Its

Scary.

But not like fear. Like your stomach before a rollercoaster ride.

People are getting older and older..

As I grow in age, I'm realizing that age doesn't exist.
We label ourselves with the amount of years we've managed to stay alive, but really. What is age?
If you were on Pluto, your age wouldn't make much sense would it?
People there would call you bananas.

But I realized recently that I'm one of the older baristas at my job.

"How old are you, anyway?"
"Oh I'm 18."

"How old are you, dude?"
"Just turned 19, whuuuut"

"Are you 21 yet?"
"..... Do I look it?"

Seriously. I'm 22. Just yesterday guys.
Just yesterday I was sitting in a puddle of mud playing with my happy meal toy.
Now I'm contemplating the meaning of life. I'm noticing myself more and more discovering who I am.

I'm learning to love the life I live.

Take a ten.

A lighthearted break. A breath. A chance to take a sip or a bite. A phone call. A few text messages.
On occasion, an edited photo.
Sometimes, a wave of inspiration.
Rarely, a blog post.

I got off work early today.

After waking early at 5, after eating a delicious breakfast and enjoying hot coffee with my dad, we set off into the rain. We drove down the street, peering through the spots on the windshield that were the clearest.
We drove to Starbucks, but not the one I work at. You see, sometimes, even a Starbucks store messes up. And they run outta coffee.         It's a coffee shop. You cant run out of coffee, so you get your employee to bring it on the way over.
... Ahem
I mean, I didn't mind. At all actually. I got to come to work late, 1. I get to spend a bit more time with my pop before he leaves, 2. And I get to come to work a little late, 3.
We got there.
"Hey I'm Mark. Yeah, I'm here for the pikes roast. Err pikes coffee. I work for starb... I work at harbor."
"Oh you're from Harbor. Why didn't ya say so, hold on I'll be right back."

..

"Here ya go man."
"Hey, thanks buddy."
"Hey thank yourself man."
"Yeah? Man, they weren't joking when they said you guys at Jenkinson were a buncha lazy assholes, huh?"
"Oh OK mister big shot Barista, why don't you go fOK, maybe that's not what actually happened.

I grabbed the coffee, ran out the door and into the rain. It pouring at this point.
Hopped into the car, toasty now and windows crystal clear.

We got to the truck yard, and he got into his truck. It was loaded and ready to set off to New Mexico. I handed him his things and said goodbye. You'll be missed. Love you.
I rolled off of the exit ramp and onto the freeway. Off of the freeway and parked my car at work. Grabbed my apron and in I went.

Out I came, at 1:30 about.

It was nice because I got off early.

I'm making tea and eating cheesecake.

See ya's.

But then again..

Hops are stagnant for a while... Right?

I mean, think about it. Then you get really good beer.

Or really crappy beer I suppose.

Ive grown stagnant.

Unwilling to write anything, its pathetic.
The worst part is that it's for no good reason. The only one that comes to mind is laziness, and that's never a good reason for anything.
I'd blame it on the issues in my life, but then I'd be exposing myself. And we can't have that can we? It would also make it sound like I'm whining. And that would be unacceptable wouldn't it?
The reason doesn't change the fact that I am in fact, stagnant. No movement in this brain as far as writing goes, and it really is sad.
I catch myself in moments at times, in the car. Or in the bathtub. Or even in places as peculiar as long winded stories being told by someone I'm not too fond of.
But I catch myself thinking of an idea or a story. I find myself passionately thinking it over and giving all of my creative energy in that moment. But something normally happens that knocks my top off of its axis. A conversation, a joke, or an argument.

...and I forget what I wanted to write about.

'gets behind laptop and begins to type'

How. To. Write better.

Hah. Perfect. Enter is pushed, search is made, and absolutely no help was found.

Writing exercises. Overpriced books.
Justkeepwritingjustkeepwriting
Blahbaddyblahblah.

That's what I'm doing. I'm just writing yo.

The pickled pony picked a fight with Peter pan and Tinkerbell.
He had no clue or understanding, of what's inside a wishing well.

Inside he fell and there he lay.
His body cold and stern.
The eyes that once were staring towards the eyes of enemies and nords.
The legs that killed off many lives were motionlessly firm.



Ignore this last silly brainfart, thanks!