A shot of caffeine and you can conquer the world.

As fancy as you try to say it, no matter whether you use an Italian tongue or an English twang, Black coffee is, and always will be, black coffee. My saviour, my ultimate pleasure, my serious obsession. I'm a coffee junkie. A 19-year-old caffeine junkie. Self-confessed, and proud as punch. I drink a serious amount of it, and rely on it to get me through difficult times, early mornings and later nights. A hangover kick, an early morning wake-up and the greatest refreshment in the world.

The man in my local Starbucks knows my name and exactly what I want as he sees me push open the door. A smile, slightly funny, and a recognised nod, and my thick, black, strong coffee is placed delicately in front of me. It opens me up to a myriad of possibilities. A coffee in tow, and I'm capable of anything. I feel accomplished, prepared, ready to face whatever the day may throw my way; good, bad or down-right horrendous.

This is a particularly suitable post today, after seven cups of industrial strength coffee, I still don't feel prepared to revise like hell for Monday. D-Day is approaching at a somewhat dangerous speed, and I'm not at all ready for what that might mean. I've done countless Literature exams, but I guess at degree level, it matters the most. Don't get me wrong, my course is everything I could want it to be, as well as a whole lot more, with a group of wonderful people, especially a little mention for my favourite girlies- Laura, Sarah and Jenny (who will probably be reading, hey girls!) who are just brilliant and hilarious, and the only kind of people you'd want to spend 9am lectures with and not want to commit a horrific kind of crime. The revision, however, never gets easier. Baracading my bedroom door, hiding my phone and arming myself with a heap of Literature-related quotations to memorize  I think I'm overestimating how much my brain can take in, but I'll try my damnest to pass this bloody exam. It will all be worth it, the late nights, the hard graft and the aching wrists, for the end results, and sooner, the mental celebrations that will occur Monday night, when we can jump up and down, scream and shout and discuss how the hell we managed to get through Year One.

So, for everyone who tolerates my bad moods around exam time, motivates me and believes in everything I can do, I love you all. A very special person always tells me I can achieve anything I set my mind to. Every time I'm about to sit an exam, I receive a text message from my grandma, simply saying:

"you can do it, Duffy Moon!"

It means more than I can ever say.

"How do you live with a ghost?"

"I'm fine."
"Tom, we know that isn't true."
"You don't. You don't know anything about me"
"I know you're not coping."
"Who said I wasn't coping?"

The stupid snotty-looking bitch in front of me was watching me closely. I didn't like it. I felt like I was a mental patient with handcuffs cutting into my wrists or something. Like she didn't trust that I wouldn't flip out and throw myself out of the window, head first.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?"
"We don't think that's in your best interest."
"What the fuck do you know? You don't have a fucking clue what's best for me!"
"Thomas, can you please try not to swear.."
"I'll swear all I fucking want. You're winding me up!"
"Its not intentional."

"You must just be a natural then." I retorted sarcastically. Karen, my so-called guidance counsellor, was the most infuriating woman I'd ever met. She was treating me like a child. Why am I having to listen to this?
"I'm twenty-nine for god sakes. I don't need baby-sitting."
"That's not what this is."
"Isn't it?"
"No. It's a healing process."

At that moment, I couldn't take it any longer. I burst out laughing. I realise now that it was inappropriate, but my balance was all off. I laughed and laughed and laughed some more. I laughed until my stomach cramped and my eyes were streaming with tears and my face was scarlet. Eventually, Karen interrupted me, mid-hysterical outburst, by placing a cup of black coffee, closely resembling treacle, on the table in front of me, carefully on a coaster. It had some seaside town scrawled round the edges of it. It was all blues and greens and yellows, well, from what I could see around the bottom rim of the cup. Saying nothing, I reached over and moved the cup from beside her knees to where I was slouching on the chair. Minus the coaster. Karen's eyes darted to the coffee stain the cup was making on her expensive-looking table. I smirked. Now who was watching who closely?

"Can you, er, I mean, would you mind just-"
"What?" 
Seeming oblivious. I got a really morbid sense of satisfaction watching her squirm.

"Well, I'd like you to use a coaster."
"I'm sorry. You'd LIKE me to use a coaster?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'd LIKE you to discharge me. But that's not going to happen is it?"

She ignored me, and reached to move the coaster to its rightful place, snuggled under the cup, but I grabbed it first, tormenting her.

