Random Thoughts, Probable Scenarios, Topped with Rainbow Sprinkles

Tampa sunsets are much more magnificent than Miami sunsets. On the west coast, any body of water promises you an evening of vibrant reds and oranges simmering above it, and a fiery warm sun plunging into it. And you can sit on the powdery white beaches and reflect on whatever the heck you want to reflect upon, because Pier 60 is right there to your left and some poor college sap is proposing to his girlfriend over to your right, and Rita’s Italian Ice doesn’t close until ten o’clock.

And you can do this eeeeverrrryyyy niiiiiiight. Ooohh, yeeaahhh.

Until, of course, you do something like move. To Miami. Then you get to stare at the blinding sun shrinking behind some huge concrete building while you’re stuck in traffic, listening to reggatone blasting from some punk’s Mazda and his chonga girlfriend sitting next to him.

This speeding orbit of 66,660 miles per hour is making me old…but has never been so radiant.

Ever since I was three or four, my dad would bring us Cadburry Cream Eggs around Easter time. As I got older, I would hold the very first egg of the year in my cupped palm, feeling cheated and swearing up and down that they were making them smaller and smaller. Until after about five or six years, when I realized it was actually my hand that was getting bigger and bigger.

Time flies and you learn to appreciate, and you gain discernment for what’s genuine and what’s absolute bull. You start choosing paths for different purposes, and look back at paths previously chosen and inhale through gritted teeth at the blatant mistakes they turned out to be.

Some people get overwhelmed with life and all its questions that don’t have answers. Other people take those questions and turn them into answers. Then they create their own questions for those answers. I prefer the latter route. Because bitterness sucks.

But I have to understand that she won’t realize this overnight. She might have to stand in that circle, shifting her feet because she’s light headed from whatever it was they just passed her. I’ll have to wait until she’s stamped her one-way ticket to Rock Bottom before I swoop in. Maybe I won’t have to swoop in at all. Maybe God is keeping her from this altogether.

I can’t believe Anne Boleyn died almost 500 years ago. Long live manipulation!

And then there’s the one who just doesn’t know where she fits in. She’ll figure it out soon. But then she’ll grow up, get a career, get married, have kids, and lose her social life. Then she’ll begin wondering again where she fits in. It’s a vicious circle. I don’t know if it ever ends, because I’m on my second round of this, and I don’t know the outcome.

I have been looking for a good dry cleaner for about four years now. I finally quit going. We’re just going to have to not-dirty our nice clothes so badly.

And speaking of clothing, someone really needs to teach me how to make Ropa Vieja.

But then they break up, and sometimes they continue talking and sometimes they don’t. And one always fairs better than the other, because they were mismatched to begin with. That’s probably why they didn’t last. Sometimes they think about each other. Sometimes, years later, she picks up her phone and scrolls down to his number, her thumb lingering over the “send” button before she tosses her phone on the bed and tends to her real life. He writes out a whole email, asking her how she’s been, telling her he’s back in school. Working towards a music degree. He hopes to make it big someday, but he’s not getting his hopes up. Besides, he’s Minoring in Business, you know, just have something to fall back on. He ends his email with, “I think about you often, and wonder what would have happened if… do you ever think about me?” before he clicks the delete button and picks up his guitar to jam with his buddies.

Everyone has a love story; everyone has a tragedy. And don’t disregard the small things. They always end up playing huge roles. Never underestimate the supporting cast. Because it includes everything that happens under the sun. Even a sun that is plummeting into the ocean, displaying its reds and oranges.

And all this at 66,660 miles per hour.