baby, will you be my corona and lime?

We rode the elevator up, but it took us down. And I, considering romantic notions half surrendered to loss, grabbed her hand, stubbornly laughed our way up four floors.

Shadows did not exist under white lights, the moon rendered obsolete. I climbed the ledge and wondered what kittens feel when they fly. She smiled up at me, bashfully, confidently. Her eyes leaked admiration and I could feel the metal inside melting; something like not breathing for a long time and suddenly indulging in unabashed gasps of fresh air, parking lot air, air that smelled like her and full of oxygen that ignites.

A two second distraction was enough to find her again, back to the cement, shoes off. The image of her under white lights, yellow moon, resting directly on cold concrete is one I was familiar with because it had played out in the back of my mind as a broken wish. I laid down beside her, wondering if she’d believed more than I had that we would end up on the fourth light-washed floor of an empty parking lot at 1 in the morning with tangled fingers.

I laid down beside her, as she had known all along that I would.

There’s a constant circle of contemplation tied around my waist, a continuous loop of desires. It is tricky, because I can’t turn too fast or walk too far without becoming twisted in my own ignored thoughts. I flipped onto my side, flipped myself onto you, and in that instant felt the rope go.

I flipped myself onto you as I’d known all along I would.

We can pretend that it was chance. We can pretend that we waltzed into each other’s arms accidentally, that we never noticed the numbers climbing and the security cameras watching us. We can pretend, you and I, we can pretend to be rational and logical but maybe this works because we’re really both one with the moon, racing circles around it, wiping the stars away with bare hands.

Me on top of you, fourth floor of a white parking lot, 2 in the morning, deleting the world for just a few minutes. No, that’s too generous. A couple of seconds, and a couple of seconds was really all we needed.

Time is irrelevant anyway. I knew you during a drunken night, I felt you in my heart the day after. Now, be my corona and lime? I quote song lyrics because it’s easy. And you know what, the plain truth is that I’d rather give you no guarantees. The latter are no different than promises, and those are broken, even when they’re made out of love.

I don't ever want to lie to you.

So. There I was, on top of you. My hands touching asphalt, my body touching you. The moment made us infinite. That’s the fucking point. All I need is the memory, which I’m imprinting on a word document, frantically, before the words escape me. My caffeine is the Corona in this coffee cup. I want to capture this instant. It’s essence. That it happened and that we were infinite.

"Do you have internet access, like, right now?"

Sometimes that’s enough. For now, I want it to be enough.

I come with no guarantees.

Baby, let’s be infinite for now.

"Shit. My boyfriend is coming."

Five words I seem to be getting a lot lately.

I don’t know when the person I was started becoming the person I am.

I am an asshole, unapologetically so.

Because my selfish, self centered actions mostly just affect me. And the possible self inflicted consequences are risks that I am willing to take.

And yet. Shit, her boyfriend is coming.

“Wait. You have a boyfriend?”

You’re incredibly beautiful.

I don’t even know you.

But I’ve liked you for a while.

I’ve noticed that my thoughts move vertically most of the time, in no particular order. There is order in the structure itself.

I sat there, experiencing the morning after lull, waves oscillating back and forth in my head. I reconsidered everything. But everything is now the result of meticulous planning, a chain of events so tightly wound together that to back up at this very critical point would do more damage than good.

It feels as though the world is resting on my shoulders.

It’s not supposed to be this way, is it?

The world should be underneath my feet, masochistic and unending, willing me to walk all over it in search of its non existent finale.

I’m waiting for that moment when my reality will flip upside down, restoring everything to its allegedly rightful place.

But that would put me on my back.

Is it a moment or a journey to a moment or neither?

I lied. I’m not waiting.

I’m going out there, and I am tackling it all as it comes.

There's probably an earthquake about to happen anyway; there is limited time to be courageous.

And sometimes, the girls have boyfriends.

Sometimes, she texts me randomly and the distance between us feels like a train burning through train tracks, violently heating up the steel inside my chest.

I reply anyway.

Sometimes, the idea of packing up and leaving seems like the definition of sheer stupidity.

But to consent to living like this fits the very same definition.

It defies living.

Most of the time, I am sure.

“Fuck. Why is your boyfriend coming?”

Stay with me.

“Yes, you should go.”

I’m going too.

Or A Bit Like A Bird Stealing Bread Out From Under Your Nose

I am in the living room, my mother sitting a mere ten feet from me listening to love songs On Demand. My headphones are wrapped around my head, battling the outside noise, shamelessly pumping love melodies into my brain.

Right now, right this very moment, I wonder if she realizes that we are both united, and therefore instantly separated, by the same feeling.

There is something about packing, which I’ve been doing for the last two days days. We’ve had boxes neatly folded on the floor for about two weeks and plans buzzing around our heads for about two years and it occurred to me on Saturday, as a blizzard raged on outside, that it was time to begin putting all of this shit away because our storage space lease was to be signed on Wednesday which was, at the time, three days away and our apartment had to be turned in by Friday, which was five days away, because we are now leaving in mid-March, which is an eternity away.

