I used to sit on the back porch steps of my parents house smoking cigarettes.

It’s sort of sad, thinking back, how I held on to the last thing I so desperately wanted to kill me.

I passed a man downtown the other day who asked for a light.

I obliged, and I watched him walk away as he smoked his cigarette, his poison.

I even gave him my lighter.

Afterwards, I walked around to the little thrift store that Kayla likes to venture about.

I’d seen a typewriter inside a few weeks ago in the front window, but they’d rearranged the store for Christmas and the type was nowhere in my sight.

I ripped a page from my journal to scribble my interest in the piece of metal and slipped it through a crack in the door.
eCity Java was next on my mind, so I teetered along the sidewalk to my favorite little coffee shop and reminisced on fond memories I shared there with Ol’ Kale.

I ordered, like I always do, a dirty hippie, which is pretty much just a fancy chai latte.

After some time, when I’d been handed my coffee, I sat down on the old, red couch to try and work out some writer’s block.

And there I was. Again. Stuck.

I hope to one day write a story of my life, not that anyone other than friends or family would care to read it, or because I feel it to be unique, but because I want myself out there.

I want the world to know my name, and I’m no longer afraid of that. 


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