"What's the matter, Karen? Are you stressed? Well! Are you? Are you finding this difficult? Hard to handle? Why do you think that is? Do you think you're suffering from mental health issues? 'Cause you want the fucking coaster moved? Slightly OCD if you ask me."
"I didn't though."
"Didn't what?"
"Ask you. I never asked your opinion. All I said was MOVE THE FUCKING COASTER!"

She broke. I watched it. There and then. The screaming and shouting and swearing turned the pair of us into a pair of snivelling teenagers. I broke down, watching her struggle. Evidently, I'd hit a nerve. I admired her really. I shouldn't have been treating her like shit. It wasn't fair.

"I'm.. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have."
"Don't worry about it. I'm the one who's supposed to keep a professional distance."
"Yeah, well. I'm still sorry."

She was silent a moment, using the sleeve of her wooly cardigan to mop up her tears, before she spoke.

"Thomas, you do realise this isn't a punishment don't you?"
I nodded, because I kind of suddenly got the point of it all.
"Good, because its supposed to be helping. I know how you're feeling."
"No you don't." I snapped. "You don't have a clue. How can you possibly understand how I'm feeling?!"
"I understand more than you'll ever know."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I practically spat at her.

She paused. Hesitated. Before carrying on. I guess that's why they call them shrinks. They know what they're supposed to say. They tell you what you need to hear, not what you want to hear. She picked up a photo frame from beside her desk, and showed it to me. A girl, pretty, about nineteen, blonde, natural make up. Smiling. Drop-dead gorgeous. But I didn't say that. I just smiled.

"Who's that?"
"Megan."
"Is she your daughter?"
"Yes, she was."
"Shit." 

That was the key word there. Was. Meaning, past. Gone. Lost. I'd been so heavily concentrated on the fact I'd lost Kassie that I'd forgot about everyone else. I never imagined, I never even stopped to think that my own bloody shrink might be grieving too.
Eventually she spoke. 

"It'll be her two year anniversary next tuesday."
"I'm sorry. How did it, I mean, did she.."
"Its okay, you can ask. I'm used to people asking. Its just a bit weird having the shoe on the other foot, I suppose. I'm the one with the questions, not the answers, usually. She had cancer, she fought until the end, but..but it was too much for her."
"God, I'm, I'm so sorry. Really." Perhaps the first honest thing I'd ever breathed.
"Yeah."
"I had no idea."
"Why would you?"

I shrugged. I realised. It all made sense.

"I clean because that's all I can do right. Well, this and my job. Or that used to be the case. Megan's death tore my family apart. I blamed my husband and he couldn't cope. It was unfair of me to ask him to cope alone. How on earth could he bare the guilt of something like that? I forced myself into work, into helping other people, while he was at home, pickling his liver and slowly fading away. Six months after she died, I found my husband in the garden. He'd put his rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I...I."

She began to get choked up. I reached over, and put my arm on her shoulder. Our eyes met. She nodded. We were interrupted by the alarm sounding on her desk.

"Ah, I guess that's time up. Same time next week?"
"Oh. Actually Karen, I've got a better idea."

So, seven days later, at 3pm, I found myself sitting having coffee with Karen. Off-record. In a snug little cafe on the other side of town. We agreed that any sort of professionalism had been already breached, so we might as well meet properly and talk things through.

Karen looked uncomfortable. She was shuffling about in her seat. I was wearing a sort-of-smile, and it was strange. I hadn't smiled since Kassie died. I felt like I was cheating on her. It was wrong. I felt guilty, for expressing any kind of happy emotion when she was no longer around. Especially when I truly felt I couldn't be happy without her.

"I'm sorry, this is kind of weird for me."
"I bet. Its not really easy for me either."

We spent a good couple of hours, sitting and talking. Deeply talking. Karen told me all about her daughter, Megan, and how she died, and what she felt, and how hard it was, practically going through it alone. After all, living with a ticking time-bomb must be hard. Living with two, must be excruciating. I don't know what hurt her more, losing Megan or grieving for her cowardly husband. She was pretty cut up. I'd never ever noticed how sad she looked. For a woman of around 50, she looked ancient. Worn. Exhausted. Behind her eyes, a thousand What Ifs and Maybes. Hundreds of choked back tears. Thoroughly through with life, yet something was keeping her hanging on. Her job. Her ability to help others gave her a reason to get up in the morning. I found that kind of incredible. After Kassie died, I didn't get out of bed for three weeks. I'd never spoke to anyone about it, except Karen. And now, here, in this fancy, cosy, little coffee shop, I was about to, hopefully, get what I needed. 
Finally, closure.
So, I'd better give it my best shot.

