Kids.
A girl I used to know in high school recently sent me an invitation on Facebook. It was to rent out her condo in Playa del Carmen, a quaint little place that looked really nice, and could possibly be a decent joint for me to check out sometime. But this entry isn’t at all about Playa or renting condos or anything like that at all. It’s about kids.
The first sentence in the Facebook invite was as follows: “S**** and I have a beautiful, brand new condo in Playa del Carmen, Mexico that we cannot get to much due to the wonderful joys of parenthood.” Now, it’s no strange occurrence for people to get married and have children; but there’s something that—to put it bluntly—freaks me the fuck out when I discover the kids I knew in high school are having kids.
Especially when the last memory I have of that person is the time we were partying at Sognare (this is now Carmelo Anthony’s home) and she tossed my friend’s salad just moments before drinking out of a Coke can that had been filled with chew spit, immediately puking all over the marble floor of the estate living room.
I dunno. Life is just funny sometimes, huh?
3 years ago