Falling In Love In A Coffee Shop

**Wrote this some months ago, never posted it, and just now realized that for the first time since starting this blog I haven't posted in not just one but like three months. Not cool. So here, it's Fiction Wednesday! Also, hopefully I'll be posting a lot more in the near future, especially with break coming up. Forgive me- I've been giving tumblr all my attention.**


We're sitting drinking coffee. That's a romantic thing to say but we're not actually drinking coffee because you're in a hurry and I'm on a caffeine fast. But we're in the coffee shop, as if we're drinking coffee, almost as if we're on a date you and me. That sounds romantic too. Like that Landon Pigg song, Falling in Love in a Coffee Shop. I want all of my first loves, my first falls, to take place in this coffee shop, over the strains of The Civil Wars or Elliott Smith. I want your eyes meeting mine with The xx playing, want my heart beating faster in time with PJ Harvey, want Cat Power to stir in your belly and the whispers of Bon Iver or Jason Mraz to make your hand creep toward mine almost unconsciously, almost out of your own control.

But we're not falling in love in a coffee shop, are we, we're not even drinking coffee because you're in a hurry and I'm on a caffeine fast.

This is an interview, by the way. I write for the newspaper, you're a musician, and somehow God planted a seed in the head of my editor and for once she did something brilliant and assigned me to write an article about you.

You tell me you think that you're talking too much and I smile. I don't tell you that I'm asking too many questions, questions I don't need to ask you, questions that aren't relevant to this interview at all. I just can't help myself; the opportunity to explore you has been thrust at me, demanded of me really. I'm only human, you know. What kind of individual would I be if I passed this up?

The interview lasts longer than it should and I stare at your eyes longer than I should and you are so full of passion when you talk that I wonder how the other conversations full of inantities and trivialities, like finding the "one" and frustrations at work can even continue in the wake of your words. Your words are so powerful, you are giving a speech, what do any of these other people have any business doing talking while you're talking. How can they not be swept away just as much as I am? Their caucus laughter, the sound of their obscene ringtones, their overzealous laughter, I find vaguely infuriating.

Shut up. I am trying to fall in love in a coffee shop.

But we're not falling in love in a coffee shop, are we, we're not even drinking coffee because you're in a hurry and I'm on a caffeine fast.

My precious half hour with you is up now and I give you the dismissal to leave. But you pause a few moments, asking me about class, how do I like the book we're reading, what do I think of the professor; his teaching style is really relaxed, we're all slacking off quite a bit, which feels guilty but it doesn't matter much because he doesn't seem to care. He'd really be better off sticking to writing to poetry than teaching, you say, and I smile because you don't even know how many times I have said that before, to people who don't understand, not the way you do.

And then finally, you stand up, you're leaving, you're so tall, you're so lovely, don't leave me. You're in a hurry, I knew that from the start, you have to go to work now. But if you stayed, if you stayed behind and talked with me, maybe we could fall in love in a coffee shop.

You walk out of the door and I take a sip of my tea: chamomile, I don't like the Italian brand but it's all that this coffee shop has and the chamomile was necessary to calm my stomach.

I turn around and see long chestnut hair, ruddy cheeks, a head bent over intensively to text books. I know this girl. I've seen her before. All last year, she was on your arm, and she wore dresses and the two of you smiled and ate fruit together. She was your love and now she has seen us, here, and perhaps she thinks we are falling in love in a coffee shop, and perhaps she feels pain, perhaps she feels jealousy, perhaps she doesn't care but she must, I can't see how she couldn't.

I feel overwhelmed for her. I feel sad.

I wonder what it was like for her, when you sat her down and told her things couldn't keep on this way.

I wonder what it was like for her the first time you held her hand or the first time she knew that she was the only person dancing around in your head.

I wonder if the two of you fell in love in a coffeeshop.

I feel an intruder, and I want to hug her and give her some of my tea but I can't. I can't because I like you and she's a girl and so she can tell by the way that I laughed at your jokes and tried to meet your eyes as often as I could and clung to your words like they were diamond and gold and pearls, jewels dropping from your perfectly-formed lips.

And so, we can never be friends, her and I, and that's sad and I sigh. We can never be friends. Because of the coffee shop and how this is the place where people fall in love.

