Black Coffee and Deep Thinking. I hate you Mornings.


Here I sit with my cup of uber strong black coffee, my cigarettes, and the sunlight and cool crisp fall air pouring through the window behind me.  I’m determined to be just as productive as yesterday, but I am so hesitant to push the sleeping cat off my lap and get out of the infamous pink robe.  Some days you just have to go with it.  I’ll linger over my coffee a little longer today and no.  I will not be be dancing like Mickey Mouse quite yet Noodle.

Last night I had a really hard time falling asleep, spent a lot of time thinking about my recent past, which is actually pretty normal for me around this season.  Fall just brings about memories and usually a melancholy mood (unless I’m drunk…).  I think about a lot of things.  I think about my parents (and family).  I think about past relationships with men and just general friends.  I remember good times.  I remember not so good times.  I remember times I wanted to buy a shot gun and take out the majority of Lake County.  I spend entirely too much time on my front step (or balcony or stoop or bench, depending on the era) hovering over my coffee and remembering.  Pondering.  Doing that stupid what if thing I always do.  Thinking about what will become of me in the future.

Life has an odd way of teaching you lessons that you didn’t think you needed to learn.  Lessons that you thought were obsolete at the time because your head was so far up your ass you were flossing your teeth with your hair.  Lessons that make me sit back, think about what could’ve been and then shrug because for the first time (or newly first times) it’s entirely my fault and I learned a classic lesson.  That lesson is kicking me in the teeth, but unfortunately there is nothing I can do but open wide and accept that I am human, I am a woman, I make mistakes and have to live with the consequences.

The Coffee is not strong enough today.  The dogs are too loud.  The sun is not bright enough.

I’m sitting here watching the innocence in my daughter as she runs around giggling in her pretend little world.  I want to protect her from these lessons and this feeling in the pit of my stomach (that for once isn’t because my body is trying to kill me).  The realization that the lessons I am finally learning in life are necessary and lessons she will eventually learn, will have to learn, is quite painful.  I understand they serve a point, but her pretend world of Mickey Mouse and “Super Mega Squirt Guns” seems like the better option.  How do you protect your daughter from life, from the mistakes of the heart with out sheltering her or preventing her from loving and living?

You don’t.

Sometimes I wonder if the mess of my life would be different if my Mother had survived.  I know in all due reality I’d either be exactly the same or the complete opposite.  I just wonder what decisions she would’ve talked me out of.  How she would’ve applied her life wisdom to my freshly screwed up mess.  (ie: teenage  pregnancy, adoption, marriage, single parenthood, blah blah fucking blah).  I hope she would’ve kicked my ass then.  Hell.  I’m sure I could use a good ass kicking now.

Sometimes when I’m on my step, looking at the leaves and staring at my empty coffee cup I get jealous of my friends and families who have their mother to call.  It would be really nice to have a woman I can call for coffee or advice.  Who would listen to me complain about men, taxes and menstrual cycles.  I have my Father, I love him with all of my heart.  I know if I wanted to I could call him with all of my problems and he’d take a baseball bat to them and make them go away to the best of his ability.  We’ve kind of talked about emotions regarding relationships, kind of talked about what ifs regarding my health, and my future goals, but there’s something holding me back that I am fully aware of….

When I was a teenager I was a giant FUCK UP.  Not just a stereotypical fuck up, but I fucked up EVERYTHING in EVERY WAY.  Drop Out.  Got pregnant.  Blew through my savings.  Did the exact opposite of everything he suggested.  Drank.  Drank more.  Became a drunk.  You name it, I fucked it up.  For FUCKS SAKE.  I SHAVED MY HEAD LOL.

When I had my son, I heard through the grapevine that my Dad visited him through the nursery window and cried a bit after admitting that it would’ve been nice to have a grandson.  I know I made the right decision, but I have spent every single moment of my life since then trying to be a good daughter and move forward in life.  Not all of the things I have done have been in the best interest of my life, and there has been an uncountable amount of times where all I wanted was to call my Father and tell him I was scared, sorry and needed a hug.  I never did or do.  I am too busy trying to fix all of my fuck ups.  Trying to improve my life so he is no longer ashamed about me.  So he is no longer stressing at night hoping I get through my life.  I know that he isn’t ashamed of me any longer, but I still feel it.  Telling my father that my ex hit me and we were getting a divorce was a hard thing to do… he had told me it was a bad idea to get married, to admit that I fucked up (even though it wasn’t all my fault) was hard, because it was just another mark on the board. I hope I can get past this sick obsession with being better and grow close to my father before it’s too late.

I don’t know.  I’m out of coffee and high on caffeine and nicotine.  Time for a shower.


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