Ordering a short four-pump-sugar-free-vanilla soy one-scoop matcha green tea latte with whipped cream means you're insecure about your social standing.

Yes, throw me, pin me to that wall like a still life of a bowl of fruit, framed by your hands and hold me steady with your hips. I want to throw love and lust against that wall like fucking Jackson Pollock and tell everyone it is sponge-painting.

You say you find barista innocuously sexy, so let’s have a whipped-cream fight and roll around in mocha, and oh, tell me exactly what you want, and if it’s not perfect, I’ll do it again until it is.

Let me in, let me in, let me into your brick house. I don’t have to stay, I don’t do sleepovers, we barely fit the requirements for “dating”.

I know you want to be the fucker because to be the fuckee means to allow me in, to let me know the last physical and maybe but probably not emotional parts of you because you are an emotional black hole, suck it all in and let it float around where it can and will be ignored.

It could be maybe also because you really enjoy it, but I’m a college student and need to psychoanalyze everything.

Do it without me, do it when it's wrong - right as I want you, right as you run.

I am imagining a public area, like a park, where people are supposed to loiter, a public loitering place where you go when you are about to be in deep shit or are already in it or you have had the best fucking day of your whole fucking life and you are too afraid to keep moving forward because that means going back to reality so you just park or walk or sob over there and sit and think and do whatever it is your emotions are telling you to do that isn't rape or murder or whatever and there will be glass bottles you can smash for free and cars you can hit with hammers and flowers you can put in your hair and arts and crafts and cigarettes and coffee and alcohol and other vices and nobody will tell you that it will kill you and you can wear whatever the fuck you want or go naked and jump in the lake with all of your heaviest winter coats or your birthday suit. There will be stations where you can write angry emails that will never be sent and recorded bitter voicemails or sound bites, words that can be taken back and back and back.

I want this place, I want to be able to feel something sans restraint or control or law or looks or ladylikeness or fear of reputational damages. I want to dump a cup of coffee on the head of a mannequin that looks like her, want to blast music that I secretly love even though I will apologize and laugh when it comes on in the car, want to litter on one of the seven wonders of the world with the world watching, sigh a lot and hold my head in my hands as if in a film and maybe even have sex with a beautiful stranger with no strings attached (except no, really, there aren't) and spend an entire fake paycheck on whatever the fuck I want, retail therapy. I want to be able to tell my parents, my teachers, peers, friends, everyone what they did wrong and give them suggestions for better results. I want to have a responsibility box or cubby where everyone can deposit and dump all of their bullshit hangups and hardships for a little while and lose themselves in a truly free world. I want to make money for being me, for having opinions and sass and charisma and my inability to ask for help and my stubborn avoidance tactics and need for physical affection and quality time and affirmation. I want to have reached the "potential" everyone always said I wasn't living up to. But mostly, I just want to pee right now and be held and kissed by someone who doesn't judge me or know me yet.

It's always better before they do.

It's not about being better than anyone else. It's about being better than you used to be.

These old Arab men with faces wrinkled like ripened dates order their coffee with Equal and every packet I open lets out my mother's voice when it wasn't sharp and jagged and tearing through my ribcage. I am packing my things now, moving for the fifth time in less than a year and I'm hoping I don't become one of those nomadic business people that feels the need to uproot her family every two years to chase a managerial opportunity.

I want to know what it is with my need for novelty because I'm fucking acting like it's on the same par as shelter and food and water. I think I will be nineteen forever because I sure do act like it.

Yeah, you see me doing all of these Grown Up Things like Paying Bills and Balancing Checkbooks and Work and Play and Abstaining From Serious Drug Use and Paying Attention to My Health and Constantly Working in Some Manner or Another but you know what I really want to do is drug myself into oblivion and be promiscuous and live out of my car and just not show up to work and participate in otherwise self-destructive behaviours.

I don't want to be an adult. I never got to be a fucking reckless immature teenager with stupid self-created problems. This is my last year to hold onto the Teenager Excuse but I am too tired and jaded and responsible to do so much as buy an unnecessary article of clothing.

What the hell, I'm only nineteen and already I'm tired of living.