Captivate Me Captain

You are enchanting. I don't know if you know that. I think that you do, I think that you have to know it to some extent, the effect you have on people. You're confident, and that kind of confidence only comes from someone who is sure in themself. You are very sure in yourself. And why shouldn't you be?

I spend all my time hoping you'll talk to me. Waiting for you to appear. Desperately wishing you'd notice me. It makes me feel pretty pathetic. But I keep doing it anyway.

I think you're so cool. Everything about you. Your haircut, your clothes, the tone of your voice, the vocabulary you use and the things that make you smile.

You're sweet, genuinely kind, and that's strange to me, and nice, and it draws me to you, just like it must draw everyone to you. You're magnetic and you're warm and I want to feel it, want you to light a fire in my toes and make my soul come alive again. I want to be close to you.

You're beautiful too. The first time I saw you, I only stared at you; I couldn't help myself. You stopped me dead in my tracks. How do you manage to look so good, no matter what you wear, no matter when I see you. You always look just lovely.

I like you and I'm not the only one and I get jealous when I hear people say your name, or talk about you, or say that they like you too, because so many of them do. They like you and they're probably more deserving of you and you probably like them too. But you don't understand how long I've been waiting for someone like you to come along. I might be broken and strange but I've been waiting for you. I've been waiting for your smile and the sound of your voice. I've been waiting for the pictures you draw and the plaid shirts that you wear.

I spy on you. I'm not creepy normally, I swear, but sometimes it's like you invite me in. You leave your door open, and with that the door to yourself, who you are, and I can't help but be drawn to the color and the light. There are pictures and animals and fabrics and music and dancing and laughter, so much laughter. Do you blame me for wanting to go inside?

You like coffee, like me, and you use the word "rad" in a way that's not ironic. You look so absolutely heartbreakingly good in just a t-shirt and jeans. Sometimes it seems like you might have a tattoo but now I think that you don't, and honestly, I don't even care. You don't need tattoos. You're an artist, that was obvious the first time I saw you and then again when I ran into that night in the art building. You were at home there. But you seem at home everywhere here.

You float on your back in rivers, you hail from Africa and you talk to God. You seem to like sleeping almost as much as I do and you're looking for adventure and you took your first steps in Paris. You talk about your professors in the sweetest way, about how you like them so much and how much they care and how lovely you think it all is. You're smart too. You sing everywhere you go and it doesn't even annoy me like it normally would, I just find it charming like everything else about you.

And you talk to me. You don't have to talk to me but you do and when you do, I feel so good, I feel like I have found the wild animal, stumbled across it in all of the beauty of its wilderness home and I am, so close, so close to touching it, to leading it home with me. I have been searching for this creature all my life and finally, here it is, I see it and I can barely breathe for fear I will scare it off.

You notice me too, I know that you do. That night on the streets of Buffalo, we locked eyes and I think- am I crazy, but I think- you were there. You were there with me. Maybe you just notice me staring at you but if you took all of our interactions and collaged them into a home video with sad sweet music in the background, it would just be eyes and burning stares. I bore holes into your back, I feel you smoldering the side of my face.

You know what? The music would not be sad and sweet, it would be slow, and haunting, and it would do what your gaze does to me. Lock eyes with me. Stare at me. I will stare back. A song will be playing in your background that starts off soft but builds, it builds so loud and powerful that I am overwhelmed, overtaken, captivated.

Captivate me, I dare you.

Still A Jerk

Hey thur guyz.

I want to post because I'm back at school and I realize it's been way too long since I've written here [or written at all] and I feel very guilty for that.

How are things? Things on my end are pretty alright. I'm back at school like I said and have been since the end of August. Classes are in full swing. Mostly, I just have a lot of reading to do, but I'm a good reader when I actually do it, so that's not so bad.

Money is tight. Old prejudices against certain classmates have not lessened much with time. There are still people I will always wish I was cool enough to talk to, but know I never will. Some of the faces I grew used to seeing, even looked forward to seeing, have disappeared. The coffee is sweeter, the freshmen are intriguing, the classes are less intimidating. I do have more friends than I did before. It's so true what my friend Hannah told me once, that freshmen are at their most vulnerable that they will probably ever be in their lives. I was talking to some friends of mine yesterday and we all agreed- freshmen year was killer. It was difficult and exhausting and scary and just hard. So far this year feels a lot better and I hope to all goodness that it stays that way.

