When you give a girl some pancakes, she won’t eat them in front of you.

I ordered cheap pancakes, questionably runny scrambled eggs and bitter diner-worthy coffee as I slouched in the booth coated in leather cheaper than a Michael Kors knock-off.

I laughed a little too loudly and far too long at her joke even though it wasn’t funny and I thought for a second that she might want to be my friend just for the sake of having someone to talk to.

I smiled a little too brightly when he looked at me and I could tell that he would go and tell his friends about how impressive he was even though he couldn’t even name the person he would use as evidence.

I texted back immediately after I received the message and I wondered what it would feel like to make him wonder why those three little dots hadn’t appeared on the screen yet.

I asked her a question that I already knew the answer too so that I could stay in her office for a few seconds more and avoid the responsibility that loomed in the next room.

I ate too quickly, walked away too briskly, flirted too obviously, texted too desperately, procrastinated too strongly, regretted all those decisions so completely.

They say to live your live with passion but somehow the words get mixed up and the dictionary confuses vehemence with velocity as everyone decides to pick up the pace. Love passionately and soon the emotions burns away as quickly as you add the fuel. Live passionately and pretty soon all your effort wisps away as you burn out over all of your priorities. Do anything you want with as much passion as you please and pretty soon you start to wonder if you are smoldering in something that doesn’t really interest you.

When you live passionately in so many areas of your life, you overcompensate. You tell yourself that you’re just trying to narrow it down, that you’re on a journey to know yourself more, that you’re exploring all the options — but be honest with yourself, my dear.

It’s hard to live passionately when you don’t even know what you want.

And still, my dear reader, you wonder why I write this way. It’s because I didn’t even know if I wanted to write this in the first place.

Admiration is the daughter of ignorance.

She looks like the kind of person who would get a blister after vacuuming the  entire house.

If you don’t believe me, take a look at these photos.  My fingers are itching to run over the sweaters and I’m slowing growing more and more self-aware of how dinky my sweater collection — really it’s embarrassing considering the amount of snow that I’m exposed to in these blistery cold months.  Her boots are a painful reminder that my current leather boots are several years old, covered in more salt than an Auntie Anne’s pretzel, and are peeling away from the soles.  And I’m already drooling over that delectable cheese plate (and pomegranate seeds?! such a good pairing!) even though I’m still full from lunch.

Yet the fact remains that she lives in Rhode Island and was probably born into all that money. I am neither of those things. In fact, the only fair isle sweater I own is from Target (college budget, remember?).

In reality, she may actually be a bitter, stagnant person who’s self-validation comes from the amount of visitors on her fancy-schmancy blog. Or she may truly be a lovely person who happens to have all the money she needs to enjoy her travels and expand her love for Tory Burch. I’ve commented before that I have a tendency to get attached to bloggers simply because birds of a feather flock together — even though I know absolutely nothing about them.

I want parts of her life. Not everything, but maybe a sweater or two. I wouldn’t call it jealously or envy or bitterness about my own things. I like my own things! Those crusty leather boots have walked several miles with me and lasted my entire college career so far — my shoe size may not have changed but I did a lot of growing in those three years that I am proud of. The proper words would probably go something like this: I am inspired by her lifestyle and I admire her fashion sense.

And just to reiterate the fact that I’m trying to be realistic and realize that I won’t be able to afford any of this for a long time, we may be nothing alike at all (despite the secret wish I have to be friends with her).

But I can still give myself a blister after vacuuming the whole house. Close enough, right?

All photos were taken from http://www.classygirlswearpearls.com/ and photo credits go to Sarah Vickers.

Whenever it rains, you will think of her.

I found a new poet that suits my fancy and who has wooed me with words that both thrill and hurt at the same time, like the satisfaction of ripping off a particularly large scab: Bianca Sparacino.

I found a new book who’s silky soft pages have drawn me in like the purring of a cat as my fingers revel in it’s fur: the Book of Common Prayer.

I found a new spot in Starbucks in the middle of everyone and it’s like getting lost on stage amidst all the other dancers: the little round table against the wall-length window.

It’s raining. I can hear the pitter-patter of the drops punctuate my swallowing as the coffee slowly seeps into my bloodstream with the familiarity of my favorite drug. What a melancholy day.

It’s wonderful.

All of my new things match my melancholy mood. Grey is a neutral and it goes with everything. Sparacino’s words echo the idea that every person is build upon the foundation of their past and sometimes the concrete crumbles just a bit and makes every moment after that a little shaky. Sometimes you have to paint your life masterpiece on a grey canvas. Not that it’s a bad thing — all the colors seem brighter after that. The hardest part is finding a friend who is enough of an artist to understand that the background cannot be changed without changing the painting entirely.

And the Book of Common Prayer? The words slide off the tongue and splash into our soul like rocks thrown into a puddle. The initial emotional impact gets your attention but it’s the subtle intellectual ripples in the aftereffect that actually make the difference. It’s hard to see a poem that describes humans as fallen and frail human beings and not immediately realize the depressing atmosphere. At the same time though, one wouldn’t be able to appreciate the depth of emotion that drips from the Psalms without first recognizing the contrast.

And the corner table in the middle of all the retired people drinking coffee and reading the newspaper? Well the newspapers are grey enough without the grey window shade pulled down next to me. My mocha sits in the shadows of the table, a single drip clinging to the lid as the empty cup mocks me. No matter. I can still watch the raindrops racing each other down the pane, despite the greyscale wash.

It’s wonderfully melancholy. It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed a day like this. That’s the thing about rain. It doesn’t mean that it’s a bad day, an unproductive day, an un-motivating day.

There’s nothing wrong with the rain. It just doesn’t know how to fall upwards.