Everyday I think about my life when I was in Iran. The eighteen years I spent in Tabriz, excruciatingly lonely, getting hurt without a solution. And the five years I spent in Tehran, lonely again, and always running around looking for a fix. Girls that didn’t want me, friends that didn’t like me, apartments that were so expensive and lonely. And often no one to talk to. Lost in the unbelievably unequal city. I even knew a friend who killed herself. One of the only people I could genuinely call a friend, and she killed herself.

I often try to understand what it all meant. I know that I grew because of those experiences, sure. I know that some people I knew also try to make sense of their relationship with me and understand what the fuck it meant. But I also know that it didn’t have to be this way if some things were different. If my parents hadn’t been in an accident, for instance. If I had a father, things would definitely have been different.

Things don’t have to suck but they do. So I guess pain is meaningless. It happens because it happens. And life sucks ass.