I've been here a bit over a month now, and I'll admit I've had some rough days. I don't know if it's because I have a disorder or if I'm just a lazy scumbag, but sometimes the prospect of a full day ahead of me is just so purely overwhelming. I still sleep a lot, too much. I still do dumb things like don't go to class in favor of napping and drink caffeinated coffee even though I know the effect it's going to have on my mental state, and occasionally allow myself to sleep through church, and spend money on frivolity and do homework in chapel and get by just by the skin of my teeth. I still disagree with a lot of school policies, I still get scared when I work out and I still eat way too much cereal and never enough protein. I still have trouble being honest and even more trouble being terribly friendly. I still think about love too much and sex too much and I still get really confused about all of it.

I think a part of me thought that after last year there would be no one left at this college I would be interested in. Unfortunately that's not quite the case, surprisingly so really, but it doesn't actually honestly matter.

I still have a bad haircut and generally shaky self-esteem and I still would rather invest more time in crap TV shows and the perfecting of my Sims 3 family than on an actual, terrifying relationship. I still have bad days and good days and I still don't know where I'd be without medication and a fairly lax schedule. I still don't write enough and I still think about leaving too much and I still almost never do my laundry. I still just stare at enchanting people instead of talking to them and I still cheat on my pathetic promise to get to the gym at least three times a week. I still write papers just hours before they're due and I still care more about completing my iTunes library than maintaining some sort of stellar GPA.

Basically, I'm still a jerk in all senses of the word.

But I'm trying, truly I am, and overall, I'd like to say I look down a little less when I walk to class and I make a little more effort to get the assigned reading done before class and I'm a little less self-conscious and internalized and a little more smiley and goofy.

And that is progress enough.

Lena Dunham and Dream Realization

It was hot here today and I wanted to go to the beach, which is something I haven't really done this summer but my mother didn't want to go and all of my friends were busy or working so after I got up this morning and drank my coffee, I went back to bed until probably two o'clock. While I was sleeping I had several dreams, the most notable one being that my phone caught on fire. It was smoking and I was scared so I screamed for my mother who was quite unhelpful throughout the whole ordeal. I put it in water (or she might have, I can't remember) but the water boiled over and was dominated by the fire. My mother seemed thoroughly unperturbed by everything but when the water boiled over, I yelled for her again and finally she saw how dire the situation was and she urged me and my sister to get out of the house. It was then that I realized that in my life, I honestly had no care for what burnt up, all of my worldly goods, the music and books I have amassed, my laptop, my iPod, I couldn't be bothered with losing any of it; I only worried for my dog. We got outside and my house burned, burned all away before the fire department finally came and when the fire was put out, I wanted to go back inside and see what had become of my room but everyone kept telling me no, that I was too hysterical, that I needed to wait a week before I would be emotionally stable enough to see what had become of things, but I told them that if I didn't go and see it now I never would.

I don't believe that dreams are half as significant as we give them credit for but I looked up the meaning of it anyway in this little cyclopedia of dream meanings that I stole from the book room at my high school while doing inventory one summer. It says, "If a particular object is on fire (house, car, etc.), this may symbolize over-commitment to it or fear of a world without it. Freud found fire to be a symbol of male power. In this case, fire may indicate control over a circumstance or a struggle to feel that way, depending on whether the fire is controlled or not. Do you question your own morality at times? Are you seeking cleansing from a bad experience? Do you perceive your own life is about to go through a significant transition that requires spiritual preparation?)

I don't really think any of this means anything at all. I honestly think I had the dream because I found a lit cigarette on the ground outside while walking my dog last night and I stamped it out and put it in my purse but then I kept getting paranoid that it was still going to be lit and my purse would catch on fire and ignite my house while I was sleeping, but no, the cigarette was out, so those fears were unfounded.

I was in town last night for dinner with friends and we drove through some apartments in Boston which were so beautiful that it hurt, it ached really, because I felt in myself that they were where I was supposed to be, that city is where I am supposed to be, every night and every day, all of the time. But I don't think I ever will be.

Just like Houghton is not where I'm supposed to be, I'm supposed to be somewhere else, but already I'm planning out my spring semester schedule and I can see the time slipping away from me and me never ending up transferring like I want to and just staying at Houghton, all four years, miserable but complacent, because I never had the gumption to pull myself together and do it.

