Ice cream. Always ice cream. I put it on every list. I don't know why, it's just a thing. When I make a shopping list, I end it with ice cream. When I make a to-do list, the last item is always ice cream. At Christmas time, when other people ask for toys, I ask for toys and ice cream. When I say my prayers and ask for God to protect my loved ones, I include a special request for -- you guessed it.
I don't know where this habit began, or why it has stuck for so long, but now I can't stop even if I wanted to. It's like a tradition, or almost a religious ceremony, the kind of thing you don't remember starting but feel you've always done. Don't get me wrong, I don't think there's anything bad about it, or scary as if I put something evil on every list like blood and guts or shit. But it does make me wonder, if I get to heaven some day, and St Peter meets me at the Pearly Gates and starts going through my life, listing the things I did right and the things I did wrong, when he gets past the times I volunteered at nursing homes and the times I may have told a little tiny white lie or two, and delves deep into the thoughts I've had late at night when I'm angry or desperate or scared, if he's going to look me in the eye and rattle off, "pride, greed, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony, sloth, and ice cream."
We plopped on the couch. I grabbed the remote. My dinner sat precariously in my lap. My phone buzzed constantly in my hand and I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears. Cautiously, I pressed the power button. We were suddenly enveloped in streams of voices. Blurs of blue and red burst out of the screen, creating a heavy purple cloud hanging over the room. Feeling clammy and sweaty, I noticed that the shade of light leaned more red than what had been projected just two weeks prior. As the night drew on, the coverage grew grim and shed its ambiguity. The blue wall’s promise was broken swiftly and the tsunami of red barreled toward us. The desperation in each scenario of her victory was tangible, dwindling to an unlikely series of hypotheticals. The tension between the candidates all but evanesced to a memory, one of a dangerously naive time. Our living room was soon encased in a stifling, claustrophobic magenta color that threatened to break our spirits. Hopeful that the tide could turn in the night if we went to sleep and returned the TV to its slumber too, I pressed off and retired to my bedroom. Struggling to sleep, wishing I had done more, wishing they had done more, I imagined what tomorrow would look like if she lost. Too terrifying to consider the possibility, too bleak an outlook to believe it could be real, and too tired to think of anything at all, I decided to instead count sheep. When I woke in the morning, I gingerly got out of my bed, put on my slippers, walked cautiously to my desk, opened my laptop, navigated to my email, and met a cool wash of dread: he won.
I woke up guilty. Half of my clean laundry draped over my desk. The window curtain was open. Layers of last night’s clothing were in a pile beside me. My heat tech, my underwear, my toe spacers. Strands of my hair stuck to my face. Miraculously, I had no makeup on. I forgot to charge my phone, so I went to the clock. It was already noon. I was going to be late, again.
I sent a text to my friend. “Disheveled, please don’t judge me.” I feared the possibility of her criticism more than my own. It perplexed me that I felt good. Mentally, at least. The lower half of my body felt like lead.
She responded - she was disheveled, too. Both of us had nights. Excitement and anticipation replaced my initial fear. I reminded myself, she was an old friend. We had been up to similar hijinks in high school together. Of course she’d understand.
I called my other friend from last night. I needed assurance, that I wasn’t a reckless, selfish, alcoholic. Or, I could be reckless and selfish, but only in doses like last night’s. I reminded myself, too, that I have good judgement. Or, judgement that came from years of nights like the last. I could be hardworking and work just as hard in my personal life. And still, end up safe and at home. I smelled good. I managed to shower last night, or early this morning, too.
My coffee friend and I exchanged all sorts of conversation. It was as if it hadn’t been years since we last saw each other, let alone spoke. We carried details of our lives, of our artistry, of curiosities in people and the world around us. I noticed my hand was jittery from the coffee, and my half empty stomach was beginning to reel. A few hours later, we said our goodbyes and promised to see each other again - sooner. For once, I believed that to be true. I needed that conversation more than I realized.
I was supposed to see a movie that afternoon. It was a short walk, and ironically, right by the venue I was at last night. Fearing of running into last night’s Someone, I took the longer route. On the way there, I passed by a church. A sign outside read, “Organ Meditation 4:00”. It was 4:06. I decided to walk in.
It was a Catholic church. Around fifteen people sat in the pews. I seated myself in an empty row, a couple in my line of vision a few rows ahead. The hymns that were played reminded me of my old church. It was Sunday, and sitting there I realized it had been years since I last sat in a church. A stain glassed Jesus stared at me. I tried to pray, tried to thank Him for making sure I got home safe last night, that nothing bad happened. I tried to find my faith in a Catholic church as a faltering former Christian. I patiently sat and half heartedly waited, expected some sort of a response, but there was none.
Instead, an older gentleman sat in front of me and the couple that pressed their heads and hands so tightly against eachother that it made me question the comfortability of their position. The gentleman began to shake, then cried so openly that when I watched him, I wanted to cry too. Maybe from my lack of feeling presence, maybe from the part of me that wished I could so easily let my own emotions release as effortlessly, honestly as he had. He exemplified a form of honest living I had only been able to find in the theatre when I played make believe, or in dark places with music much louder than these organ meditations I was listening to, at such an overbearing volume that allowed me to be less afraid of my impulses, of desires I tended to set aside, buried in excuses or professionalism, perfectionism, and the often paralyzing need I carried with me to be liked by everyone.
((aka my attempt at todays prompt that was lotsa fun! ty arden!))
