In the margins

Living is much like dreaming:

Overtly confusing, occasionally horrifying,

but somehow soft enough to melt into something senselessly pretty

in the margins.

this is true enough that in popular imagination, to dream has become to do something

sweet and right

despite dreams often being unsettling

It's January 3rd, I haven't showered in a long time. I won't say how long. But the last time I felt there was a reason to celebrate was New Year's Eve. I was super excited that night to have a NYE-themed cocktail

Greasy hair, skin I keep picking at. It's not a pretty picture. I haven't been able to get out of bed all December.

There was a winter storm howling, and I mean howling

at my window.

There is a very lively virus numbing my senses and

there is not a single soul around

Every healthy person left to have hot cocoa with their families.

I try to listen to sweet songs to drown out the howling noise

maybe even

collaborate with it,

but it insists on being its own beast

(Kind of like a boy I know)

The circumstances create fertile ground to think about death.

I think about the raw panicked shock

to die with no one around.

So ice-cold. I never want to be that cold.

What a shame (about that boy I know)

I hold all the panic in myself until my heart bursts.

Don't hearts burst from love? I find the parallel to be suspicious.

I notice how young my suspicion feels.

Maybe someone older would have told me

they're the same thing.

But they must be quite young themselves.

I watch reality tv to keep me company - a competition where the most talented mixologist who creates the best cocktails WINS.

Blue curacao, peach-flavored vodka, and lots and lots of the cheapest champagne.

This was the recipe I found online for the perfect cocktail to drink on NYE - the Midnight Kiss.

It was perfect so so perfect. Champagne; romantic and celebratory and completely New Year's Eve

We both felt that the peach would

sweeten the deal a little too.

I'm so happy your flight back didn't get cancelled

The sugar-rim doesn't do much to cut through the terrible alcohol.

we are not seasoned drinkers at all

and definitely messed up somewhere

"It just feels like mixing alcohol with more alcohol doesn't necessarily get

rid of the alcohol taste!"

and i'm excited to hear you laugh

We squeeze entire clementines into our glasses

(no limes,

stores were closed).

The drink is hopeless, the clock is ticking away to midnight. It's the most life I've felt in a while

We both decide it's better to ditch the glass and just take shots but

because I am a monumental pussy I ask you to

tell me a story to distract from the shot

but you say something funny! and I just spill it all over myself instead

We laugh hard. My heart feels like it's sparkling. I told my roommate about it the next day, she laughed too.

A little out of love with the drink-shenanigans, a little more in love with you. We needed something to watch, I thought you might like the cocktail competition.

I rewatch the whole thing with you. I accidentally spill the winner's name in the last 5 minutes. Somehow we didn't fight about that. You are an endlessly patient man.

You slept in my bed last night, even though you get a better sleep in yours a few floors down. On my bedroom shelf sit blue and peach bottles, next to ripped up costume wings I could never give up from Halloween 2 years ago. I love almost every holiday

I didn't dream much that night But I can remember

the two of us going to a bar in the thick of summer when it's

golden all-over. A lazy mid-July

Outside has really quieted down since Christmas

a single car and

a single invisible bird chirping somewhere like

it's drunk on summer syrup.

I feel like both of us know more now, so we talk less.

The waitress says 'I'm sorry, we're not serving drinks yet!' and my face gets

as hot as the day,

grapefruit-pink cheeks

Somehow I don't get embarrassed because I want the waitress to understand how embarrassed I am.

'But we can make an exception!' and she goes around rearranging these red faux leather seats on the wooden patio.

We're the only ones there.

My drink is as bright and yellow as outside. It tastes like lemonade and fizzes like champagne. The clock on the wall ticks sluggishly and dutifully towards Winter again.

I'm gonna wake up eventually, and my thoughts will peck at my brain like a hungry little bird with a quick beak, mutating the soft pink flesh of my malleable thoughts like it's looking for seed in there somewhere.

It's an innocent gesture but it gets hard.

I'm dissolving a lot these days, in the most delicious manner. Living is so much like dreaming; overtly confusing, often horrifying, but always giving away into something senselessly pretty

in the margins

Thanks for being there with me.