NSFW: The Chronicles of a (Free?) Girl, Chapter 2

Pigeons sit along the ledge across from me, retreating from the rain. It's Friday morning!

"Looking around, I realized everyone on my street had the same bistro chair and table set from Amazon."

Last night, over two kinds of chicken tikka at Javitri on East 61st Street, my friend Carrie and I reminisced on our magical trips to Paris. "I don't know if I'm basic for saying this, but it was life-changing," she said, dipping her spoon into red gravy with a spicy kick at the end.

In July 2022, I traveled to France with my childhood bestie, Berkley, and experienced a freedom I'd never felt before. Fresh out of a breakup with a man dubbed the "sidewalk guy" and in a feud with my mom, I arrived with an emptiness inside from what could have been. I was forced to bury this part of me who idealized sparkly outcomes, clashing head-to-head with metaphorical concrete that was bleakness.

Who tf are we now?

Berkley and I came to Paris as two girls with overbearing yet emotionally absent parents and histories of dating non-committal men.

Neither of us knew much about the city. Our only knowledge of Paris was of the arrondissements. We blindly waltzed into our trip ready to be epically disappointed or unexpectedly amused.

I'm writing a whole novel about this, but for the sake of this post, I'll share some epiphanies from my trip.

Like every writer and artist who's ever lived, I was struck with inspiration, particularly during our stay in an airy Belle Epoque apartment in Opera. I couldn't stop writing. And my writing had never been better. Maybe I was possessed by the ghosts of Simone De Beauvoir and Hemingway? I don't know.

Berkley and I traded black stilettos and smoky eyes for linen dresses and clipped-back hair. Making big decisions was effortless: while we were walking home one night after 1 am pastises, I announced I would be moving from DC to New York City in September. That's right. I was officially leaving my sad life behind for big-city dreams.

Reigniting the feeling

On the train back to Paris from Bordeaux, a chic blonde girl's shirt caught my eye. It said, "Life doesn't have to be perfect to be beautiful."

For the past two years, I've searched for the magical elixir that cured me, but I can't seem to find it. I believe the secret was maintaining a complete and utter detachment from expectations.

I didn't care if that guy texted me back or if I would speak to my family again. I didn't care about making it to the big screen as an actor or what NYC would be like. I lived in the here and now, even if it was messy.

Life is bleak af, so make it fun

After exchanging our Paris stories, Carrie said she was feeling suppressed. I told her I was feeling depressed.

Maybe a life devoid of meaning is the norm in a meaningless world. So I've decided to be delusional.

Yes, that billboard on the street is a sign you should visit Vienna. Yes, those bistro tables on your block look just like the ones in Paris, which means your writing will improve. No, it will pour out of you as it did on the balcony in the 9th arrondissement.

Meaning adds heaviness to existence, but it also makes life richer. And if we're all going to die anyway, we might as well have fun along the way.