Maybe I will find someone who will read chauvinist authors to me in bed. Or maybe he will do it to appease me. Or maybe he will buy my favorite beer, encourage me to write that book, and not bat an eye when I say I did.
Maybe there will be a night where I don’t regret going out, or regret staying in, or feel the reverse of what I should. Maybe I can be who I want without feeling the need to explain who I am while simultaneously asking, Who am I?
Maybe I will spend a year alone. Write and create and use people to please the right side of myself. Maybe I will ignore those that like me, and pursue the ones who don’t. Maybe I will remember to spell “pursue” correctly without Google reminding me there is no middle “e”. Maybe I’ll leave the job(s) and spite those who don’t understand. Maybe I will hate not asking him out while knowing no male would let the woman do the asking.
Maybe I will regret pushing people away. Maybe I will enjoy the time spent on my own. Maybe I will not give a damn and do it all, anyway. Maybe I will read more Bukowski, or maybe I’ll continue to let his books sit on my digital device in vain. Maybe I’ll stop drinking. Maybe I’ll stop drinking cheap rum. Maybe I’ll begin to be nice to the world, or maybe I’ll continue to leave the blinds drawn.
Maybe I will delete this tomorrow. Maybe I’ll let you have it.
Maybe I will. Maybe I will.