The most terrifying question: "Is everything okay?" What would I even say to that? That the wave of uncertainty stemming from my lack of purpose is devouring my soul day by day? Clouding my brain? Draining my motivation? Locking me into a routine of hope and disappointment? I've tried Jesus (the prescription for everything). I talk to him. But I know I'm just having an inner monologue. The "Jesus" I talk to just so happens to be a reflection of myself. When he tells me to "enjoy that Taco Bell," I've brought my shallow image of him to life: a reminder that "the Father and I are one." Someone might say: "But Jesus is completely real, and you have to connect with Bible Jesus rather than the version you've created in your head. Ah, the Bible. Perhaps that's true. But... If I believed he was literally real, as presented in the Bible, would he start speaking to me? From past experience, he didn't. All quiet on the western...
We walked alone through the woods, and I listened to the crunch of autumn leaves beneath our boots. We wore frayed tunics with our cowls pulled over our necks and heads. With each breath, ice-cold oxygen stung my windpipe, and I could feel it all the way to my stomach. I hadn't eaten all day and half-wondered if the air itself was quenching my hunger. "I'm depressed," I said suddenly, surprising myself. I felt shocked, as if the words had sprung from my mouth accidentally. David said nothing, and his silence sent me into a panic. Had I infringed on his conversational comfort levels? Lord knows it wouldn't be the first time I'd done that to a friend. Friend? Boyfriend? Friend? Boyfriend? He pulled an apple from his satchel and handed it to me. Then he pulled another and started eating it. I tried to glean anything from his expression, but he looked like I hadn't said anything. ...
I craved a Colombian breakfast: two fried eggs, black refried beans, some protein, and a coffee. I had been to Mi Pueblito before and knew I had to return. It was near the dumpy part of town (Gessner and Richmond). All the restaurants around here were good. I parked in the strip mall. Mi Pueblito sat couched between some chicken restaurant and a nail salon. I panicked briefly since I had not reviewed the menu in my car with the AC. I hate making waiters wait after they ask me what I want—though their job title suggests this is what they do. As I reviewed the menu, I started to sweat. Houston is fucking hot, and Mi Pueblito has a large menu. Finally, I decided to order their iced coffee and the "Calentado con Carne". I walked through the entrance wearing my striped polo (untucked) and khakis. Maybe I imagined it, but the hostess and a waitress appeared to exchange a look that said, "he's cute." As my hostess walked me to my seat, I questioned if my perception w...
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