“BILL. BILL. Would you like whip cream?”
Bill would go on to say yes and I would go on to grab my phone, open up the notes tab and let my fingers run rampant as I wrote the entry paragraph to this article.
In a mans world, women dominate coffee. I can’t help but see the disparity in the sexes as I stand in a predominately female line waiting for my adult pacifier – the thing I must sip on that somehow makes everything OK.
Women are often called out for their overly indulgent orders, or basic white girl requests while men waltz in and out of caffeine establishments virtually unseen. The order their cappuccinos, lattes, mochas, and frappuccinos, and yes… Pumpkin Spice Lattes… but most importantly they leave with their dignity intact.
This story sat in the graveyard of thoughts and half written articles that is my Notes tab on my phone. I could never write the ending, or the guts to this beginning. And just like “Bill Would Like Whip Cream” most of my thoughts turned articles rarely see it past their conception.
The issue is, I haven’t written in months. My life has outwardly fallen into place and I think I’m beginning to feel OK with feeling OK. An artist doesn’t need to be dying all the time to create, yet I haven’t touched my creativity since my life stitched itself up. So am I really ok?
I think so. It takes writing an article no one will ever read, drawing something just to draw something, singing a ballad you have never sung before to break the very very thin line that inactivity has formed over your imagination.
So let it out, it may not be perfect and that is O K.