On Faxing and Picasso

There comes a time in life when instead of inking the back of your hand with hearts and stars and your crush's initials, you begin to scribble mundane lists. Things like FAXES appear, double-emboldened and triple underlined in block letters because the stakes have suddenly become that much higher.

And to think that a year ago I didn't know how to send a fax. Come to think of it, the process is still a little foggy.  But it's the sentiment of the thing, the necessity for it. The mysterious passageway to grown-updom, faxes.

There also comes a time when your living room walls are adorned with Picasso prints encompassed by tacky gold frames.  This is the time you never thought would come, the time when you can possess a living room with words such as mine, as if the scattered books and shoes strewn across the carpet didn't scream it first.

There comes a time in life when you can smack on a bright shade of lipstick and disappear into the night until the rising sun beckons you back to bed.

But with freedom comes responsibility. Heavy words like work, paychecks, bills, rent, schedules and of course, 

faxes.