As I sit here in my living room on a random Friday night, I wonder whose life I am living. The kid sleeps soundly upstairs, the dog sleeps silently next to me on the couch, and it is paradise. Yet, totally fake. The dog, the kid, the house -- they aren't mine. The kid belongs to my father -- a creature of a uniquely LA cliche, the second family. The dog belongs to a friend, former roommate actually. In my never ending search for a dog, I have attached myself to this one, named Cashew because she looks like a little cashew nut when she sleeps. I don't even like cashews....but this dog, I love this dog. The house, well, the house is mine, OK, but rented, not owned.
At 36 years old, I feel 17. I look 17. Yet I have lived many lives, each one a sharp right turn from the last. It's been an adventure -- yet I never dreamed I would be borrowing other people's kids & dogs, and still looking for "it", whatever "it" is, at 36.
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