I Know What Spring Is Like, happy hour, white smoke, cold hands and other things

I forget that I have anemia, but I was reminded when I was in an apartment in Los Angeles rendered beautiful by its cold-hearted concrete make. I told Mahima about this and she had a lot of important things to say. First, she reminded me that I have anemia. She's a Princeton graduate doctor and I live by the foolish decisions of my heart. Then she summarized Doona and soothed the cut before it could completely bleed out. I hated it, but her and her logic were right this time. 

After that, I spent all week sick in every way I as an entity could experience and then the week after, my old car decided to do the same. I've always compared myself to a lap-puppy in a variety of ways. This time it was because I always listen, but only after I've been scolded at and only get soothed once I've finished moping around with tears streaming down my cheeks. 

Somewhere in between Chinatown and the smoke, I read I Know What Spring Is Like: Clarice, Crônicas and Corcovado by Sinéad Gleeson and a particular page of Marlowe Granados' Happy Hour and both pushed me to write the past month or so's slurs of hopeful maybe hopeless posts to try and understand myself or how I feel. I don't know. Only a portion of Sinéad's work is available before a paywall, but this was my favorite part:

Then I read Marlowe's while I freezed my ass off in a stupid purple button-up shirt from the thrift and some pajamas shorts I apparently wear when my dignity has dissolved and it made me tear up. I got worn out like Sinéad and even more because it felt like no one care to soothe my grief, including myself.

These past two months, I was so cold and it felt like I had no one who cared if I would become warm again or not. I felt myself run like ice and it felt like my body was stinging and never soothed. I felt like I called for help and made it known and only was it faintly listened to. I guess I only have myself to blame for putting that on others who don't even have it in themselves to listen. I wish I could have stopped myself from going out to the coldness, where the clothes on my back and the heart that I hold weren't enough and just stayed at home where I always make room to keep myself from getting sick like I do when I put myself in the hands of cold others.

It was the morning 15 and I suggested taking my car to get iced matcha despite just getting to work two hours ago and in the midst of a coughing spell. I learned my lesson when the equivalent of a reverse hotbox escaped the hood of my car as soon as we left the Dunkin drive-thru and I cried more that day and the next. Only once were the tears actually for my car. To this day I feel hurt like a dog who chewed on the pristine brogue they were told not to touch. I knew and yet, once I did it, it hurt. I knew it would end like this.

At least my car got lucky and my engine didn't burn out. Just some coolant and $200 down for a new hose (or something). I hope the same luck goes to its driver and I get my happy ending, my love letter, my stupid tight hug under the moon (or something).