Whenever I start to think that my life is entering perfection territory–when I spend an afternoon touring one of the most beautiful parts of London with some of my dearest friends and end the evening talking about Bruno and the modern feminist movement with my landlady–I remember that I can’t wake up tomorrow morning and walk to my family’s home for buttermilk pancakes, cuddles, and sardonic banter.
I can’t be greedy, though. After all, “The Best of Both Worlds” is just a song written for a fantastical Disney sitcom, and I would prefer for my hair to consistently remain one color anyway. I just have to come to terms with the fact that my two lives must be content with a long distance relationship.
Ah, perspective. Reminding me of what I’m missing and what I’m soon going to miss since the early ’90s. (Assuming I didn’t become an analytical headcase until after I was capable of forming coherent sentences.)