Thursday, March 11

You Keep All Your Secrets In Your Beard.

I start my posts with “I know I haven’t written in a while…” more often than I would like.



The truth is that I’m just really tired. It’s what happens when you grow up, I guess. You slip on that sacred robe of adulthood---the one they promised you’d look super fly in once your limbs grew an inch or so. But it never quite fits the right way and you always feel clumsy and foolish; knocking over butterdishes and shattering friendships completely. Always feeling like you’d much rather make due with your old clothes, even if they’re outdated. Leave the fashion for the fashionisttas.



One minute you’re making mud pies and playing midnight freeze tag with your best friends, pinky swearing forever and always, eating peanut butter sandwiches and playing hopscotch in the back yard---finding the world exciting and new and beautiful, thinking that the scrapes and bruises you got from the playground were battle scars. Then the next day, you wake up and find that you’re old, that you’re buried behind three weeks worth of papers, laundry, dishes, that you’re lost in the humdrum of waiting tables, of shuffling siblings to and from music lessons and volleyball practices, that you’re making dinner dates with creepy philosophy boys you truly have no interest in because you’re afraid to be old alone.



Those fresh eyes you once had area jaded. You start the day with a grande soy latte and side of cynicism. Mhmmm…Delicious.





I don’t believe in magic anymore---not the way I use to, anyway.





And I don’t know if this is making any sense, but I’d give up three lifetimes as a demigoddess, my secret stash of Tobleron AND my autographed note from Billy Collins if it meant that I could just, for maybe an hour or so, believe in magic the way I use to.





Anyway, I’ve got to get going on my nightly rituals. There’s lots of errands to run before work tomorrow.



Good night, dear ones.



-Cheers!

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