Ice cream. Always ice cream. I put it on every list. I don't know why, it's just a thing. When I make a shopping list, I end it with ice cream. When I make a to-do list, the last item is always ice cream. At Christmas time, when other people ask for toys, I ask for toys and ice cream. When I say my prayers and ask for God to protect my loved ones, I include a special request for -- you guessed it.
I don't know where this habit began, or why it has stuck for so long, but now I can't stop even if I wanted to. It's like a tradition, or almost a religious ceremony, the kind of thing you don't remember starting but feel you've always done. Don't get me wrong, I don't think there's anything bad about it, or scary as if I put something evil on every list like blood and guts or shit. But it does make me wonder, if I get to heaven some day, and St Peter meets me at the Pearly Gates and starts going through my life, listing the things I did right and the things I did wrong, when he gets past the times I volunteered at nursing homes and the times I may have told a little tiny white lie or two, and delves deep into the thoughts I've had late at night when I'm angry or desperate or scared, if he's going to look me in the eye and rattle off, "pride, greed, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony, sloth, and ice cream."
i love u for these
Love u more
We plopped on the couch. I grabbed the remote. My dinner sat precariously in my lap. My phone buzzed constantly in my hand and I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears. Cautiously, I pressed the power button. We were suddenly enveloped in streams of voices. Blurs of blue and red burst out of the screen, creating a heavy purple cloud hanging over the room. Feeling clammy and sweaty, I noticed that the shade of light leaned more red than what had been projected just two weeks prior. As the night drew on, the coverage grew grim and shed its ambiguity. The blue wall’s promise was broken swiftly and the tsunami of red barreled toward us. The desperation in each scenario of her victory was tangible, dwindling to an unlikely series of hypotheticals. The tension between the candidates all but evanesced to a memory, one of a dangerously naive time. Our living room was soon encased in a stifling, claustrophobic magenta color that threatened to break our spirits. Hopeful that the tide could turn in the night if we went to sleep and returned the TV to its slumber too, I pressed off and retired to my bedroom. Struggling to sleep, wishing I had done more, wishing they had done more, I imagined what tomorrow would look like if she lost. Too terrifying to consider the possibility, too bleak an outlook to believe it could be real, and too tired to think of anything at all, I decided to instead count sheep. When I woke in the morning, I gingerly got out of my bed, put on my slippers, walked cautiously to my desk, opened my laptop, navigated to my email, and met a cool wash of dread: he won.
I woke up guilty. Half of my clean laundry draped over my desk. The window curtain was open. Layers of last night’s clothing were in a pile beside me. My heat tech, my underwear, my toe spacers. Strands of my hair stuck to my face. Miraculously, I had no makeup on. I forgot to charge my phone, so I went to the clock. It was already noon. I was going to be late, again.
I sent a text to my friend. “Disheveled, please don’t judge me.” I feared the possibility of her criticism more than my own. It perplexed me that I felt good. Mentally, at least. The lower half of my body felt like lead.
She responded - she was disheveled, too. Both of us had nights. Excitement and anticipation replaced my initial fear. I reminded myself, she was an old friend. We had been up to similar hijinks in high school together. Of course she’d understand.
I called my other friend from last night. I needed assurance, that I wasn’t a reckless, selfish, alcoholic. Or, I could be reckless and selfish, but only in doses like last night’s. I reminded myself, too, that I have good judgement. Or, judgement that came from years of nights like the last. I could be hardworking and work just as hard in my personal life. And still, end up safe and at home. I smelled good. I managed to shower last night, or early this morning, too.
My coffee friend and I exchanged all sorts of conversation. It was as if it hadn’t been years since we last saw each other, let alone spoke. We carried details of our lives, of our artistry, of curiosities in people and the world around us. I noticed my hand was jittery from the coffee, and my half empty stomach was beginning to reel. A few hours later, we said our goodbyes and promised to see each other again - sooner. For once, I believed that to be true. I needed that conversation more than I realized.
I was supposed to see a movie that afternoon. It was a short walk, and ironically, right by the venue I was at last night. Fearing of running into last night’s Someone, I took the longer route. On the way there, I passed by a church. A sign outside read, “Organ Meditation 4:00”. It was 4:06. I decided to walk in.
It was a Catholic church. Around fifteen people sat in the pews. I seated myself in an empty row, a couple in my line of vision a few rows ahead. The hymns that were played reminded me of my old church. It was Sunday, and sitting there I realized it had been years since I last sat in a church. A stain glassed Jesus stared at me. I tried to pray, tried to thank Him for making sure I got home safe last night, that nothing bad happened. I tried to find my faith in a Catholic church as a faltering former Christian. I patiently sat and half heartedly waited, expected some sort of a response, but there was none.
Instead, an older gentleman sat in front of me and the couple that pressed their heads and hands so tightly against eachother that it made me question the comfortability of their position. The gentleman began to shake, then cried so openly that when I watched him, I wanted to cry too. Maybe from my lack of feeling presence, maybe from the part of me that wished I could so easily let my own emotions release as effortlessly, honestly as he had. He exemplified a form of honest living I had only been able to find in the theatre when I played make believe, or in dark places with music much louder than these organ meditations I was listening to, at such an overbearing volume that allowed me to be less afraid of my impulses, of desires I tended to set aside, buried in excuses or professionalism, perfectionism, and the often paralyzing need I carried with me to be liked by everyone.
((aka my attempt at todays prompt that was lotsa fun! ty arden!))
You’re a really good writer. I especially like your smilies.
I love these! I need to write a short story for class this week, and I plan to use these prompts as a jumping off point - thanks Arden!