Close tab, Refresh.
The browser windows I live inside, and the lives I never click into.
I have three tabs open, one is realestate.com, the other is Skyscanner and the last, Workaway. My laptop is faulty, but I like how every time it dies, it erases my traffic jam of tabs where the descriptions have blended into a disorganised soup. On rebirth, my tabs start anew.
I scrolled the overpriced housing market, searching for a wooden floored, north facing, white-walled apartment. It’s my favourite pastime, although completely useless. I text the real estate agent “price guide?” and get a response that always exceeds 1.2 million. I’d hate to know their screen time, always with a reply within 2 minutes. Those chino-panted, ankle-sock-wearing men must always be on their phones. It’s their job, I guess — that and inconceivable ego, or their version of rizz. Everyone loves to hate realestate agents; they’re an easy target, another breed that’s become a niche meme mockery of a career. I can’t deny I envy their charisma and confidence. The way they can sell you anything through their veneered teeth is hypnotic.
That’s the running theme with these tabs: I can’t purchase return tickets to Europe.. let alone a million-dollar home, but the possibility excites me. I couldn’t now, but I could later. Which tab will win the race to decide how the rest of my life pans out — a home in Sydney accompanied by a fuck-you mortgage, or a flight to instability and freedom? Maybe these tabs are portals into alternate versions of myself — the one who left, the one who stayed, the one who could afford both.
I used to watch Monte Carlo, ya know, the movie with Selena Gomez where she’s mistaken for royalty and gets whisked away on a motorbike in a chiffon gown. I’d fantasise about trips that upend my life into my-life-a-movie montage. I went to Tokyo last year after finishing the second season of Tokyo Vice. I’d be lying if my impulsive excursion wasn’t influenced by a fictional drama I’d chewed up on Apple TV. I pictured myself sitting with the Yakuza, sipping martinis, talking about their tattoos and recent assassinations. Instead, I returned shrivelled from a month of 37-degree-a-day dehydration and a hangover from chronic consumption of strong zeros.
My third tab, Workaway, was my next victim. It’s a website where you find a host, stay for free, and in return work on their property. It ranges from dog-sitting to winemaking to gardening in places like Greece, France, or Portugal. I’d drown myself in reviews, exiting any listing that read “the work was hefty.” After all, I’m just a girl. I envisioned riding a bicycle to the markets, buying aged comté and fresh veg in a place still accepting coins, using gestures and butchered French to communicate. Drinking wine on a sun drenched terrace from the grapes I’d stomped in a wooden barrel, after a well-earned siesta from my labour.
I often feel pulled between stability and risk, especially when there’s no confirmation which will deliver the most joy. Time passes, but my tabs stay open (or reopen), and my imagination along with them. I think about the butterfly effect and how easily I could divert my movie with one click of my cursor.
(If anyone with 1.2 mill lying around wants fund my apartment so I can do both, let me know)
This is epic <3
🫨