Life can't believe she's actually working a desk job.
Life's still writing her novel, the one that will make her mean something.
But life's still in constant revision. Rewriting more than writing.
It seems that life, in all her lengthy daydreams, can't figure out how she got to be on the verge of her twenty-fourth birthday. Is that really right? life thinks. Still incomprehensible. Like when life thinks really hard about atoms.
Life's trying to stay positive.
The glasses life looks through are scratched and make her sight blurry. Life prefers her darkglasses, the ones that knock the sun off her pedestal.
Life just got over a cold.
Her nails are tangerine.