Babbles of a Lover and a Fighter

We took boats around a lot in the Philippines hopping to different islands.  Sitting on the outriggers, lying on top of the roof (is that was you call the top of a boat?), or being King of the World hanging off the bow, we were in heaven on the sea.  We saw beautiful sunsets and the occasional flying fish, dried up waterfalls and a rainbow around the sun.

It was absolutely perfect.  If I ever get wealthy enough to by property around those parts, I’m definitely going to.  There’s just something about the ocean, the never-ending wash of waves on the beach that makes me feel simultaneously insignificant and indispensable.

Like no matter what, compared to this vastness, my problems, my happiness, my heartache, my life is infinitesimal, but at the same time it is mine alone to experience, and sometimes it means the world to me, though not the world to the world.

I took three pictures like this on three different days.  Always on stairs, always downcast, always with feet.  It’s not that I have a weird fascination with steps…it’s just…I find it interesting that they’re all the same but totally different…if that makes sense at all.  I could be on a dock in the middle of the ocean, or in a fort where they kept and tortured prisoners, or on the beach…the steps always lead somewhere.  Why would they be there if they didn’t lead anywhere?

I’ve never really taken to hot beverages.  I’m usually up for something crisp and icy to quench my thirst.  This past week, however, I caught some bug or allergy or something in Dallas, and hot tea just sounded amazing.  The restaurant/bar where I work has a Starbucks right next door, so I decided to roll the dice and try something new.  The Zen green tea is pretty fantastic, although it took me awhile to actually get a first sip.

I took off the lid to blow on it and slowly tipped the cup, bringing a heatwave of steam that cooked my upper lip and plowed through my suddenly clear sinuses.  The same process happened about two or three times before I surrendered my attempts and just let the cup chill out with my sore throat remedy brewing.  I had to check on a couple of tables, and the minutes ticked by.  By the time I tentatively tried my tea again, it was perfect.  No more scalding, boiling hot lava water leaving third degree burns on my tongue.  But then, duty called, and the next time I visited my cup, I was welcomed with a lukewarm, ineffective, unsatisfying, grande cup of blah.

There is a minuscule window in which one can enjoy a hot beverage without either incinerating one’s entire mouth and throat or forcing down room-temperature, not-even-remotely-soothing liquid.  In a Starbucks paper cup, that window is probably about 4 minutes.  Maybe next time when it reaches that perfect point, I should just down it.  I might still lose some of my taste buds getting there though.  Oh, hot beverages.  Why must you hurt me so?