no dad; no touchdowns

i write this on a tuesday that smells faintly of burnt toast and the snowstorm that refused to stop last night. my apartment is big and open, but bare. so white it almost hurts to look at. i keep thinking about what could go on the walls. maybe a poster. maybe a mirror. maybe just leave it blank until it decides what it wants to be.

you can imagine why i never really got into football. no dad to drag me to games. i mean, i do have an amazing, brilliant, absolute role model of an older brother, but he's gay so; you get the picture. basically, football was a rich guy’s sadness i had no reason to care about. but this year, for the first time, i’m paying attention. the ne patriots are going to the super bowl! yay. it’s dumb. it’s fun. it’s tiny warmth in my small new england world that seems to be full of ice and ugly political warfare and drivers who treat literal blizzards like a suggestion. finally, something to unite over.

i drink my coffee with way too much cream and sugar because life is too bitter otherwise. sometimes i stir it too much and watch the bubbles pop. sometimes i let them sit and stare at the foam patterns like they’re abstract art. i wear earbuds in the grocery store not because i’m antisocial but because the world sounds better through someone else’s music.

most days i feel like a mixtape of contradictions. quiet, loud, messy, thoughtful, sarcastic, tender. i say things in my head that i would never say out loud anywhere else. i take mental snapshots of random things. like the sound of the snow sliding off the roof. like the way the toaster light flickers when i burn the toast. these tiny, stupid little moments. writing is the only place i can be all of that at once without having to explain.

right now my room smells like vanilla candle wax and something outside i can’t name. the snow clings to the windows like it’s afraid to leave. i notice the cracks in the ceiling. i notice the way the shadows move when the sun comes out for two minutes. the slow, awkward mornings. the half-forgotten dreams. these are the cinematic moments. not the big stuff. the tiny, dumb, beautiful stuff.

sometimes i think life is just little sparks. little bubbles that pop. little snowflakes that don’t know where to land. maybe that’s enough. maybe that’s the point. life isn’t a blockbuster. it’s indie. low budget. messy. a little shaky. full of weird little observations nobody asked for. somehow, that’s enough.