Paths with fireworks

I’m always looking for The Perfect. For example, it took me two years to pick out a pair of glasses. (And then I lost them. Oh the irony.) I’ve only seriously dated five people. I’ve switched jobs looking for someplace that would make rainbows shoot out of my ears and unicorns jump out of my desk drawer. But all of this search for The Perfect leads to indecision. Last night, Kevin and I were looking for someplace to watch fireworks. I dillied and dallied, as I am wont to do, thinking of where we could go, and finally we just left the house and started walking somewhere, anywhere. We ended up on Damen Ave. watching three glittery, chaotic, smoky, surreal homemade fireworks shows from three different neighborhood parks, the kind where old people set up lawn chairs and teenagers shriek and little kids toddle around holding sparklers, and two neighbors commiserate with a bottle of vodka and young couples hold each other and everything around you is exploding, and you jump because that was TOO close and TOO loud but you are fine. You are just fine.

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