Him: Honey, all you have to be at the age of 23, is yourself.
Her: I don't know who that is anymore.
Him: Sure you do. And we all love her. I love her.
I can't help but love that movie, even now, when it doesn't seem like it applies anymore. I remember watching it for the first time in that house we rented while we were still pounding out our degrees, when we still had unreasonable hopes that our majors would take care of us, and that we would be free. Didn't happen did it? You're out there, somewhere, maybe even down the road like you were when I last saw you, years ago. You have a wife and a kid, a girl who may have been blessed with your mother's curly hair, with your hair. I'm sure you're making more with your psycho-biology degree than I am with my English degree. I'm using it to write about you, to write about my life, as therapy and little more.
Myself. Who is that? Is this how I find out? Will I ever know? Shit, no. But still I try. I can't help it. I'm a writer. What are you?