Ice-cream

So, here I am again.

Heartbroken as fuck, sitting on some bench in the city, talking to stray cats. The tears are rolling off my face, and the cats don't even meow. They are the worst listeners but — what gives? A cat that looks exactly like Garfield has decided to purr. At least one of them is acknowledging my 5'6 self.

Who to call?

It is nearly 11 pm, and I could technically call anyone, right? My mom would pick up, and I’d probably start crying like a toddler. She’d tell me the usual “I told you so,” and the conversation would end abruptly. So, no.

I could dial my sister, my best friend, or the aspiring booty I never called.

Ha! The sudden thought of thinking of dialing his digits makes me laugh. Say what exactly? Hey *Dan, I know I haven't texted you since the night I left you and your guitar hanging, and um, I'm just calling to see if you can pick me up from this bench and get me ice cream.

Maybe he’d come. Maybe he’d even bring me a Fula, thinking I’ll finally give in to his obvious intentions. But, no. He would find me next to Garfield and glued to this bench in desperate need of a shoulder.

The sudden thought of *Dan coming to my rescue is interrupted by more purring, and let’s face it. He would never actually come. Plus, I don't need any rescuing. I'm not waiting for anyone to show up and save me from myself.

So, why bother calling anyone at 11 pm?

At this point in life, I don’t need to wake anyone up for another one of my 20something-year-old crises. I can handle it. I am an adult. I got myself into this messy mess, and I ought to get myself out of it.

Tears are spilling all over my white shirt, my waterproof mascara ain’t working. The cats have left.

It is Panama City, and me now. The same city that welcomed me with open arms a year ago is asking me questions the same way a fuckboy casually checks up on you.

Heeeey, I thought we were doing just fine.

Oh — and we are, we are doing just fine. But fine isn't enough anymore. Fine is a robotic answer. I’d give my mom when I came home from school. Fine, I’d say, dismissing math tests and fights with friends. Just fine.

Somewhere between then and now, I had forgotten that fine is not great. Fine is not good. Fine is not extraordinary, and at my age, I want extraordinary.

At 26, I want to live an extraordinary life, a life requiring me to follow my wildest dreams.

I want to feel what I feel when I'm on the road. The overwhelming feeling of life taking over. The tingly sensation that leaves me full. Full of hope. Full of life. Just full.

I haven't felt that way in a while, and it scares me.

Jan 4, 2016
26 year old me.