Remember When

I am 19 years old
The only hangovers I’ve ever had were in those awful moments after finishing a book where my mind is still lost in that world, stubbornly wanting to stay
I dream of road trips across the country, because in my dreams, I am a fabulous driver
I like peppermints because the flavor makes me think of Christmases long ago when my dad didn’t have to work
Lemons and rosemary potatoes
Flavors and smells hold memories just as well as photographs and notebooks
But I have to write things down, because if I don’t, my mind will rewrite facts to create more entertaining stories
So I am writing this down, so I don’t forget
The moment when I thought, in the haze of happy delusion,
That I have been here before
I have been here before
Spoken the names before
Tasted this fear before
Asked again for more
And if I’ve been here before,
That means this will end again
That I will fail again
That I will once more write down the faults and trials and log all the miles
Of round trip tickets costs
Once again be at a lost
From the Summer to winter’s frost
And this will be a memory once more.

Something About This

I would rather listen to you talk about books than
My favorite song
The TV
A rock star’s hit song
Dance
Kiss someone while we dance
But to kiss you mid-discussion, as you pause to catch your breathe, winded by speaking of a great long ago conflict
Is better still

And I’d rather kiss you mid-discussion than
The face of a celebrity
Someone else’s newborn baby
To hold some body near
But if I could hold your body near
After I kiss your surprised face, halting the intellectual discussion of post civil war America
That would be better still

I’d rather be with you than
A man who says I’m beautiful in body
A man who says I’m beautiful in style
A man who says I make him feel incredible
If only for awhile

Because when I make a reference that you GET
Or when you accept my opinions as valid and well thought through
Like I’m a human being with a brain
And not a hysterical womb
Or when you admit that you don’t know
While acknowledging that I do
It makes it much too easy a task
To trip up and fall for you

I don’t like like, I’ve been there before
It’s tedious and quite the bore
And romance has faded fast
Into the background of our human past
And soul mates and first dates are irredeemable cliches

But I like this
Talking like we know what we are talking about
You not acting like I can’t make a decision on my own
No mess
No stress
I screwed it all up on my own
Waiting for your messages
When I swore I’d wait for no one.

In which I am easily distracted

I want to write a book.
Now this isn’t any shocking news. Anyone who knows me would nod at this statement, as it’s something I say quite frequently.
Over the years, I’ve wanted to write many books. Some of them I’ve even started! There have been superheroes (always superheroes), haunted boarding schools, mundane creatures that are mythical beings in disguise, precocious children, musings on my father’s childhood in Colombia, childhood bedtime stories, and melodramatic self reflections (this might be one of those). But as soon as someone says, “hey that sounds like a good idea!”, it seems like my brain has moved on to a new story.
But this book, or potential book, is the one my mind wanders back to whenever I lack inspiration or hit a wall. I wish I could say it’s the grand superpowered epic that’s been stewing in my brain since I was a six year old little girl who thought a super heroine named Super E defending a city called CoCoville was a good idea, but it’s not. It’s even more embarrassing. It’s the sort of thing that if I ever actually wrote, I envision future fans of my work (I know, pretentious much?) discovering in horror, like finding out Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies, or that your favorite comic writer/author did Tijuana bibles back in the day.
Every once in a while, pen in hand, I have the urge to write an “every boy who did me wrong” rant, delving into every relationship I’ve ever had and why they fell through. In my daydreams, I experience enlightenment through Taylor Swift like public humiliation for all of the guys in my life, discover what I’m looking for, and reaffirm to myself that I don’t HAVE to be looking for anything.
The characters in question would all be referred to as “boys”, in direct conflict with the anger I express whenever someone refers to me as a “girl”. I’ll have you know that I’ve had my Quincenera, that I can vote, AND I buy bras at Victoria’s Secret, thank you very much!
Oh, and all of the boys would be included, from the crush in preschool to the latest tragedy. They’d all read the book, learn the error of their ways, and become better people for it. It’s practically a public service. Their partners would probably thank me!
This is all a prime example of an “Emilyism”. This is where someone knows something is a bad idea but they either do it anyways or try to convince themselves that it’s a great idea! It’s that moment when you know the answer to a question was just given, but you’ve already forgotten so you ask for it again. Or when you have no idea how to navigate the metro in an unfamiliar city but decide that you’ll “probably” be able to figure it out, ending up having a panic attack before you do.
Maybe these things just happen to me.
But isn’t it the most human thing to think ourselves, our lives so interesting that OF COURSE others would love to read/watch/know allllll about it? Isn’t that the basis for reality TV, autobiographies, blogs, and YouTube?
My name is Emily Roldan and I am not nearly as interesting as I think I am. In the time it took you to read this, you probably could have mastered that metro, tracked down an antique Tijuana bible, or written the outline for an angry rant.
Have a nice day.