Franny swanned around on the chair in my room. I was trying to write by stealing time that is increasingly hard to come by. She sighed, a big one. I snuck a look over my shoulder as I typed and saw her starting out the window at our street. Then she sighed again, louder. Sometimes I feel guilty that my children are not overscheduled to the teeth so they have time to sit around and think, and then I come to my senses.

“Moooom,” she said in that dreamy-yet-whiny voice that preteens often adopt. “Do you ever feel like life is disappointing? Like you are waiting for something to happen and it never does?”

I thought about it. I thought that this was probably the part where I was supposed to give her a little pep talk and tell her, “Chin up, lil Tiger, tomorrow is a new day.” And I often do remind her that tomorrow is a new day when she is teary-eyed at bedtime over the day’s frustrations. I remind her that sleep can reset a lot of what ails us. She sees it happen. She wakes up smiling, and says she feels better, and I know she means it.

I thought about disappointment. I thought about how “just two years” in Seattle has turned into ten, and about how I was not wild about coming back here in the first place. I thought about how I was supposed to be publishing papers about seeing vaginas in Rococo clouds by now, or some other hootsy-frootsy hardcore art historian business. Where was my custom leather catsuit? Where was my Oompa-Loompa? Last night I had a dream that I was having sex with all seven of the dwarves. Wait, I think this is an aside.

P. says you should grow where you are planted, which is something that I think I realized when I was at that tipping point that you get to sometimes when you are about 26 or so. I have victories. I feel victorious when I get eight hours of sleep, and I feel victorious when I stay up until three for no really good reason. Sometimes I get a little closer to where I want to be, and sometimes I stagnate. I wallow around gloriously in the filth of my complete lack of progress, and sometimes I flee from it. New things happen, like I am slightly less petty than I was a few years ago, and this is mitigated by the fact that now my gums bleed sometimes. You should probably assume this is all cryptography, it is probably better that way.

Some people say that life is a search for meaning. I don’t believe in anything. I don’t believe in signs, karma, religion, faith. Sometimes when the bus pulls right up to me and I step right on in one fluid motion I say, “This is a good sign,” but even that sounds hollow as it comes out of my mouth. I believe in the finality of death. And the finality of Darth. And Jarts.

Do I ever find life disappointing?

“Well,” I said, after thinking. “I think when you become an adult you develop coping techniques to deal with the horrifying chasm of despair you feel you are dangling over.” I went back to writing.