paradise of the fig beetle

between cigarette-deprived fingers is a half-pour of sequoia grove swirling in a glass not meant for wine. i’m staring beyond green palms that dip into the courtyard’s center, wondering why it took me until 25 to puff choke on a weed drag. at this point i’m questioning a lot of things: like how/why/when did i become the master of quitting? am i having another panic attack or am i pregnant? existential crises come naturally, and are as guaranteed as the crusts cornering my eyeballs in the morning. 

it’s hard out here for a girl like me, scraping my teeth against golden spoons. though, life can get pretty serious: draining margaritas down my throat, pacing beach backyards, smacking metallicy turquoise beetles that fiend for the stench of my hawaiian tropic.