My life has inconveniently been reduced to a counting game recently; I am inconveniently bad at math, meaning that I am now bad at both math and life, but good at run-on sentences.

Word on the street says that there is another storm hitting the skyline tomorrow (today?) through Wednesday; 10 to 20 inches of snow, more numbers to interfere with a carefully thought out moving strategy.

There is, therefore, something about packing while it snows that inspires copious amounts of sentimentality or, at least, this is my current theory. Spurred by the surplus urgency left over by intense procrastination, I set about tearing down this room and the kitchen so that most of their respective contents now rest in a pile of boxes I pushed under the table and to the side. I was surprised by the sheer packing efficiency I have developed; part of me, the part that references unicorns every once in a while, wants to attribute it to an obvious disposition for moving, one that will never keep me in a place for too long, one that will keep my life teeming with excitement.

The more realistic side understands that the discovery of this legitimately marketable skill is the product of four moves in eight years. This is the fifth one. And I need stability, because some nights I dream it, and that's how you know.

It was emotionally exhausting, this time. Mainly because I kept finding her all over the place. No, no, it was because it was snowing outside and I was packing up my life once again. I found a certain friendship bracelet I took off a while ago due to deep disillusionment. I didn’t know what to do with it. Throw it away? Wear it? It went into a box. I'm still not sure why we keep the stuff that we keep, storing it in containers as we somehow still carry the implications.

I should have thrown it away.

I had to pack shot glasses, mementos of boozy afternoons that began at 2:10 on the dot, the creation of a relationship, the last night she ever spent at my place. There was tea in the cabinet. Why was there tea? I don’t drink tea. Oh yeah, because she brought me crackers and Gatorade and tea that time I got food poisoning and held me even though I was sweaty and probably smelled like vomit. There was a Christmas present with our names etched on the metal, back when we were just best friends.

There are pictures, there are scarves, there are tuna cans, there is underwear, there are books, there are shirts, there are pens, there is your non-existent number in my phone, there are cigarettes.

And there was snow outside my window. The snow makes me sentimental.

Introductory Words About Everything In Particular

I originally envisioned this first post as a carefully crafted, somewhat poetic summary of my current emotional state, adorned with pretty words and framed by sentimental wisdom. It would speak about my childhood in a slightly deprecating tone; a sort of “When I was a child…” beginning to a narrative about my life. Which amuses me, because I am only 18 years old. I would then go on to describe the last eight years with hazy concrete details that would make any reader (who?) feel like they knew exactly what I was talking about while simultaneously wondering what the fuck I was talking about and, quite possibly, questioning the sobriety behind my words. A keep you on your toes approach because I am such a good writer (I don’t know how to begin).

Incidentally, such piece was actually written during two particularly difficult weeks I spent self-dissecting (it is as gruesome as it sounds) for each individual feeling, past and present, and the words to somehow communicate them. But purposeful soul searching is tiring and often pointless, and it became obvious that it was time to just. stop. writing. when I began using bees as symbols for dreams and fighting with boys as the obvious reason the former had escaped the hard confines of my skull; they had shattered, I am stubborn. I was aiming for an endearing drunken ramblings effect, yes, but the thing had traces of cocaine addiction all over it.

Yet, I am sure that the explicitly sappy account had some merit to it. I wrote meticulously every night, piece by piece, stringing together quite a story. I guess I had subconsciously, nonchalantly at best, set out to put down some profound understanding of this situation in text, in words that were my own, thus proving that I had reached a conclusion, a theory, some sort of explanation. Instead, I asked questions. As a result, I demanded answers, though of whom, I do not know.

I have factual reasons; the reasons that have a lot to do with laws and regulations and blasphemous stacks of paperwork and my life getting fucked over by unreasonable penalties. The facts are unyieldingly rigid and taste particularly cold. These I spent two years colliding against, each and every day turned into a battle against an inflexible wall that bended me into all sorts of awkward positions, face against the pillow, silencing screams of frustration. My survival, then, rested on my choice to overlook the allegedly logical cause and effect. These reasons do not make sense; they never will.

And even then, reasons have never equated to answers. They do not attest to the raw unpredictability of life. They do not even begin explaining how bees got into my head or why I used to beat up boys (‘cuz I’m gay duh) or how aspirations can be so easily dashed across with permanent marker when fate is ruthlessly unveiled, so that you can still understand the symbols without ever truly being allowed to capture their meaning.


“Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive.”


I wouldn’t say that we are dangerous; I would say that we are downright reckless, and danger is perhaps just collateral damage. And absurd reasons aside, I am packing up and moving to another country because I want answers to questions only I am asking; because I feel no fear and a lot of irresponsibility.

Had I really written about my childhood, I would have said, belittling tone in mind, that I was damaged in ways my mind couldn't yet comprehend. Had I written about the last eight years, I would have said that dents began acquiring depth and that scratches were scrawled across the surface, pink and swollen with significance. But now I am writing about today, this specific moment, and I am saying that life is fast and swift. It wraps itself around me with tremendous speed, thrashes across the floor and shakes my balance.

And during that dichotomous moment after deciding to jump, before landing and before settling; this place I find myself in right now, I am feeling positively reckless.