Life is weird. 

One moment it’s 8 a.m. and I refuse to get out of bed, wanting to figure life out, almost in tears, fighting my guilt and pain but pulling myself out anyway to trudge through 2 hours of diodes with my 17-year-olds. The next moment it’s noon and I’m sitting at a coffee place in the middle of nowhere, breathing in second hand cigarette smoke, watching Manuel edit my French poems and letting Michelle talk me into doing my eyebrows because they drive her insane from not being tidy. 

Coffee, cigarettes and Tintin. Tintin, cigarettes and coffee. 

So strange that in a coffee place I found out that my university best friend is pregnant and that her baby is due in March. That in this same coffee place, it was decided that I’m taking the C2 exam in Jan. That I also booked an eyebrow appointment and a nail appointment. I also settled what to wear for the reading and who I’d meet for dinner and whether I should buy the Bentley cello I’ve always wanted since I was 12 instead of taking the holiday to HK. Life decisions are not made in a coffee place. Neither are poems supposed to be finalised and edited here.

Manuel goes through the third cup of coffee. Michelle stubs out cigarette number two. 

All I can think of is that I should be working on method. Method. Method. 

However uncomfortable, however painful, life doesn’t give up on you. You shouldn’t give up on it. 

Coffee places is what’s strange. Not life. 

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