Living In Olympia, Washington Versus New York City
So I’m probably not going to shut up about living in Olympia, Washington for a really long time, because it’s so new and weird to me. Every morning I wake up, freezing cold because my new roommate won’t let me put the heat on, and think “I don’t live in New York anymore. Weird.”
I have been here for a week now and things are good, but … different. The first major difference I came across is the fact that people don’t get up before 11 A.M.. I don’t necessarily consider myself to be some sort of fancy business woman, or professional adult worker, but I have pretty much been waking up at 6 A.M. since I was 13 years old to spend a few hours worrying about going to a job, and then going to that job. Having lived in New York for awhile really put this into overdrive, and now I can’t break the habit of waking up before the sun has even risen with a chest clenching anxiety like, How am I gonna MAKE A DIFFERENCE today???? Am I LIVING MY LIFE to its full potential??? What can I be DOING BETTER??? What DOES MY HAIR SAY ABOUT ME AS A PERSON???” While living in the home that I’m currently living in, I have to do all of this very quietly, because I’m pretty sure I’ll get yelled at for flushing the toilet before noon.
My second day living here, I got made fun of for shopping at Ralph’s. Have you heard of Ralph’s? It’s a grocery store, just like, a normal grocery store. I have literally no idea how to feed my body, so I go there and buy Hot Pockets and taquitos and stuff. The other night after work I had a plan to buy something “grownup” and after making a few laps around the store, randomly picking up fruits and vegetables and being like “well, what goes good with a carrot? Spray cheese?” I got a sweaty headache and just bought a really big container of cold pasta salad from the deli, which I ate with a plastic fork in my room. So anyway, my roommate has made several comments about how Ralph’s is “the most expensive store in town,” and the other day I tried to sneak in with a bag of groceries (generic brand cereal and some random cookies) because I had an actual fear that she’d slap me across my face if she saw the bag. Everyone keeps talking about this co-op, and how it’s great and healthy, and how one of them even has a salad bar, and I don’t really have an excuse for not going there, other than I’m just sort of being a brat about it. Plus you have to buy a membership, and probably bring your own shopping bag. I’m just not ready. On a side note, whenever I’m in the grocery store standing behind someone who brings out their smelly little canvas shopping tote with chunks of granola in the bottom, I kind of want to kill myself.
I’m also starting to piece together some clues which lead me to believe that people live in tents here. Rent here is cheap, not like in New York where living in a tent would be a logical solution to not being forced to have 10 roommates. While walking to work, I saw that some people had set up a little shanty town of tents in an empty lot between two houses. There was even a handmade wooden sign stuck in the dirt that I looked at, but somehow wiped clean from my memory slate. I think it said “ride on the peace train” or something. If I had to guess a reason as to why people would choose to live in tents here, I’d say it’s because having a house is like putting a dog collar on a bald eagle? I don’t know. I was trying to speak on behalf of my people, but it doesn’t sound right when I do it.
In conclusion, and I saved this for last because it’s the best. I went into a shop near here and saw they were selling something called a Happy Rag. Can you guess what a Happy Rag is? (pause for a few minutes and try to figure it out. Don’t jump ahead until you’ve really mulled it over.) It’s a soft cloth, made out of organic materials, intended to be used for wiping up cum.
You should follow Thought Catalog on Twitter here.
A | A | A
It started with a right swipe, a little green heart. Tinder of course.
Though I acknowledge and appreciate the differences in human experiences, and while your heartbreak is (and always will be) uniquely and completely your own, I must urge you to consider that I have been where you are.
With his hat cocked back, body tilted away from his cane, and right forefinger pointing directly at his audience, Joseph Ducreux commands the attention of those viewing his self-portrait.
I was born in 1990; he was born in 1973. I’m 23; he just turned 40.