Coffee & Make Believe

Living life off of love, lies, and lattes.

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.

Missing In Action

I’m not sure if it’s that I miss you,
because I’ve never missed you before.
But you didn’t go anywhere.
If I do indeed miss you,
I only miss you now because I know
I will never have you again.
Now there’s a missing piece that I didn’t know you filled.
Now that you’re gone, I can feel your absence.

And that is not a feeling I’ve missed.

Running In Circles

Life works in cycles. Just count how many remakes come out in theaters every year. Flared jeans? I thought we’d gotten rid of that evil long ago. How did it find its way back into our lives? And don’t get me started on bellybutton tattoos.

Just as the seasons have changed, so have my feelings. That’s how it should be, and that’s all I’ve ever known: Temporary joy, followed by anger or sadness (or a bit/lot of both), followed by stoicism and a whole new level of “done” and then one day, I’m just over whatever it was. And I don’t even think about it anymore. And I find temporary happiness again, somewhere else, in something or someone else.


It’s what I’ve accepted as the way of life, and I’m okay with it. But when the temporary happiness wants to regenerate in the form of something that once brought me happiness (as well as anger and/or sadness), that’s when I’m not so okay with it.

Because I can’t control emotions. I can’t cage them. I have to let them run wild and I have to just try to keep up, which is hard for me because I don’t run. Cardio has not been and never shall be my friend, and neither shall metaphorical cardio. But that is another thing that I’ve learned and accepted in my short 20-something years of life. Feelings cannot and should not be contained.

Plus, I’m sort of a control freak.

So here comes that temporary happiness again, and I’m afraid to admit it’s coming back in you. Someone who has brought me much anger (in myself) and sadness (in many things). But before that, much happiness. I’m hoping that I’m wrong, that it’s just the oncoming summer, that’s making me reminiscent of good times. But I remember October and I remember January, and if we’re as seasonal as life is, I better get ready to run.

Drunken Conversations Vol. III


“I’m sorry.”

He sounded so genuine, as if he was sincerely apologizing. Almost somber. I didn’t know what to make of it. His presence tonight was already taking me back to summer nights together one year ago.

“For what?”

I looked up, and glanced at his face. He was watching me, of course, like he used to. I wasn’t sure if the alcohol had something to do with it, but he did not seem overly flirty as I’ve previously seen him behave after one too many drinks.

“For not hanging out. There’s been…a lot going on.
I miss our pho dates.”

It seemed like a silly thing to apologize for, as he had only been back in town for a few days. It almost felt like a deeper apology, but for what, I wasn’t sure. It sounded deep-rooted. Was it for all of the things that happened so long ago? Would he even know to apologize for those things?

“Don’t worry about it.”

He seemed content with that, but still quiet. I didn’t say anything to give him hope, because I wasn’t sure if that was a door I’d ever reopen. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure if this was a conversation he would remember tomorrow.

He leaned over as if to whisper something, and instead left a soft kiss on my shoulder.

Drunken Conversations Vol. II

He wanted me to go back on my word, on what I told him months ago the last time we had addressed it. He wanted to know if my reasoning from before was still the case.

“If I wasn’t in the situation I am now,
would this still have happened?”

I had to really think about it. I had thought about it before, in the broad scheme of things. But I’d never thought about it as this direct thing that we were doing. And I answered honestly, in the moment, what I felt was true.

But I never would’ve answered that honestly, if I knew then what I later assessed. I never would’ve said the words, had I known that there might be potential feelings aboard this ship. That what we were doing was starting to anchor down in him and take hold. I never would’ve told him,

“I think this would have been inevitable.”


Dream Goals

Today, the DJ for tonight’s wedding asked me something that I haven’t been asked in a while. For the past year, I have been finished with school and out in the “real world.” It was surreal for about 2 months after graduation, and then it was perfect (in concept). I was offered a full-time job in the area of my interest among people that I liked, immediately following college. Wedding coordinating at a venue and catering company. So of course, I took it. And like any project I take on, I immersed myself in it.

But tonight, the DJ asked me, “What is it that you really want to do?” I asked her what she meant, and she rightfully said, “I can tell that weddings isn’t your dream goal. I mean, you seem like you enjoy what you do, and you were great to work with today, but I can see that this isn’t what you want to end up doing.”

So I told her the truth, that no, as much as I do love working weddings and creating memorable event experiences for people, my end goals are bigger. I told her how I want to work on award shows, their after parties, product launches, fashion runways. Red carpet, high-profile, cushy budget, 1000+ guest count.

These were goals I used to share with anyone I’d stumbled upon back when I was in college, going to school for Event Management. And for the past year, I started to look at these goals as more of dreams, and though the passion is still strong, the burning belief that I could reach these goals had begun to fade.

Drunken Conversations Vol. I

Nothing was said for a few seconds. We sat there comfortably, in silence, in darkness.

And out of nowhere, he said it.

I wish I could remember for the sake of the story if I was already looking at him, if I was leaning my head on his shoulder, if he was already looking at me quietly but complacently. Thoughtfully.

But I can’t remember, and I guess that’s what this new series of blog posts is all about.

His question took me off guard. I never expected him to address what we were doing, or initiate a conversation about it. I never expected to ever talk about it with him. Not really.

But he said it, and I looked at him, unable to really give him an answer, not because I was in shock (partially) that he brought it up, but because I really didn’t know what would happen.

“This is going to end badly, isn’t it?”

The Lost Generation

As a completely objective, third-party observer, I’ve watched and I’ve noticed something about the people of my age group. There’s this common denominator amongst the kids of “Gen Y” and it’s called misery.

We are all terribly sad. But why? What has the world done to us to make us so wildly unhappy? Is it something in the water? Our lifestyles? I refuse to believe that 20- and 30- somethings were this broken and melancholic fifty years ago.

I mean, okay. There’s the angst that we all felt in high school and growing up. I’m sure all teenagers of every generation have felt that. But why does it seem that these days, we are not growing out of it? Why is it so difficult for us to just figure out what we want in life? Are there too many options?

When did we become the lost generation?

A Muse of Great Catastrophe

I’m getting tired of writing ones about you.
Maybe this will be the last.
I’m just so sentimental,
I don’t want to let you go.
As a physical person in my life, I know it has to happen. I accept that.
But as my inspiration, I’m not quite ready…
I don’t think I ever told you, did I?
You were the reason
I started writing again.
Something about you,
something about us.
Our storybook romance,
our lack of want for a relationship,
our undeniable chemistry.
It was you.
And it was me.
And it was what we were together.
Years I went without pen to paper, and suddenly,
one night at 4 in the morning,
I just couldn’t stop.
You were the summer,
I was the night.
We were a dream.
Fading fast, like those Florida sunsets,
but oh, how we colored the sky,
and the world around us couldn’t help but watch.
Everyone could see something
strangely beautiful
as they watched us burn.