Guys, I'm so lazy.

Today I give you two old pieces, written a few years ago.

How many licks does it take?

I was eating a Tootsie Pop a few minutes ago. Savoring the questionably grape flavor for a moment or two, I finished the treat in a few, crunch-filled bites. As the crumpled wrapper left my hand on its way to the trash, I remembered rather suddenly a grade-school version of myself eating the same candy. But this girl in my memory took ages to reach the chocolate center, and it was much more delicious than mine. I also remembered watching my dad eating one beside me, but he finished it in a bite or two. I asked him why he would do that, and he told me that it was how adults ate them. It was like cereal, which he told me that adults ate very quickly. Adults never let their cereal get mushy, according to my father; they had places beyond the kitchen table to be and very un-breakfast-like things to do. As a childhood fanatic of soggy spoonfuls of cereal followed by sugary milk, I could never understand this. Who was I to argue? He was an adult, after all.

But you know, I don’t like soggy cereal anymore. At what point did I decide this, and at what point did I start biting into a Tootsie Pop before even reaching the prized center? Am I really so eager to finish things that I can’t enjoy the process? Is this what adults do? I don’t want any of that. I’ve been preparing all my life for high school, for college. Now that I’m here, what will happen when I’m done? What will happen when I run out of things for which to prepare, when I realize that all that I have left is a white stick or an empty bowl and no meaningful recollection of what great things they used to hold? I want to enjoy where I am and what I am doing right now, and I want to be left with a sweet taste at the end of it.

So, how many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center? As many as I want…as many as possible.



 I don't know how my right brain can get along with my left.

I can write something poetic, if I try. My pen can scribble words.  Perhaps they'll remind you of the way that tiny pools of joyful tears dry slowly on your face.  And you'll remember the way the lingering salt leaves your skin stiff and cool with numbness, how the air stings your rosy cheeks.
They could tell you of patches of glassy snow silently gathering strength in the warming night for a battle against the morning sun, though they will not last long enough for the late-risers to see their dying efforts. They can call to mind the sweet smell of sugared grapefruit, the quiet hum of the washing machine in the next room, the brief feeling of broken tension when dipping your fingers into water, or all these sensations at once.
I need only to choose my words, as if from a basket, and arrange them into the correct order. It’s a formula or an equation to be balanced. The words aren’t mine- they belong to Nabokov and Wilde, Dostoyevsky and Thoreau. I can only rearrange them and hope for the best. I can mimic, like a clever animal, anything I read and adjust my ideas to their blueprints. It’s all very cold and mathematical. Art achieved through an objective means…is it still art? My emotions often drown in a tangle of rationalizations, but at least I can do my best to make their choking sputters sound lovely.