The tea is too hot. It always is. So, I’ll wait.
I am staring down the barrel of a gun. Well, not a gun, but a birthday. My birthday. A big birthday. Gross. It happens next week.
Unlike you, I live an odd life. Not odd like people who live alone in the woods and live off animal fat and twigs, but odd as in a middle-aged dude that has no home. As I approach the killing season, I am trying to get my mind right.
Most days, I can’t figure out WTF. I beat myself up. I get excited over new ideas. I overthink overthinking. I try to figure out why I am the way I am. Then I try to figure out how to change the way I am. Then I get frustrated.
The first sip, not too hot.
I have read the books. I have asked the people. I have done the things. And here I am, facing down the barrel of a gun. I should stop saying that because it seems morbid and tragic. It’s not that bad. I don’t even own a gun. My dad gave me one when I was a kid. I wonder where that damn thing is. I guess I lost it.
Sometimes writing is all I can do. Like I am doing now. To force my brain to work on something other than trying to figure out why I am the way I am.
A lot of days, I don’t want to be me. That is an unfortunate place to be. But it’s the truth. Then, on some days, I am on top of the world, alive, and full of creativity and zest. There were four commas in that last sentence.
I don’t know what to tell you, folks.
Ah, sippable now. Lukewarm.
The tea is simply warm now, and I can drink it. I like the tartness and the small hit of caffeine. I like the ritual of writing and sipping. I like the sun hitting my shoulder through the window of this coffee shop.
I sit in coffee shops every day and look at people. I wonder what their lives are like. I wonder if they are happy or sad. Or just eh. I wonder if they enjoy life or loathe it.
There is a dude sitting at the table to my left. He is always in here. A bald, round, black guy who dresses to a T. He always wears sweatpants, but the fancy ones. His gold glasses sit on top of his shiny bald head. He has a fancy leather bag and is glued to his computer. His athletic shoes are expensive, like the kind Tom Ford or Versace makes. Not so much for running, I guess. He sips his coffee out of a white Yeti coffee cup. Put together, that is what I think about him. Very put together.
To me, he seems confident, happy, and proud. But what do I know?
The tea is cold now.
Trey