I did something strange and dubiously beneficial for my mental health a few days ago. I made a list of all of my biggest fears on the back of unused tax forms and stuffed it in a yellow legal envelope. And when I talk about my biggest fears, I don’t mean things like “I’m afraid of dying” or “I’m afraid I’ll be forgotten 100 years from now” or any statements that are just vague and impersonal enough to be considered wise and whimsical. I’m not talking about the 12am conversations you share with friends on rooftop decks about your deepest fears, alcohol making you tipsy enough that vulnerability starts looking like charm, but not so drunk that shit starts getting real. I’m not talking about the bright eyed, existential angst that is nothing more than a precursor for a midnight kiss, two teenagers feigning like they give a damn about global poverty and metaphysical loneliness and other things to certify they are Not Like Other Teens.
To be continued...(1/6)
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