Karen sat patiently, with fresh coffees in front of us, and this time, there was no diary. No note-taking. No tape recorder, ready to be shipped to Dr such and such, to assess my "mental anguish." No weird, clinical analysis of my well-being. Just someone looking back at me, with genuine concern. A friend. Someone I needed. Someone with time for me.

"The day I lost Kassie was the worst day of my life to date, and hopefully always will be. I can't go through that again. Kassie was beautiful. Not just to me. You know what I mean. The kind of girl who always had strangers stopping her in the street complimenting her. Her brunette hair matched her eyes, and she had a smile that could knock you off your feet. I felt like the luckiest guy in the world, with her on my arm. We'd been together for six years, and I'd cherished every single second. So, the day I got a call saying my wife had been in an accident, I was physically sick, before pulling myself together, and inquiring as to what had happened, and which hospital I should break the speed limit when driving to. St. Peter's hospital. An awful place I can't even bare to think about now. Kassie was in a car accident that morning. We never truly found out what happened. Partly because I was too stricken with grief to pin the blame on anyone. All that mattered to me was that my Kassie was no longer with me. She'd kissed me that morning, before leaving the house for work, and I'd never thought anything more of it. I mean, why would I? It was the worst phone call I ever received. My heart broke that day. My girl was always a fighter, but I guess it was just too much for her. She didn't know her family, they'd drifted apart years before we met, and as for mine, they were hundreds of miles away, and never knew her like I did, so when it happened, I didn't want to turn to them. I became irrational and selfish and began drinking and not sleeping. Then I began sleeping and not eating. Starving myself. Not looking after myself. Not leaving my bed. Not leaving my house. Not picking up my phone, opening my post or anything. I couldn't function. I didn't want to be without her. I couldn't and wouldn't, imagine my life without her. The love of my life. My soul-mate. My best friend."

It wasn't until one day, there was a knock at my door. A woman, fifties, greying hair, with a clipboard and a professional looking pair of glasses in tow. She enquired as to my health, physical and mental. And told me she was from the NHS, sent to check on me after my recent bereavement. I slammed the door in her face. 

Fourty five minutes later, she knocked again. And somehow, persuaded me to see her for an appointment. I did. Unwillingly though. I only really did it because she was the only person who made the effort, in spite of how much I pushed them away. She came back. Funnily enough for me, because I didn't know her and she didn't have any reason to want to go out of her way to help me. But she did. And after my breakdown in her office, I finally let it all go. We talked and talked until my throat was sore and dry, my cheeks were stained with tears and the smell of coffee was slightly intoxicating.

"So Karen. That's it. That's everything. I've just got one more question.."
"Yes?"
"How do you live with a ghost?"
She shook her head, clueless.
"I have absolutely no idea. I'm living with two. They're always with me. But they keep the house tidy, at least."

I laughed, and so did she. We laughed until we were in pain. And we smiled. Releasing, comforting smiles. Reassuring one another that no matter what came our way, we'd cope.

You're my best kept secret.

A little creative piece I just whacked out.

Aaron had left early this morning, gone to get a pint of milk before heading off for work. He'd left me a note, simply reading:

"I'll love you. Forever and a day. See you when I see you, Luce. You'll always be perfect no matter what.
Aaron
 x

P.S. Milk's in the fridge, coffee's waiting in the cup."

I was definitely wearing a grin the size of China when I'd finished reading that. Hmm, I felt inspired. I felt thrilled. I sat down, took my time, and with coffee in tow, wrote the most true thing I've ever even thought. Because, I really think it needed to be said. It read:

