Dear Writing Mood,

Where have you gone today? Did I do something wrong?

I woke up as I usually do — with a cat on my chest, a hunger in my stomach, and a Hamilton lyric on my mind.

I ate breakfast as I usually do (greek yogurt and banana slices enjoyed with a youtube video). I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and popped in my contacts. I looked up the weather. Frowned at the weather. Yawned. Checked facebook. Yawned. Checked instagram. Yawned. Checked CNN.com. Screamed internally for five minutes, praying to god and Anderson Cooper to make it stop.

I had a miscommunication with my Amazon Echo. (“Alexa, play songs by NYSNC.” “I can’t find songs by En Suite.” “NO. Alexa, play songs by NSYNC.” “I can’t find songs by And Stick.” “Alexa, please play songs please by the sensational 90s boy band NSYNC. Please.” “Playing songs by Ed Sheeran.”)

I did all my typical morning things.

Usually, my dearest darlingest ’ol friend Writing Mood, you’d pay me a visit by now. You’d rush up to me with a perplexing mix of madcap enthusiasm, delusions of grandeur/future Pulitzer winnings, and screeching, terrified doubt. You’d distract me from listening to an NPR podcast, looking up bulk grocery deals on Amazon, tossing an overprice toy at my cat for her to barely chase once then ignore, or completing some other vital task.

But today, you’re MIA. I’ve sat down to utilize you — with my laptop, then my notepad, then my phone — but you’re gone. Out of reach. Vanished. Amelia Earhart-ed.

Did I do something wrong? Something to upset you? I swear I haven’t been cheating on you with Pinterest DIY Crafting Mood; we’re just friends! Yes, she’s made me some beautiful artwork and scrumptious dinners, but we don’t share the same deep, life-affirming connection as you and me. She doesn’t get me like you do; she’s not The One.

Am I not worthy of you anymore? Have you gone off to romance younger writers? Hipper writers? Charming wide-eyed writers who practice adjective restraint and don’t overuse the em dash? Is it my habit of ending sentences in prepositions to which you cannot put up? Do you talk dirty to these budding wordsmiths? Poetically? Lyrical? Listicle-ly?!

I can be all those things too! (Come back and I can publish 20 Incredible Reasons Why I Desire to Be in the Writing Mood. Or 30! Or 50!)

Please. Just tell me what to do. How can we reconnect? I can’t write without you. I’m lost! I’m hopeless! I’m trapped! I’m going to spend the day rewatching and crying over the new Queer Eye instead! (Don’t test me; I’ll do it.) I’m —

….wait, wait, what’s that? Are… are you trying to tell me something, my sweet precious Writing Mood?

…Oh, pfffft this letter?!? Huh. I guess I did just write something. Would you look at that?

Thank you, you mischievous little trickster. I love you.

Hiring Committee or Whoever Can Validate Me

1234 Hurry Up & Appreciate My Drive

Quarter-Life Crisis #1

Hustle Town, USA 56789

Dear Hiring Committee:

As a lifelong human, I’m delighted to see your opening for a full-time position of Feeling Like an Adult, as advertised and vaguely described everywhere. The role was recommended to me by society. 

I have over 30 years of progressively responsible experience as an earthly being. During this time, I’ve simultaneously managed a surplus of insecurities, developed (and sometimes even completed) numerous self-improvement projects, and balanced a high annual budget of fucks to give. 

I believe that my enthusiasm for peer approval, dedication to not being a disappointment to my family, and knowledge of multiple ways to organize a closet — coupled with my experience in living under the patriarchy and getting shit done — make me an ideal candidate for this thankless role. 

In my current position as Floundering Young “Adult” in the prestigious Milky Way, I have overcome a wide variety of normal human challenges, including a crippling deficit of career fulfillment, spectacular financial demands within a capitalist economy, and (for a few memorable hours last spring), being the hopelessly single maid-of-honor at my sister’s wedding. 

Additionally, I’ve excelled at signing leases for several apartments (each with dishwashers), providing my body with food (often with nutrients), and completing laundry-based tasks (occasionally with little-to-no clothes shrinkage). 

Please see my reputation (attached). If I were to finally join the esteemed rankings of Feeling Like an Adult, I’m confident(ish) that I’d be an exceptionally mediocre member of global society. I look forward to hearing from you as I continue to strive for self actualization and avoid facing the fact of my inevitable mortality. 

Thank you so much for your time and consideration! I may be reached anytime at the crossroads of angst and optimism.

Sincerely,

IDK, You Tell Me Who I Really Am

likereally@mycore.pls

Fire lives within these veins of melted gold. Feathers flicker in a serphantine dance. Yes, Earth angels exist. This joy comes from healing the bruised and fallen soldiers of life. Holding a Starbucks grande iced coffee with cream and classic sugar, I hold open a door for some passerby. I smile. Shades hide my almond eyes. Speaking of, I’m meant to be like an almond joy. One bite, and happiness expands outward as the sun explodes. A super nova. The ice cubes in my plastic concubine align as caffeine realization sparks my epiphany. Earth angels exist.

-ED

A tiny cry erupts from somewhere below my feet: “Mewwww!!”

My heart rate escalates and I begin scouring the ground. Sounds like a baby kitten! What’s a baby kitten doing in a Trader Joe’s parking lot!?

There, a grey fuzzball in the bushes!

He’s bleeding!

“MEWWWW!”

“IT’S OKAY, I’LL GET YOU TO SAFETY!”

I scoop him up and run across the parking lot like I’m being chased with a gun. Concerned heads turn.

I swing open my trunk and place him alongside 4 other injured kittens I coincidentally found while running errands today.

Looks like I’m a kitten rehabilitator now.

"Chosen one? Last time I ran up the stairs I..."

"You're not a warrior. When mercury aligns, you'll be granted some am"

"But if it's not to fight"

"Anyone can pick up a weapon. You'll bring balance to the universe."

"Balance? No heavy lifti"

"No."

"What powers"

"Food will always be within your reach. Bowels and bladder magically empty and eternal life."

"Live forever?"

"There's a price. You'll never leave that sofa again. You've got a lot of TV to catch up with. Bye now!"

The being vanished with a pop as golden light surrounded the seated figure.

"Oh... fuck!"

hair enchanting like the space between stars

pink pillow lips

eyes brown as fresh soil

MY EYES ARE GREEN

a warm voice reminiscent of the California sun she was born brightly into

I'M FROM MICHIGAN, I TOLD -

skin to skin, soul to soul

sparks flew as our bodies melted into one

WHAT?! WE DIDN'T EVEN KISS!

our relationship blooming...

IT WAS ONE DATE

...as spring bloomed all around us

PRETTY SURE IT WAS NOVEMBER

dazzling love at first glance

from across a field

brimming with dancing butterflies

birds serenading us in song

and -

WE MET ON TINDER, GREG

I remember you

... or at least the feel of you

a heavy hug

playful toe massages

an itchy, overstuffed couch

and the sounds of you

jubuliant laughter

awed sighs

offers of lollipops

and the joy of being with you

safety

I love you

I love you

I love you

the words roll off my tongue

a mediation of acceptance

a mantra in memory

a desperate call to unwind time

I see you atop every ocean

at its meeting with the sky

someday our drums will sychronize

someday we’ll sail together

(inspired by Rhythm of My Heart - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVeZsG-9wVE ... and dedicated to my grandfather, who died when I was five and listened to this song constantly at the hospital)