Coffee and Curses(The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao)

"Before all hope died I used to have this stupid dream that shit could be saved, that we would be in bed together like the old times, with the fan on, the smoke from our weed drifting above us, and I'd finally try to say words that could have saved us.
_____ _____ _____.
But before I can shape the vowels I wake up. My face is wet, and that's how you know it's never going to come true.
Never, ever."

(p. 327, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Diaz)

Coffee.

Just a cup.

Just to see how it feels.

Bitter beverage. Taste takes getting used to. Can be sweetened or cooled off, but never truly altered. Gets addictive. Gets you going. Gets you out of bed every morning. Makes you perk up when you smell it. Makes you wonder what it was like before you knew. Makes you.

We're not going for one. The rumor's been floating since February. Fake promise we won't fail to deliver, because a falsehood can't make it through the mail.

It started with a casual suggestion, a reasonable way to get to know more about each other when mutual connections made it clear we should. It didn't happen. And the suggestion began to bounce back and forth, uttered mouth-to-mouth the way false promises seem to slip off tongues, past lips and into pools of faith.

When did I first know we were lying? Just now. Never. Always. All contradictory, all correct.

"I seem to be allergic to diligence, and Lola said, Ha. What you're allergic to is trying."

(p. 25, Diaz)

In pensive moments, I might consider the number of girls I've known (quite a few), the number I've kissed (a healthy amount) and the number I've slept with (fewer than you think) and marvel at how I've gone roughly 13 years of date-able history without a "serious" relationship, one of more than six weeks or one with someone I was willing to label my "girlfriend" ... while we were dating.

It comes down to the coffee. And the slew of stories like it where I "knew" it wasn't going to work. If you ask, I'll have a prepared statement ready to be revealed. Picture perfect, logically flawless and hollow like an excuse: "I'm graduating." "I'm changing jobs sometime soon." "I'm not in the right place right now."

People push when they think it's obvious. Offer advice. Offer guidance. Offer their unanswered dreams. They think they see something in me, but I'm no Neo. Can't carry everyone's expectations into each situation. Can't be more than myself. Can't even crack the fuku of my own mental block.

I've not kissed a girl without knowing I could've done it 20 minutes ago. Sure, from that point, I will knowingly build the tension like a motherfucker, ratcheting it so high most first kisses have been monstrous, but acting on impulse, it doesn't exist. Every risky behavior I've had has been calculated. From weed to women to cliff jumping and whatever-the-fuck ever else: I knew what I was doing, and I chose it.

Except for that one drunk Halloween I ranted about Allan Houston's $100 million contract. That was inevitable.

... Fucking Layden.

"Later when he thought about it he realized that these very cousins could probably have gotten him laid if only he'd bothered to hang out with them. But you can't regret the life you didn't lead."

(p. 31, Diaz)

But choosing, and knowing you chose, that means you also chose not to. Not to make the move, not put the friendship in jeopardy, not know whether you'd still love her like you do now.

I'm unsure if I'd rather not be walking around with my ass kicked two times a year and caring about too many girls to give any the attention they deserve. I think I wouldn't be me. Either way, I cast my fate with this fuku a long time ago, and there's no zafa just yet.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe never.

Maybe
it won't matter.

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