Coffee & Make Believe

"I desire the things that will destroy me in the end." — Sylvia Plath

Twenty Four

It’s funny to think about where you thought you’d be at certain ages growing up. When I was in the Fourth Grade, I planned out my entire life by age, with a very specific timeline: 18 – graduate high school. 22 – finish college. 24 – married, maybe with a kid on the way. 27 – second kid on the way. 50 – kids have left me, and the hubs and I can finally go travel.

Now I’m terrified at the idea of having children so soon, not to mention being married. Some might call it a fear of commitment, but I call it “not settling.” I have new goals now, and they are 80% career-related. That’s what I’m committed to. I want to attempt to reach my goals while I still have the youthful yearning  and energy to complete them. Not to say that having children in your twenties keeps you from reaching your goals, but I just want to be able to zip off to New York for an event anytime I’d like, without worries or guilt. (Of course, the idea of having kids after 30, and having two generations between my children and myself, is equally as terrifying, but that’s another issue for another blogpost.)

The point is – I’m selfish. That’s why I don’t even have a dog, as much as I die over videos of baby rottweilers. But I think your twenties should be all about “you.” That’s the age range where every decision you make ultimately shapes the rest of your life, whether pertaining to career paths, starting a family, or your own understanding of yourself. It’s the real age of “growing up” and it’s the time you should begin to accept that.

I’m turning 24 in two days. I’m not married and hopefully don’t have any kids on the way (bad joke). I’m nowhere near reaching my career goals, but I’m taking baby steps. I may not have a clear path, but I’m following the stars, and I think if I stay focused, no matter how lost and existential I feel, I’m going to get there. And I have confidence in that. I might not believe in much, but I believe in that. Maybe it’s not about timelines, but about outlines. Accomplishing the to-do list, as opposed to due dates (no pun intended). And all I have to do is remember to have faith that I can, and that I will, and I will. Age is just perspective.

Honestly, as long as the hubs and I can still go traveling at 50, I’m good.



This is still going on.


I’m not ready to go
The night isn’t over
I want to go home
I want you to stay
Please don’t leave
I will never beg
I will barely ask
You have to go
Just another minute
Don’t ask me to say it again
This time I mean it

Drunken Conversations Vol. VI

“Why do you keep letting me do this?”

It took me off guard because he released a little honesty with the question, and I wasn’t ready for honesty. So I answered his question with one of my own.

“Why do you keep doing it?”

Drunken Conversations Vol. V

It’s always in those moments when I lose myself, when I let go of the restraints I keep on my mouth, that I let slip a little too much. Just a few words, but more meaning in them than I meant to reveal. A flicker of vulnerability in the softness of my voice. A little too much honesty.

“I want you to stay.”

I lied there looking up at him, knowing I had said too much, but in that moment, not caring. I knew that he wouldn’t, that he couldn’t. I knew that my words and whatever I felt about us or him, were irrelevant and always will be. I knew that it was never going to be me, and I knew that deeply, that was what I always intended.

But I didn’t know that he was going to respond just as softly, just as vulnerably. I didn’t know that he would sound so much like I had, and I wonder if he was also surprised by his own honesty.

“I know. I don’t want to go.
Believe me, I really want to stay.”

Lost Dreams


Seeing you always occurs in the late hours,
when all is still and we should be sleeping,
like the rest of the city.
Is it out of a natural exhaustion of the mind
that makes it so easy for us to lose our inhibitions,
to do what we do?
Never tired, always wired when we’re together,
always ready to take it too far—
to take on the night.
Perhaps that’s why each memory of you is fading,
blurry and coming back like deja vu,
like a dream that we should’ve had while sleeping.
If it’s any consolation, every hour lost with you was utterly, completely worth it,
and I’d rather have these sheer, fleeting memories over all the lost dreams.

Double Espresso



I have a tube of lipstick,
it’s called “Double Espresso.”
It’s a glimmery, reddish brown.
A Fall color.
But that never mattered to me,
breaker of trend-rules.
I had bought it in the Fall, and wore it often,
until I found a new favorite.
Which kind of resembles every decision I make.
I found it again recently,
and was taken back when I opened the tube.
Its scent, which does not resemble coffee at all,
a sort of sweet smell you wouldn’t expect of lipstick,
brought me back to the Fall.
It brought me back to you.
The first night I wore it was the night that many could claim as
our best night.
The first night I saw you after you returned from your trip,
the night I wore that dress,
the night you took my hands and wanted to dance
in the silent, empty room.
It brought me back to all those nights,
during our highest of peaks,
before we dropped, and lost each other in the deepest valley.
It’s amazing how a smell,
a forgotten tube of lipstick,
could make me that lovestruck girl again
for an instant,
and remind me how the Fall was yours,
and apparently always will be.

Drunken Conversations Vol. IV

“I’m not trying to do anything!
I’m trying to be good.”

I can’t remember how I sounded when I said it, but in my memory, it was similar to that of a crying girl. I sounded young, but that was probably from the drunkenness. And so I should’ve seemed, lying there in the driver’s seat with a draught of sleepiness coming over me, as he sat crouched down beside me. He always felt the need to keep me company whenever I attempted to sober up in my car. But he did not risk entering my vehicle.

He had said something as we were joking with each other, insinuating that I was teasing him. I laughed, but then I was honest.

His voice was serious but almost sad as he responded. Honest. Real. And if there were any moments during the week that it took me to get over him, in which I might’ve felt like I had exaggerated my memories and he did not actually have any feelings for me, they were dissipated in that moment. Because it sounded so true coming out of his mouth.

“I know… Me, too.”

What Are Feelings

Sometimes it amazes me how intensely I am able to convince myself of having feelings.

Sometimes there are no feelings and I know throughout the process that there are no feelings, until the process comes to a halt. At which point, my mind convinces myself that there were, and currently exist, the feels.

And once there is no longer need for feelings, suddenly I think that I am full of them.

I don’t know what is real, and what is not, and never do I really know how I feel, or if I do. I am excellent at mirroring another person’s feelings towards me, and I am excellent at disguising my own feelings from myself. So if I do begin to realize the feelings, I never know if they were always there or if they were made up on the spot.

What are feelings? You would think that someone who makes all her decisions based off of them, who wears them on her sleeve for the world to know, who lets them impact her day so severely, would know. But I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

But I do know myself pretty well. And I know for a fact that I am, at least internally, emotionally, a very convincing liar.

Free, Together

52be24e82db675286fff466dbe05c6dcThey made each other feel free,
as if he didn’t belong to her
and she didn’t belong to herself
They only belonged to the night.
Together they were
their own persons, free to do whatever they’d like,
free, together.
And the funny thing is
they were never free,
and they were never even together.