Dear Adulthood,

Some mornings I awake to find you blooming faster than I had hoped or anticipated. I know you're tired of the games i've been playing. [Adulthood, I know you know the one.] I act as if I'm shocked to see you at my doorstep, and you tell me I know better. You remind me of how i've been nurturing you and taking extra care of you [and feeding you miracle grow, it seems!] to make sure you came swiftly. Oh, I was successful, though success has never made me feel so despondent. There you are, holding steady through my excuses, bright eyed and welcoming me; and I want to come with you! Anxiety seeps out of every pore and you read the fear on my face like a familiar dusty book you found holding stories you listened to as a child. [I'm out of excuses, adulthood, I don't know how to keep you away any longer] I try to compose myself, telling you I knew you were coming, I just didn't prepare myself for your arrival! [Oh, I am the worst hostess, I know] Sit down, stay a while. Don't look so impatient.
I promise I'm coming with you, adulthood, I just don't know if I am ready to face you alone yet.

I always include a picture.

On Being Drunk Enough to Drive You Home Now

The windows were rolled down and her head hung lifelessly out the passenger’s side. It was raining, but she didn’t notice. Her dark red hair lay pasted to the side of her face as the raindrops ran through it. Her neck didn’t look comfortable, but I could swear I’ve read somewhere that you can’t feel pain when you’ve ingested an entire handle of rum in a three hour time span. I don’t feel sorry for her, anyway; all I can think about is that if she throws up on my leather seats, I’ll roll the window up with her neck in it.

I don’t usually drive drunk, but you’ve got to try everything once, right? Okay, that was not funny. You don’t have to tell me twice that those last few drinks should’ve been water, or that I should’ve designated a driver. Who are we kidding? Nobody wants to stay sober on New Years. I just need to stay focused on keeping myself awake. The soft breeze and rain drops hit the left side of my face and I grip the steering wheel with both hands, driving slowly on the slippery concrete; black, and full of muddy slush.

She peers up slightly from the window “es rainin’ allo’er my face.” she says, slurring.
I’m convinced that we’ll crash if I take my eyes off of the road, so I don’t look at her.
“Good, maybe It’ll rinse the drunk off and you can drive us home.” I say, irritated.
I’m not mad at her, I’m just concentrated on getting us home safely.
I begin to make a list of New Years resolutions and say them aloud.
Think of a better Halloween costume.
Keep better track of my socks.
Learn to play the cello.
Stop leaving my laundry in the dryer.
Learn Japanese. No, German. No, Spanish.
Yeah, Spanish is practical. I could learn Spanish, easy.

I realize my road is coming up soon, and I nudge her. She is unresponsive, but I decide to leave her alone until we pull up into my driveway. I just know that one of my neighbor’s cats is going to run out in the middle of the road when I look away. I always joke about hitting those cats, but I don’t really want to. God, my road seems so long.

I pull her out of the car. My shirt is soaked from her leaning on me, but that’s the last thing I’m worried about. It is difficult to walk for her when I can barely walk for myself. I fumble with my key in the lock and finally open my door. We drag our feet along, shushing our footsteps on the green carpet as we walk to the bathroom. I help her undress and give her some clothes to change into. I insist on wiping off of the toilet seat before she lays her head on it. Just as I’m about to leave, she peers up sleepily.
“You know what my New Years resolution is?” She asks.
“No, I don’t.”
“To get a new hobby.”
I laugh.
“But not tonight.” She mumbles. “Tonight I’m going to fall asleep by your toilet.”
“Okay” I tell her.
“Happy New Years to you, too.”

Winter dies the same way every spring

I always like to pretend I like movies that don't have happy endings. Most of the time, I prove myself wrong. If there isn't at least a tiny ray of hope shining at me at the end, I am generally displeased. (There are some exceptions, I'm not too awful all the time) Basically, my girlish- heart is so predictable. I've begun to write again, not only for my class, but for myself. It feels nice. My headaches have returned, but I am keeping myself optimistic, (with excedrin migraine in my purse, and sunglasses handy) and have made it my never ending mission to make sure that the only air that enters my lungs is saturated with hope. I like being alive. I like eating egg salad subs from publix, I like buying construction paper in the craft store for clever ideas i'll never carry out, and I will never stop yelling small stories, bad jokes and sorrows, though my voice will ache to yell many more. I like being alive.

also, I just noticed that my last two posts have had pictures of people looking upwards. Weird, huh? I must say, though, I am partial to the one in this post, with backwards binoculars and a backpack. (The cutest nephew this side of the mississippi.)

Nobody writes them like they used to

Frosted Wheats are my favorite cereal. Away from here is my favorite place. I traveled north this weekend with my lovely Rachel Lee to stay up entirely too late and take mediocre pictures. It was most certainly a nice change from doing homework and going to work. In other news... I definitely don't have a tiled picture of John Krasinski as my computer background. I'm going to do something productive during my spring break next week. Maybe.

Knock so I'll know you're still there, half listening, interpreting the air.

I made a goal a few sundays ago to wake up early enough to venture to the farmer's market with my sister and my mother. Of course, I was sleepy- but it's not often that I get to have my say in the picking out of our produce for the week. (It's the little things that do it for me, guys.) I usually just cook with it. I feel like it's cheating to take pictures of pretty produce. It's already delectable-looking, so it doesn't take much of an artistic eye to get a flattering picture of it.

In other news, I like the earth. Though I don't know if anyone realizes how difficult it is to tell grocery stores you do not want a bag. This is not an interesting post. It's all about the produce, peeps.

My war paint is sharpie ink

When I was younger, I went to a lot of summer camps. Mostly, my mother did it to keep my social life interesting during the summer instead of letting me stay inside all day reading about the civil war. She would have me fill out my own forms, and in the "race" column, she would have me check the "other" box and write human in the provided blank. My mother has never liked that question, and I loved the idea. I had all of my friends doing it. We were real activists.

It seems so much easier and more comfortable to be passionate about other people's beliefs when you are younger. My little spongy brain so hungry, so addicted to whatever people I looked up to were feeding it. It's strange when I think about the person i'm molding into. A person able to make their own decisions and follow their own belief system. I think that my sponge has turned into a pretty good head on my shoulders, and my heart is strong and gentle. My thoughts and words are powerful. I like the person i've become. That's such a good feeling.

Hey world, get me love or get me out

I want to live like life's going out of style! I want to quit my job, buy a one way ticket and pick the destination with my eyes closed. I want to live next to the old lady with the yellow cat and kind eyes. I want to bake! I want to take time to fill my lungs when I breathe. I want to be broken, and imperfect, and happy.