Just do it. Saturday morning. Roll out of bed and pull down jeans from a make-shift shelf. Then pull them up and fasten. Lower the brim of the newsboy cap over messy, bed-head hair before even washing face. Remove hat to wash face. Negotiate that un-brushed (um, and unwashed) hair means the face needs a little make-up. Re-negotiate a minute later. Pull brim low again. Reach for keys & bags & cell phone & ipods & notebooks & pens. Too many plurals. Wonder if you should carry a full-size suitcase all the time. Would you ever need to return home? Smile knowingly.
Trip going down the stairs but make it out the front door without bruising. Find a seat alone on the metro facing teenage love and the tracks ahead. Realize you are waiting for a wreck. But not yours. Finally, not yours.
Order two Krispy Kreme donuts, one soft and warm. Walk out unknowingly smearing glaze across your chin. Locate Starbucks and wish it wasn't so corporate or didn't feel so much like home. The tortoise's shell. Try to walk through the wrong door and order a drink with lips above that sugar-glazed chin. Find the perfect window seat and the not so perfect pen. Deep breath. Pen to paper. Just do it. Write.