"Aaron,
Every second I spend thinking about you, but not talking about you, I feel like a fraud. I feel like you're never out of my head, kind of always in my heart, but those few words are never uttered from my lips, and why? I'm scared. That's the short answer. Simple. But it's no less true. I'm scared my feelings will land me in the same mess they always do. I'm scared you don't feel the same, and I'm even more terrified that you actually do. I'm scared of commitment and "what ifs" and talks about things we know too well already. It's backwards and weird and yet I still find myself wishing for it. I have for a while, but I haven't told anyone. It's like you're my secret. That feeling people describe, butterflies. Well, with you, I understand what people mean. The way you look at me. Knowing you couldn't tell me the thing you wanted to the most. The grin you flash at me, and my knees go weak, and it's like everything I could ever ask for is standing right in front of me. The way you dress, or run your fingers through your hair or hold my hand like you'd never be ready to let me go. I love that. I love talking about you. I love the expression my face takes on when I hear your name, your voice or see that name flash up on my phone. You make my bad days tolerable, and my good days great. I'm proud to know you, honoured to be part of your life, and I never ever want to lose you.
Forever and a day isn't long enough.
I'll see you when I see you.
All my love,
Lucy
X"

What I call a conscience.

You're the dull ache in the pit of my stomach. The feeling of dread when there's something up. That well-named gut feeling. The thing that enables me to feel butterflies one minute and fuming anger the next, well, that and a very slight tendency to overreact. A horrible feeling meeting a smiley, happy-go-lucky one. And what happens when hot and cold air meet? They clash. Truth V Lies. Denial V Reality. Battles that are bound to end badly, but do we care? Do we hell!

I've confided in friends and then hated myself for it.  For the way they reacted when I did just that. I have started to think it's unfair to depend solely on my friends who want the best for me, because sometimes they don't hold the right answers, or the best ones, or the ones you really want to hear. But that's all okay. I was, perhaps naively, hoping for some advice minus judgement, but I'm not sure that's possible when friends are involved. There's a thin line between wanting the best for someone, and actually just wanting to appear right. It's a blessing in disguise though. Friends want the best for you and I know, I'd run into a burning building for a few of my closest girls, no matter the consequences.

I don't do poetry. This isn't really an attempt, but it is, sort of. It's not meant to be great and profound. But honest. After all, fellow bloggers have praised me for my somewhat-honest outlook. The truth doesn't always hurt.


I want to trust you,
but only for the right reasons,
no wrong answers
or bad decisions
I'm sick of that.
I'm through with that.
The awful demeaning
nasty feeling
in the pit
of your stomach
that tells you,
no, -scratch that,
screams at you,
that this,
is a bad idea.
That this is just
another one
in the huge list
of bad ideas
brought to you,
by the ministry of Are You Stupid?

Tell me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear.

Dedication #2: Steph.

Right, I've been meaning to do another dedication for weeks, and never got round to it. I really probably should have a million and one other things to do right now, like revision for my last exam on Monday, but that will have to be done at a more motivated time. For now, my dedication is as follows. I hope she reads this, considering we've just been talking about my blogging habits over piping hot Starbucks.

Stephanie, or more so, Steph. One of my best friends. One of the craziest, funniest people I've had the pleasure of getting to know over the last few years. It's one of those weird situations. We went to school together for years, and always spoke, but it was like, as soon as we got into Sixth Form, we immediately clicked. I found myself thinking 'how the hell have I not been friends with this girl before now?' It's hard to explain. So, if a picture speaks a thousand words, here's a summary:

It's like there are no words to describe how much this girl means to me. She's painfully hilarious (we laugh for hours on end!) about anything and everything. There's nothing I can't tell her, and I like to think that the feeling is mutual. We've been through a lot together, from two years of mind-numbingly difficult A-levels, including our very weird Pyschology lessons, to receiving our exam results and finding out we both were destined for the same place. I know what you're thinking, stardom, obviously? Perhaps one day, rather the same Uni. Northumbria, to specify. Perhaps the lesser known of the two universities in our home town in Newcastle, but certainly that does not mean it's in any way less eventful, in fact, I think we certainly show everyone how to enjoy themselves.

I've had the funniest time lately, since starting uni. I trust Steph with my life, and I know I can say anything and everything to her, and she can do the same to me, (and has on a few very necessary occasions!) She's definitely what you'd call my drinking partner, and I'm always telling people exactly that. We get drunk together, we shop together and we never ever stop talking. In the past six months or so, we've been to pub crawls, countless parties (including a fancy dress foam party, pictured above) celebrated birthdays, holidays, exams, results, or just partied because it was Friday night. She's the kind of person I can talk with for hours on end, and we never ever run out of things to say. But even if we did, what would it matter? The one I immediately look for, ring or text when a particular favourite song comes on, when I spot a certain someone in a crowd of people, or just when I have some seriously juicy gossip to share. She's amazing, and I don't tell her enough how much I love her. She's been with me through a lot, and I know I can count on her. The girl who I know can ring me up for a quick chat or a three hour update on the latest things happening in our lives. She knows everything, and I trust her with every word I say.

