21
November eighteenth. I’m at the Free Café with a notebook and free cup of coffee, courtesy of Tina.
“I like just can’t like wait for you to come back to work,” she said when I walked up to the counter, my backpack slung over my shoulder, and told her I was stopping in to read and write.
Some days, being in my apartment, alone with my thoughts, is too much to handle—especially when I’m supposed to be working on the steps. So, here I am, pen in hand, coffee growing colder by the second, trying to come up with something greater than myself, and greater than drugs and alcohol, that I can turn to.
My mind is blank.
I write yoga at the top of the page, then cross it out.
I did yoga hung over. I did yoga high. I flowed through posture after posture, while convincing myself that I was str
