We were living in penthouses wildly partitioned by a begrudging Hasid who wouldn’t shake the female tenants’ hands but patiently used our parents as guarantors.
We were living in ancient shotguns next to the lady who called for her cat at all hours, both on the way to and on the way back from the bar.
We were living in that same cheap house near campus, having a Whole House Meeting about lowering the water bill, which was fucking crazy last month.
We were avoiding conversations about hearing back from graduate schools.
We were avoiding conversations about our novel.
We were joining LinkedIn for some reason.
We were running marathons.
We were skipping huge boring sections of The New York Times and The New Yorker and The Economist.
We were becoming social media consultants against our sense of irony, and wondering what the equivalent must have been twenty years ago. Typing, maybe?
We were teaching, because it was the only thing anyone would let us do, and crumbling under the weight of it, quickly or slowly.
We were handling personal errands for people our parents’ age and tweeting about it.
We were saying “it’s not paid, but it’ll be good for my resume.”
We were avoiding the documentaries in our Instant Queue.
We were talking about our friends’ cocaine habits.
We were, apparently, not joking about the whole Ron Paul thing?
We were telling ourselves that it was okay that we weren’t making art, as long as we were living it.
We were telling ourselves that it was okay that we weren’t making art, as long as we were making a living.
We were living extravagantly, raising questions among our peers about the source of our funding.
We were starting blogs, telling everyone about the blogs, and abandoning blogs.
We were living in a tailor-made city with fourth wave coffee shops and offices with more perks than colleges have.
We were getting fat, according to Facebook photos.