I am not, by a screeching far cry, someone who could hypothetically reach a life with no regret. Contentment to me is an overrated product of philosophy, not of nature, and therefore more often than not, I find myself restlessly curating for a much-er life. I benched more tablewares in the cabinet than the actual number of guests I could ever gather to my hypothetically dinner party. My closet is for someone who apparently comes across great occurrences that call for more than one (ok, five) sequinned Flapper dress. I limited myself to only four vintage-designed bicycles (so far) which I imagine cruising so hipster-ly through Williamsburg where our hypothetical loft resides, just above the hypothetical farmer's market, where I buy hypothetical hydrangeas on weekends. Hey, I could go Paris on you but I want to keep it real.
The other day, I crashed into a display of desires that evoked a whole new picture of hypothetical possibilities, a dashing sales-event of the uber-retro and adorable Airstream Trailers with skins so shiny I was blinded by its allure, parked dangerously close within our complex as if just the outrageously bloated price-tag wasn't enough to keep me
