Swift may be ubiquitous but there are so many things in Southern California that are new to me.  My runs around the neighborhood are a full aromtheraputic experience, ranging from roses to delicious Mexican dinners.  It’s different working full-time instead of being an eternal intern.  It’s far different to be a wife than a fiance and much more wonderful.  I can see palm trees out my bedroom window and the work break room and everywhere else.

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