Start with part one here.

Santa Monica CA

Eventually, you will get very sick of being you.

Drinking will lose its whimsy. Drink anyway, give it the ol’ college try, you can do this. Carry on as if there is no such thing as a consequence. Tell yourself you are a free spirit, a rebel, not this sloppy chick in stone wash jeans throwing up in bars. No worries, you’ll say, I’m fine, gimme another Corona.

Gimme two while you’re at it.

GimmeGimmeGimme.

You love bars. Dark bars, dancey bars, whatever. Go to Vertigo, Helena’s, The Whiskey. Go to every single bar in L.A. Be underage, who cares. When you turn eighteen you will get a fake ID with the name Ashley Abbott, but you will tell people your name is London. Not one person will believe you, but you’ll do it anyway because you’re so fucking bored you can’t stand it.

Maybe I’ll settle down, finish school.

…Or maybe you’ll go to a Depeche Mode show and accidentally light your hair on fire.

It was bound to happen. You use way too much Aquanet.

[By the way, if any of you out there are under forty, a) I’m old enough to be your mother and I kind of hate you, and b) back in the day, everyone used too much Aquanet. Watch The Decline of Western Civilization Part Two: The Metal Years and you will understand.]

Get good at blaming others for all the stupid shit you do. Crash your mother’s car outside the Beverly Center on a drunken Saturday night and say, it’s because Clare made me drive her home. Or you crash your own car, declaring nobody told me that fence was there. Then show up at the hospital drunk and barefoot for your dad’s angioplasty surgery. Hi, I’m here for support!

We know, boo boo. You’re just trying to have a little fun, but you take things too far. Meanwhile your parents, who are livid, have no idea what to say or do anymore. Your antics are beyond embarrassing. Soon no one will want to be around you because all you do is idiotically talk about how pointless a formal education is and cry over Dave who broke your heart when you were eighteen. (Dave, if you’re reading this, I still don’t forgive you. Step on Legos.)

Get a job in a clothing store for minimum wage. Wear all black. Dye your hair black. Listen to The Cure nonstop. It’s 1988. You’re pretty much the only one still doing this, probably because you live in Santa Monica, but whatever. In twenty years it’ll be cool again and you’ll be all, oh snap, I got this.

***

What’s wrong, Anne.

Nothing.

Everything.

***

In Jewish mysticism, they say every blade of grass has an angel above it, whispering, grow, grow. It’s better than hearing your parents screaming, we’re taking the car keys, we’re taking the car keys, but the whole idea of growth makes you want to puke. Growth means change, and if you are ever going to change at all and start acting like a normal freaking human, the universe is going to have to trick you into it because you, honey, homie, homegirl, ain’t playin’.

Ends up, that’s exactly what happens.

Whether you’re ready or not is questionable. Is anyone ever ready?

Go with it. Rally. It won’t be the last fork in the road, although you’ll wish it was. There’s always a new fork.

 This is the third of four parts. Read the next one here.