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The Art Of Exhalation

By Reshma Patricia Crawford All Rights Reserved ©

Drama / Other

The Art Of Exhalation

Every day, I sarcastically thank the obviously non-existent god in the sky that my mother named me Harmony. How she ever expected a Boston girl of Irish heritage to ever be harmonious is beyond me.

I’m listening once again to the shitty customers at this shitty music store that oh-so-generously provides me with a shitty job that just barely pays for my shitty apartment and my daily sushi—I will concede that one sole flaw is my cooking. It’s times like this, where the god damn tweens are yelling at me because their new precious Justin Bieber album is sold out, that I just want to freaking punch somebody. Preferably those tweens. So, yeah, I was their age several years ago and now I’m 19 and barely staying in my crappy community college. Doesn’t change the fact that they’re stupid, just like everyone else in this world.

The sad thing is, though, that I actually want these people to notice me. Deep down, hell, I can’t imagine what I would do if I ended up like a nobody, like my runaway dad or my teen mom. I can’t be like them. I don’t even want to be like most “normal” people. I want to be famous, to be known, adored, admired, recognized for the fantastic person I clearly am!

But, yeah, I’m almost 20, I’m single, I have a 4-year-old guinea pig as my only companion, and I think hearing songbirds singing in the morning determines whether it will be a good day or not.

Hell, maybe it’s ‘cause I’m a Pisces that I’m so damn sensitive when no one’s looking. But when I’m alone, staring at those distinctively Irish green eyes that stare back at me in the mirror each morning, I wonder whether the birds will be singing today or not. Whether I should bother trying today.

A man comes up to the counter now to buy the latest Mumford And Sons album. Funny, considering he has a prominent and intricately detailed snake tattoo on his left arm. Reminds me of the awesome snakeskin I found in the park once—I keep it by my bed and look at it each night. As the man leaves, I wonder whether he feels like me; hating the world or lost or confused or so afraid of failure that one becomes afraid of trying at all. I have a theory that people with marks and scars have the best stories to tell. I don’t have anything narrating on my skin.

There were no songbirds this morning. Is it worth it? What’s worth anything? I hold my breath and count to 100. It’s a special talent of mine. Still deciding whether to breathe again at 101.

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