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Wish I May Wish I Might is a blog created by writer, creative director, and citizen of the world, Julie Gordon, to help make the world a safer place to be human.




Mental traffic and the fountain of youth.

Julie Gordon

I figured out what the wood chipper sound is. It’s the fan in the bathroom. If you jump up onto the toilet and balance yourself precariously on its oddly cheap lid, there’s a tiny switch to turn on the chipper so you can dispose of the body, er, steam from the shower. When the drilling gets loud, that’s the best time to commit the murder. Everyone can hear you steam, but no one can hear you scream at The Great Southern Hotel.

I have never been more grateful for a fully functioning body. I’ve walked many, many miles so far and the only thing bothering me is a sore arch in my right foot. It feels like it needs to be cracked, which is a very odd feeling. It’s not so bad that I can’t ignore it, so that’s good. I just changed shoes to ameliorate the discomfort and that seems to be helping a bit.

This doesn’t, however, stop me from hating my body from time to time. I loathe this feeling more than anything. How can I hate something that has carried me along very successfully for 40 years? Who fucking cares if my thighs touch or my arms could be skinnier? I mean, seriously. SERIOUSLY. Still, there are thoughts. There are always thoughts rattling around in my noisy head. Rattling is an odd word. Makes it sound empty in there, and it’s like the 405 on Valentine’s Day. It’s fucking crowded—traffic galore. Google maps would stream my thoughts with a black and red dotted line. Waze would tell you to take a U-turn at my shoulder blades and continue back down my spine. Apple maps would probably tell you to take my right arm to my foot, but I haven’t used it in a while, maybe they’ve figured things out by now. So. Many. Thoughts. It’s too bad more of them aren’t useful.

I’m sitting in the lobby of University of Melbourne Law School. I doubt I’m supposed to be here, but if you act like you belong, everyone just goes along with it. There are people who look like children roaming the halls. I find myself drawn to the occasional professor who walks by. They feel like my people. I doubt they’d take me seriously at first though because I’m wearing a backpack. Btw, that’s the secret to seeming young. Wearing a backpack. The woman at the airport information desk who helped me choose my trip to Philip Island to see the penguins told me that the trip I was booking was excellent for people my age. I’m pretty sure I’m older than she is, or at least as old, but I went along with the story and enjoyed the ride anyway. Maybe the kids will talk to me when we see the penguins. I think I’ll be 30. That sounds like a nice number.