cloves and cranberry vodka

I'm sitting curled up on the couch under a red fuzzy blanket. I'm whining to my boyfriend. It's raining outside and about to get dark. More crisis, following up on my last several postings about my lack personality, uncertainty about my discipline, etc. I inform boyfriend about the phenomenon of the "quarter-life crisis." Boyfriend tries to help. What do I like about academia? I don't know. I don't find it very fulfilling. So don't do it. But what would I do? Whaaaa...

What would I do?

Boyfriend says, put on your shoes. What? says me under red fuzzy blankie. It's cold and wet outside. Put on your shoes. Are we going on a venture? Is it a puddle jump venture? I don't have puddle jumping shoes. Put on shoes. Boyfriend goes off to get ready. I put on extra sweater and thicker jeans, get coat and hat (cold!). Do I need my wallet? He says no.

We get the umbrellas and get in the car. We start driving. First we go to 7-11 - Matt says we need snackies. Cheetos and coke. Back in the car, still driving. Where are we going? Is it far? Can I open the cheetos now? Does the leaving behind of my ID represent my leaving behind of any kind of set identity at this moment of crisis? I've been analyzing literature too long.

Over the highway, towards the Berkeley Marina. The clouds have broken just over the bay and we can see the fading yellow light of the sunset, illuminating the marin hills but the clouds cover the mountain. We park facing the bay.

Boy pulls out pack of cloves and a flask.

Here.

But I've never smoked a cigarette before though - not a whole one. I don't know how to hold it. He offers to split one.

Pause. No... I want my own.

The flask is filled with cranberry vodka from when we went to a concert last fall. We take the cheetos, coke, and cigarettes out of the car and sit on the bench facing the bay, in the rain, under our umbrellas. The sun is hidden; the water is choppy and reflecting light off its peaks. The city lights begin to come to life, buildings dark against the gray sky. The lights of the pier look like they extend right out to the Golden Gate bridge, gray against gray clouds.

We should cut class sometime, he says. Go to the beach.

I've never cut class.

You've never gone out to smoke on the pier before, either.

He has a point.

My lips taste like cheetos, cloves, and cranberry vodka.

What's a girl to do when she hasn't done anything else?