Just like I'll never become a writer, because I'll want it, I'll think about it, but I'll never just do it, something will always hold me back, I'll always tell myself tomorrow or later and I'll never sit down and write and try because I'm lazy and afraid of rejection and so all my life will be a disappointment every day.

I wonder if Lena Dunham ever felt this way or if she was a go-getter and a doer and be-er from the start.

Where Is He

I wrote this some time ago, and I just read it again today. I don't know how I feel about it anymore. It makes me happy, and sad, both at the same time. I don't know if this is what I want anymore. But it was a lovely dream all the same.

Where is he, I ask you?

Eighteen years have gone and he should've come by now.

Perhaps if I describe him to you, you will know who I mean. Perhaps you will have seen him wandering the street, eating a bagel on the subway, strolling through Boston Commons, undoubtedly looking lost.

Well, first of all, he looks inexplicably like Darren Criss. He likes to wear sweaters and fitted jeans and yes, scarves in the winter. Sometimes, when he's reading, he wears glasses.

He takes me to Feist concerts and likes it when I wear lace and he sings Jack Johnson to me while I try to fall asleep.

Sometimes I wake up to see him sleeping in my chair and I touch the stubble on his chin; he grabs my hand and holds it there. He reads to me too, poetry, the fruit of love, out of the large volumes I keep mostly unopened in my makeshift crate bookshelves.

He is soft and strong simultaneously, which seems like an impossibility, but it's not. Not for him.

He knows when I'm lying and he calls me out.

But he's gentle.

He reaches into my hurting parts and draws them out.

He has discernment

But he never judges me

Because he loves me.

I don't think he exists. But I'll love him all the same, and I won't settle for anything other than him.

If you find him, tell him I'm still here. Waiting. Waiting for him to complete me.

Summer Playlist

Guess what lovely feature is being resurrected today! That's right- your favorite one!
SEASON PLAYLIST!
Drum roll please for summatime and music!
[Prepare yourself; since the creation of Spotify, it's gotten easier than ever before to find new music as well as find old music that I loved and forgot about. Hence, this summer's playlist is a doozy! One that I happen to be very proud of.]

1. Bad Girls: Asia Bryant
2. Back In Time: Pitbull
3. Bubblegum Bitch: Marina and the Diamonds
4. Synthetica: Metric
5. Scream: Michael Jackson
6. Movin Out': Billy Joel
7. Can Anyone Who Has Heard This Music Really Be A Bad Person?: Kaki King
8. Where Have You Been: Rihanna
9. Shelter: Birdy
10. From Finner: Of Monsters and Men
11. Standing Outside A Southern Riot: River City Extension
12. Wild One: FloRida ft. Sia
13. Carry Out: Timbaland ft. Justin Timberlake
14. Boyfriend: Justin Bieber
15. Hazy: Love Darling
16. Speak Up: Infantree
17. Club Music: Tatiana Owens
18. White Lies: Stacy Clark
19: Just Like You: Phantods
20. Little Talks: Of Monsters and Men
21. I Get Down: All Wrong and the Plans Change
22. No Moon: Iron & Wine
23. Finding It Harder To Be A Gentleman: The White Stripes
24. Into Dust: Mazzy Star
25. F*** The Pain Away: Peaches
26. Boys Boys Boys: Lady Gaga
27. It's Raining Men: Weather Girls
28. Somebody That I Used To Know: Gotye ft. Kimbra*
29. I Think I Like You: Donora
30. I Am You: Kim Taylor
31. Calabria 2008: Enur
32. Rain Over Me: Pitbull
33. Prank Calls: Kelley Stoltz
34. Cheated Hearts: Yeah Yeah Yeahs
35. Victim: Win Win
36. The Way We Get By: Spoon
37. La Ritournelle: Sebastien Tellier
38. The Chemicals Between Us: Bush, Gavin Rossdale
39. Whipped: Erika Fatale
40. Feel So Close: Calvin Harris*
41. Settle Down: Kimbra
42. Birthday Sex: Jeremih
43. Chicago: Sufjan Stevens
44. Hella Good: No Doubt
45. The Greatest: Cat Power
46. Artificial Nocturne: Metric
47. Closer: Stacy Clark
48. Everybody Talks: Neon Trees
49. Young Folks: Peter Bjorn and John
50. Toes: LIGHTS
51. Paper Bag: Fiona Apple
52. (I've Just Begun) Having My Fun: Britney Spears
53. Lakehouse: Of Monsters and Men
54. Answering Bell: Ryan Adams
55. Neptune City: Nicole Atkins
56. One Moment Is All It Takes: The Ultrasonics
57. Good Girl: Dawn Jackson
58. Fibber: Infantree
59. Smooth Criminal: Michael Jackson
60. The Void: Metric
61. I Need A Dollar: Aloe Blacc
62. Never Close Our Eyes: Adam Lambert
63. Soon, My Friend: M83
64. Junkie Love: Nycole Valentina
65. Lost You There: Sub Rosa
66. Femme Fatale: Erika Fatale
67. Not The Same: Drew Davis
68. I U She: Peaches
69. Cockiness [Love It]: Rihanna
70. Hanging On: Ellie Goulding ft. Tinie Tempah

