A penny for my thoughts? No.
How about a million dollars?
That’s enough to solidify all my young adult debt, debt I’ve collected from a world too expensive to accommodate anyone.
Its enough to pay off all the outstanding emotional debt from the men and women who never even gave me an IOU.
It’s enough to pay off the pile of torn open envelopes in my trash can from therapy sessions that consisted in me drowning in my tears over my father’s abandonment but never helping me feel any less lonely.
It’s enough to pay back my mother for the roles she’s played in my life, the shoes she shouldn’t have had to fill. The house she couldn’t afford to buy but did anyway to give us a sense of stability and never complained about it once.
A million dollars for my thoughts? Hell, I’d drown off my own sorrows in Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, lipstick, whiskey, and regret.
With so much money, I’d move to a nicer place, a nicer apartment.
I’d paint my apartment of hues of lilac and yellow and play old records by candlelight and in between kisses tell my lover that I am finally happy. But that it wasn’t he who made me happy, it was my money, but we’d never talk about that.
With a million dollars, I’d never be afraid to speak my mind. With that amount of money people would be my friend by default, that’s how it works right? When you’re rich and happy. More emotionally exhausting friendships, forgiven by birthday party invitations, fishing for thousand-dollar watches that would countdown the minutes until I became just a memory of a girl who left an unwrapped watch on a gift table at a birthday party. The watch left as vulnerable as I would feel in that moment.
With that kind of money, I’d openly tell my middle school crush I was in love with her and how much she tore my heart apart and I’d instantly get a restraining order because with that kind of money I’d feel important enough to be stalked. I know she won’t care.
My thoughts, not even worth a penny.
