I haven’t written in a while. I often try my bestest to ignore the extent to which I am a slave to capitalism. Coffee, art supplies, candles, cigarettes, hand creams, hair clips, vitamins. I love to buy. A sense of joy– of newness– is packaged in my paper, gold, silk, and plastic purchases. When I buy, I feel the sleekness of pretty new things extend to my own being. The fragility of this newness is what frightens me. Grime will settle into the cap on my new lip gloss and it will no longer be new. I might deep clean it if I don’t have the money to buy a new one despite the fact that there’s plenty of product left inside it. 

My mother is afraid of growing old. She often opines the way her skin falls over her jaw and how her stomach, it lulls and rolls forward underneath her breasts. I have always believed that despite the world, I would cherish my body’s changes through old age. I’m not sure though how my obsession with cleanly newness will extend to the evolution of my figure. I wonder.