*Honorable Mention* Birthday Cake: Rihanna

*The stars are to indicate songs that are huge radio hits now, but are by bands that have been around for years. I just want you all to know that I've been listening to Calvin Harris for 4 years now and Gotye for 3, so I'm not a follower, I'm actually a super cool hipster or whatever, and yes, it's pathetic, but I needed you to know this.

Candidness

I feel guilty because it's been so long since I've posted and I'm getting worse and worse about posting as the months go by.

I think I know why.

You see I've been posting a lot on my tumblr lately (yes, I know, spare me your disgust and revulsion), and it's because- I have less respect for tumblr. I don't feel like it demands high quality, long, well-thought out posts, like blogspot does. It's just tumblr. I can be silly there, casual and candid and low-key. I reblog stupid sayings and sexy pictures and act every bit like the idiotic nineteen-year-old I am. I feel like I'm not being judged on tumblr, and I've got no one to impress. In fact, I've been getting more and more lax about what I put up there. I'm usually pretty uptight about what I post on the internet. Not big on a whole ton of personal details or pictures of myself or just- I don't know. I don't get into detail about the stuff in my life that is super personal. And with good reason. You never know who's reading what. Thinking about it now, I really just oughta go and delete a whole bunch of stuff from my tumblr right now. Not even because it's necessarily all that bad, it just might give people the wrong impression. Or the right impression that I don't want them to have...

But honestly, it feels good to be candid. I don't like hiding stuff. I like to be open. Not in-your-face, but not uptight. I'm a laid-back person in general, except for one tiny medical condition we won't get into here. I don't like having to get all crazy and intense about what I put up online. But I have good reason to be paranoid.

I don't even know why I'm posting this, like I'm trying to justify myself to you. I don't need to justify anything.

I'm bored. My new piercing hurts like a mother- this is the first time it's really hurt since I got it nearly two weeks ago- today it's just been really irritated for some unfathomable reason. My jaw is awful too and now I've just realized I almost forgot to take my meds, which would be all kinds of bad. I reek of cigarettes too, because I had a cigar on the back deck, because I was avoiding writing my paper, and that's about as BA as it gets over here in Pembroke.

Sometimes I get scared because I'm nineteen and life is too short not to live it the way you want to- I heard that in a movie once, and it hit hard, and I think it's so true but I'm way too much of a pansy to actually go out and do what I want.

I told my friends that- one night on the playground- told them how scared I was and what a coward I can be and my friend P told me I'm one of the bravest people he knows. It meant a lot, though I don't believe him. I don't think of myself as brave, at all. I think I'm learning things, constantly having new experiences and it is teaching me a bit of wisdom here and there. That's what I strive for, really, is wisdom through experience. I hate ignorance more than anything else and 75% of the things I do are so that I can avoid being ignorant.

But brave? Not on your life. So I let strangers stick needles into me, so I go out sometimes, so I stay out late or take a chance here and there. All of my chances don't really count because they're always physical. I risk my body, my health, my well-being.

But I never take emotional risks. I never tell people what I really think. I never put my personal, spiritual, inner well-being into any danger. I have never in my life really taken a chance on someone else or on myself.

I'm already way too emotionally screwed up without even putting myself in any risk, and honestly, my emotional fear is what I'd consider to be one of my greatest weaknesses. So, yeah, brave isn't exactly the word I'd choose to describe myself.

But what if I die before I ever work up the courage?

How's that for candid?

Listening: Shelter by Birdy