An Untitled, Unclaimed, Work of Art

I’m checking out at my local bookstore,

“ That’ll be 17.12,” says the teller. “Will that be cash or card?” She proceeds to ask. “Card.” I say, glancing at her name tag instead of her eyes. Nancy, pretty. (Though I don’t believe I’ve heard of anyone with the name Nancy, outside of that show Weeds. Totally what made me start smoking if my mom didn’t).

Anyways, I swipe my card, collect my newly found belongings, and carry on my way to beginning a new.

How rude of me!

Maybe I should introduce myself, hello. My name is Lola, Lola B. Harper, the B stands for a plethora of things but recently it’s been standing for “better luck next time”. Especially in the love department, which is precisely what brought me to this quirky (expensive) little bookstore in the first place. You see, I used to have a bad habit of putting all of my business on social media. Every break up, every make up, every come up, every downfall, my social media followers had a front row seat to my mental and emotional episodes and decay. Talk about a bad look. I was recently broken up with and as hard as it is for me to accept, I had absolutely no fault in the matter. It was totally him and not me ( you know... his loss my sorrow blah blah blah). So now I’m on my way home to spill my guts to my new notebook instead!

I’d have a whole library of secret confessionals had I thought of this sooner. There’s nothing too special about this notebook. It’s little, black, smooth, comforting, warm within my grasp like a cup of tea. And to pear with it a simple yet sleek 0.5 mm black ink, ball point pen (how smoothly it will glide along the finely pressed pages. How the ink will grip the texture of the paper and hold for time to come. I get goosebumps). These are the thoughts that carry me home. Aww home, my quaint little apartment that for a short moment in time I was perfectly delighted to share with another human being.. (how barbaric of me). Anyways! I remove my shoes and jacket, grab the rolling tray from the bedroom, and a bottle of wine accompanied with a glass from the kitchen. I’ve got the flow down like a well rehearsed set of stage directions. I don’t want to say I’m a creature of habit however; When I am obviously (yet deniably ) in my feels, being a creature of habit just makes life flow easier if you know what I mean.

I find comfort in my favorite cozy corner of my sofa and turn on the side table lamp. Removing the cork from the bottle (with more finesse than I’d like to admit), I top my glass with a twist. Then, I get started with the fun part! I roll a pretty wood with a sativa dominant blend, (just a little something to loosen me up). I remove the thin plastic covering from the book and open to the first page ( That first crease is something huh, like new money). I take a few sips and smoke down to the stinger before I realize two things:

1. I’m a pot head (lol).

2. I have no fucking clue what to write.

When all else fails, if I can’t completely melt down on social media, maybe it can offer me some inspiration for my offline mental purge! Instagram, (scroll ,scroll, scroll), Snapchat, Facebook, Twitter, TikTok, YouTube... well social media did inspire me...( it inspired me to have a bigger meltdown like-), WHAT THE FUCK?! How can everyone else be so perfect with the perfect relationship and perfect job and perfect body, perfect fucking life (those fucking liers) ooooo I know (I KNOW!), that they’re showing face for the world but, Damn! (Why doesn’t it look that good when I try to do it?!) You know what, fuck this shit! I get my glass and top that bitch off( I’m talking to the brim), roll another wood, turn on some of that 60’s blues (the kind you’d hear in the breakup scene in a corny romcom), and lose myself in the rolling tones. Some time has passed (As to how much time, I couldn’t tell you). All I know is.. imma throw up. I grab a cigarette to steady myself, Pall Mall. Baby always said I was too good to be a Pall mall girl.. well screw baby. I was obviously too good for him. I light it and the first drag immediately places me back in his arms. I struggle to escape sinking into the memory, knowing it’ll only bring pain when I snap back to reality.

I haphazardly settle back into my cozy little corner (desperate to change my train of thought), pick up my pen, reopen the notebook and begin to write. I don’t put much thought into what I’m writing. I just allow the pen to flow. Forming lines and dots. Dawn begins to creep across the floor and slowly up the wall as I fill the final lines of the final page with words flowing in rhythmic patterns matching the very essence of who I, Lola B. Harper am. With one last “peridot.” to close it all out (in the most light hearted way possible), I allow a smile to lightly crease my face. With a slight stretch in the warm morning light I yawn a sigh of release. After taking one final glance I softly close the notebook feeling more confident in myself.

I pick up that little book, the little book that feels like a cup of warm tea when you grip it. (The book that although so tiny, and so light it holds so much weight in the secret depths of who I am. Who I’ve been, Who I want to be). I place it on the shelf, (amongst other books that have been honored with the challenge of holding the depths of words others have dared not to speak aloud before spilling them upon paper, and those spoken without paper near by. For only then where they to know the true power of what they had to say. My own story sits amongst theirs now. In my own personal little library. An untitled, unclaimed work of art that would spill my whole soul to whomever dared to peer upon its pages).

And with that final thought my hangover overpowers the nicotine and I know that caffeine is my only savior at this point. I head to the local dairy to grab a coffee 2 creams and 4 sugars. Upon check out I made the spontaneous decision to buy a scratch off. (I usually don’t win on them but considering I just wrote a whole book that no one would probably ever read, I figured a number 17 was a good investment). I paid for my coffee and scratch off and proceeded home. Along the short stroll back to my apartment I took a quarter out of my pocket and began to scratch the ticket, one box, two box, three box.... PLOP! (Klutz.) My coffee slips out of my hand and hits the ground. My mouth slowly drops open as my eyes scramble back and fourth across the ticket. Match 3 numbers win the prize shown.. (that’s what it says), match three numbers... win the prize shown... match three numbers... (okay I know I’m not stupid, a lil slow sometimes but definitely not stupid).. box 1, box 2, box 3.... 17, 17, 17,... (Oh... Oh, I don’t believe this shit)... I just... I just won $20,000 on a scratch off.. (this is real??), I look around for confirmation but it’s just me and the sun this early in the morning. Well, I did say I wanted to be $100,000 richer ($20,000 isn’t a bad start). For my first purchase.. a brand new little black notebook. I guess there’s still a little Magic in a good book after all! (Plus, I could always go for a good cup of tea)!