I asked for no mustard

"Comes with coffee and fruit"

      Great! Awesome! In my hungover stupor I had managed to haul myself down the quiet main street of the town where I live, take money from my bank account, and end up standing at the counter of one of the local coffee shops. Searching for something to eat that was both healthy and greasy does not make for an easy task. It's made even worse when the place is hot and I could almost literally feel last night's wine seeping from my pores. Finally I saw that there was a B.L.T. that came with a coffee and fruit. Exactly what I needed. Bacon grease mixed with some fresh fruit. And a coffee. Bless the person who invented coffee. 

      Upon stumbling back home, daydreaming the entire way, I finally looked at what I had received for my make-shift breakfast. Yes, there was the sandwich, and what was that? That singular itty-bitty piece of watermelon, and two chunks of an apple. So that's my side of fruit, huh? I don't even like watermelon. The one time in my life that I actually opt for a side of fruit and this is what I get? Oh yeah, and there was mustard on the sandwich. I didn't want mustard on my sandwich.

     Here's what I'm realizing my problem is, and no it's not the fact that my side of fruit was pitiful or that there was mustard not the sandwich when I asked for only mayo, but rather just the fact that I was upset by it. Perhaps it's due to the fact that I can still feel a slight light-headed feeling on account of my hangover, or maybe it's to do with the fact that it's cool outside and I'm supposed to go swimming with friends later, but whatever it is, something needs to change. I've been noticing a lot lately that whenever someone asks how I've been doing, the first thing out of my mouth is "I've been good". Not 'great' or 'fantastic' or anything like that. Just good. Then of course there's the explanation as to why I haven't been 'great' or 'fantastic' which launches me into the entire story of my summer. The cancer living inside my brother, the night that 'no' wasn't an option, and of course the text messages. It seemed like the first things to come to mind were always negative.

     Over the past week or so something seems to have changed within me. This isn't to say that I don't think of the negatives at first, but that secondary thought, the one that comes after you've already told the person your sob story, that's what I'm trying to focus on. Those feelings of pure bliss at the realization that life is pretty damn good. Though the past two and a half months have been filled with some of the hardest times I've ever been through, they've also been filled with some of the best. Movie nights with friends, burgers and beer consumed in the driveway, days spent reading, and nights spent drinking. There are the mornings I wake up and can't recall what happened the night before, with the exception of a quick make out session with a friend against the bar. The late night tacos and early morning McDonalds. The bottles and bottles of wine shared by many and by few. 

     As humans, and especially young adults, I think we automatically tell the worst stories, or turn to these negatives, because that's almost how it's supposed to be. We're young, and we have crazy, drunk fun, but we also have troubles and pain and we see things so differently from that of adults. So many of us are going through school, working full time in the summer, paying rent and bills, and owning cars. We think we have it so hard, and we do, but only because we make it hard on ourselves. We want to be adults so badly that we forget we're still young. We want to own cars to have the freedom of feeling the wind through our hair as we drive down back roads, pedal to the floor, dust kicking up behind us. We move away from home and the comfort of mum and dad, with the hope that we will find ourselves, and perhaps find love too. We put ourselves through hell trying to get an education so we can get a job and a real house and be able to pay for gas without using the tips from our waitressing jobs. 

     And we forget that we are still children. That we can laugh and sing and dance without a care in the world. That no matter how hard times get, and no matter how much you want to punch and kick something, mum and dad will be there, ready to listen to whatever your problems are. We forget that we have some of the best friends we could ever ask for. That sometimes happiness comes from a five minute drive to get lactose-free sorbet for your friend who can't eat anything else. We forget that you can find peace just by sitting on the dock of a cottage with a bunch of people you don't know. And those sirens you're hearing out your window? Be thankful they aren't for you. We are so quick to grow up and be adults that we forget that we still have so much to be young for.

     So yes, my side of fruit wasn't what I wanted and there was mustard on my sandwich, and no that it's gone I'm wishing I had gotten a bigger coffee, but I'm happy that in ten minutes I get to go outside and meet up with my friends and drive forty minutes to go swimming. I'm not saying that I'm a changed person, but I'm trying. I really am. Because negativity is exhausting and I don't need to lose anymore sleep than I already am. 

    Besides, the mustard on the sandwich wasn't really that bad. 

     

The Blankets of Familiarity

      Here I sit, perched on the edge of my bed, listening to some indie band's new song, while quotes from my favourite authors and books are written in chalk on the white walls around me. I'm sure my neighbour's are appreciating the repetitious music I've been playing all day. There is this strange feeling about spending all day on your bed. Reading, watching movies, eating dinner. It's not that I'm lazy or don't enjoy being outside, but the coziness that begins to surround you is like a friend or a lover. The blankets are always warm, and there is always someone to talk to, even if the voice you hear answering is your own. Spending all day on your bed is like going back to the town where you grew up. There is no street you don't know, and no coffee shop you haven't tried. You know exactly how the pillows feel beneath your head, and which way to lie so that the light from your nightstand won't cast the shadow of your face across the book you're reading.
     It's been two days since I've done something productive with my life aside from the short venture downtown to buy chalk and an iced latte. I woke up yesterday with this strange urge to watch Harry Potter. And not just one, but all of them. So I did it, with the exception of the first two, and the final movie. Those ones I know by heart. At the time I deemed this as an act of a personal day. I would do nothing. I would order pizza for dinner and I would watch five movies back to back. I ended up watching the last of my marathon first thing when I woke up today. Some marathon huh? None of this seemed productive to me. It wasn't until I remembered that I had paused Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire to scribble something in a notebook I keep by my bed. Rereading it today, curled up with the blankets of familiarity, did I realize that while this wasn't the greatest piece of writing to ever touch a page, it was the direction I wanted to take with my writing. It was something that wasn't specific. I don't know who I was writing about, and I don't know who it was that was thinking the words I wrote. But there they are, staring back at me like some prophecy that maybe my degree in English could be of some use one day.
     It's not that I've never liked my writing style, but it reminds me so much of what I used to write when I was younger that I find it hard to see growth. Sure, the content is more mature, but the way that I write, and the characters I create have been given such little dimension that the lines of my writing in grade eight, versus now, going into third year university, have blurred. I just finished a booked today called The Opposite of Loneliness. If you haven't read it, I strongly recommend it. This book is a collection of short stories and essays by a young woman named Marina Keegan. She passed away shortly after her Yale convocation. One of the greatest, and saddest things about Marina's writing is that she talks of a future with her friends and family and possible children. She shows hope for a future that she will never get. Though this tragic fact is one of the reasons why Marina's work is published in this collection, her writing is by far some of the best I have ever read. It could be because she was writing all of these things at my age, or it could be because she simply knows how to perfectly combine 26 letters to create something beautiful. She was a few years older than I am now, and she had a job waiting for her post-graduation. She had been in plays, and had poems published, and done so much with her life, and here I am, watching movies and listening to the same four songs on repeat.
    I dream of days where curling up in bed leads to something purposeful. Where I have a break through and write the next great novel. Days that I can tell my friends and family about, where they will smile and tell me that they are proud, and mean it. I dream of days spent with a lover who will encourage me and tell me that watching Harry Potter for eight hours is not a productive thing to do, but will crawl into bed with me and watch them anyway. I write for my parents, so that they can see that I am going to do something great. I write for people like Marina whose lives were taken far too soon. And I write for myself. I write so that I can leave my mark on this great and vast world that has given me so much to live for. So much, that I must remember it all.