On birthday candles and Oblomov

Do I want to be the loser girl who reads a Russian novel at a bar while waiting for her date? Is it even considered a date if we agreed to be friends?

My jacket is too light and the streets are too empty. It isn’t summer anymore. I should probably leave… but I’d rather wait. Smoking is for moments like these.

I miss smoking, every single day. More than I will ever miss my exes. Or my shrink. I got carried away again.. but there are certain tastes and smells that you never forget. Like the taste of your first kiss, or.. your first cigarette. And the feeling after it. “Why does inhaling this smoke taste so awful?” Does it really matter? Let’s try it again and use it as an easy self-destructive method. Before you know it, you end up loving yourself more for actually destroying yourself. If this last sentence makes sense to you, please accept my sincerest sympathy and this virtual hug.

I didn’t blow out my candles this year. Maybe growing up means not having people who remember to make you blow out twenty eight candles on a big chocolate cake. It’s as if… life had taken over everything, and as if the people that love you the most in this world forgot that life, for you, was candles on a birthday cake.

He’s here. Bye.