In another life, I'd probably smoke a lot of cigarettes. And I'd probably cut my hair short. I'd write for living. I'd spend money without thinking. I'd drink more. I'd live more recklessly and ruthlessly. I may possibly be into meditation and mindfulness in another life. I'd be more outspoken but at total peace in my soul. I wouldn't be so tearful. I'd be bolder in all my tastes and refined in my vocabulary. I'd have a panopoly of books. I'd name drop renown authors and philosophers and influencers. I'd probably-- finally-- be able to fulfill my fantasy of saying FUCK YOU to the men who have thrown unwarranted "compliments" at me, or to the fucker who exoticized my race. I'd drink espresso shots instead of macchiato shots. I'd smile more. I'd yell more. I'd learn to let go of myself. I would have uniform in another life.
In another life, I would be me times one hundred minus a gajabillion.
