Most of the time I try to act normal. I play music and read magazines. Sometimes I write letters, but I never remember to buy a stamp. Halfway through a letter I know will never get sent, I usually give up. These letters get thrown in a drawer along with loose change, old tubes of lipstick, and extra buttons. I will never send the letters or wear the buttons, and the loose change ends up in the garbage. Sometimes I unearth the lipstick and brave the microscopic germs and bacteria in order to remember the color that made me feel so good three years ago.
I never looked that good in lavender.
At my small liberal arts college, my friends and I used to get really high and read poetry out loud to each other while we stirred our herbal tea. Reading poetry out loud is not considered normal anymore. It is normal to make off-hand references to a poet you once read while burning your tongue on a soy latte.
Drinking coffee is normal, something normal I need to master. It makes my stomach hurt and my legs shaky like an old table. Regardless, holding this magical cup somehow transforms my designer-less bag and chafing flats into something more put together, more professional. Buying an overpriced cup of stomach cramps grounds me to the sidewalk. When I was a smoker, the cigarette kept me company. When I quit, another step toward normalcy, I was left with an empty hand.
Sometimes I fill my right hand with a man. Sometimes I try coffee again. The man will give me endless heartache and insufferable if’s. I know the coffee will make me turn green no matter what.
Like that lavender tube of lipstick, there are some shades that will never look good on me.