                                                             "Trebles anyone?!"
                                                       

Also, I must say, at times she must have the patience of a saint. As anyone who knows me well, knows I have a tendency to get drunk and make a fool of myself, well, although this is fine, Steph's the one always there, to make sure I don't ring the one person I shouldn't, waste all my money on sambuca and get me home in one piece. I thank her for that often, because everyone knows it's necessary from time to time. The girl who honestly doesn't believe in herself enough, and she seriously should. She's amazing and lovely, and it's about time she realised the extent of it. I'd be lost without her, so much so, we're jetting off to Ibiza in the summer together, for a fabulous time, I'm sure. Steph's also kind of a genius. She'll laugh when she reads this, because she's quite modest, and god knows why, because there's no need to be sometimes! Pursuing a degree in Human Biosciences (yes, oh my god) genius. Not only is she studying something scientific, she's also pretty damn good at it, and that's not what many people can say.

So, Steph, if you're reading this, then I hope you're smiling. You're fab. I wouldn't change you, and you're not losing me any time in the near (or far) future, just to instruct you of such. (I know you'll probably be laughing!) There's so much more I'd say, but it all depends who's reading this. Steph will understand the references more than most. We're very alike. In more ways than one. She copes with my drunken antics, and I'd do the same for her. And she, somewhat astonishingly, hasn't slapped me, when my increasingly foul mouth runs away with itself. Dilemma hour seems to be a regular thing between us, and I'm so looking forward to spending the summer with her (and others) and having what will, hopefully, be the time of our lives.

Because let's be honest, we always do.

My blog baby.

This sounds weird and slightly neurotic, but I've recently become quite protective over my blog. I still don't talk about my blog, just in passing to my closest friends, but no one else. I occasionally tweet my blog URL and it's linked to my profile, and despite my view counter, I'm under the impression that this thing is hidden from nearly everyone I know. I never used to be so protective over my writing, but I'm starting to adopt a sort of kinship with it. It's like my baby, metaphorically speaking. My best kept secret. It's like my online diary, in one respect, in another, it's merely a vacuum where I can vent my deepest passions and my greatest desires and upsets. My interests, my loves and hates, everything and anything. Non-specific. Not able to be thrown into one category or the next. From my endless Friends references, to my slight pessimistic streak, it's all contained in a little package I like to call The Beautiful and The Damned.

And you know what the most ironic thing is about it all, I've never even read The Beautiful and The Damned. 

An explanation.

Right, I've been AWOL for a while, over two weeks in fact, and I think I owe my fellow bloggers an explanation. So, what have I been doing with myself these past 14+ days? A lot and not much, if that at all makes sense. Far too many nights out for various different reasons (or excuses rather) with a group of amazing people. Bank holiday celebrations, my sister's 18th party and my uncle's wedding, all in the space of  a week. My liver is suffering. I know this is very disjointed, but who cares. It's not a proper blog post, if such a thing even exists. Also, I've just recently sat my first ever degree-level exam, which was quite scary. (Fingers crossed on that front!) So, what's the update? I have realised a few things: I can stomach far too much alcohol on an empty stomach, I'm probably more stubborn than I like to admit, shots should never look like they contain milk, family events can really be quite awkward when you don't know anyone and finally, there's no such thing as too much when it comes to getting dressed for a wedding. I'm far too tired, and still suffering from the remains of a two-day hangover, the latest of my escapades, which shall probably remain to be seen in a negative light. Counting down the days, until firstly, Thursday, the day my all-time favourite book, The Great Gatsby, gets a second, newer, shinier film adaptation released, two years in the making, and secondly, my last exam to over, a week tomorrow, so I can finally do everything I've got planned the second the clock strikes 4pm, including reading every piece of Literature-related material I can get my hands on that isn't on my Must Read list for Uni, and celebrate like crazy, even if there's nothing to celebrate, and more to commiserate. 

Confused, tired, and ready to abandon that Uni ship for four entire months. I need sun, laughs and plenty of reading material. Eight days, and I'll be pursuing it all, and hopefully, a lot more.