Member-only story
Purpose.
I sit on a bar stool every day. There’s no friend I’m going to visit. There’s no embodiment of a Cheers rerun. I sit there every day because I don’t know why. I haven’t decided if I want to use all of my dumpster dive attempts at self awareness tools to make sense of my chosen existence. Do we need to at all? Can’t we just be like the other habitual bar stool sitters or do we have to have a purpose to it? The bartender makes fun of my lack of drinking while being an incessant patron.
I chose this exalted path as a reward for my incessant work at trying to build a software startup as a 42 year old mother of 3. The walls of constraint in any other space was stifling. I had to rebel against myself. Needed the isolation of the din of others to make my brain less. Just less. And if I learned third party observational takeaways in the process, that was an unexpected perk.
I wake up with my last child to get her ready for school. Our routine is pristine. It is cultivated from years of how to get her out the door without triggering fake crying. Space buns combed into the night before so we negate the pre-emptive screams of using the thirty dollar hair brush in the morning that was supposed to manage her tangles. You see, the fake cries take on such girth that she can actually transition straight to dry heaving and then working hard enough at it to full bile barfs.
