Daydreaming of Americana. Lusting for an aesthetic I’ve constructed in my most peaceful moments - lusting for coyote skulls and the drive from Los Angeles to Las Vegas; for desert skies and stopping by the side of the road to bare witness to nature for a moment before becoming completely lost.

If I ever do make it to America, I’ll live in a shitty warehouse in a shitty city, eat $1 bagels and use my MacBook to create magic, because that’s what writers desperately running from mediocrity do. That’s what writers do. Because that’s what writers do.

But even then, I’ll dream of hanging my amethysts on the walls of a cottage near the mineral trails, near abandoned gold mines where the noises at night will terrify me for the first few months, and then I’ll start to venture closer to the snakepits.. Even then, I’ll see worn-out cowboy boots and fringed suede & when my black-clad friends all cringe I’ll crack a smile, remembering that time at twenty-one when I’d have given anything for those bare legs to be mine.

It’s tacky and it probably doesn’t exist at all, but then, isn’t that what writers dream of? Isn’t that what writers do.

When your front porch is littered with animal bones in various stages of natural cleaning, no-one knocks on your door. Elvis Presley plays as loud as you like, and the nights are hot enough to slip on boots and nothing more - tap dancing as the sun sets, you’ll realise that your life isn’t real. It’s a dream of a place no Californian ever dreams of; it’s an idea of something based on the worst films you’ve ever seen, and wanting to wear crop tops in December.

Oh, Americana. Oh, whiskey straight from the bottle and campfires that burn until morning. Oh, morning.

Spare me the reprimands, glance over my cliches. For I dream of the burnt husks of orange summers, of giving up on dusting the floors and brewing my own chai - I dream so that I may write, so that you may read. For isn’t that what we both do?

Americana, Daisy Lola.

Anonymous asked:

You're so fortunate to have met the love of your life. I'm 24 and my boyfriend of 2 and half years cheated on me just before we went travelling in September but I only found out one month ago, two months after we split. I'm devastated and feel a little lost. Do you believe there's "the love of my life" for everyone? I've started to doubt I will ever find it. Congratulations on the house, it looks lovely. xx

Yo, I’m really fucking sorry to hear that. I think 24 is just as much of a baby as 21 though, so I really don’t think the worry that you’ll never find love is real! My dad and his new girlfriend/partner met in their mid-late forties and they seem much better suited to one another than my parents were - I don’t think it matters if you’re eighteen or eighty, when you find that person it’s not going to matter how long it took, it’s gonna matter how long you have left to live with & love them.

I think soulmates and the loves of our lives mean different things for different people. A member of my family who will remain nameless has been having an affair with a married person for 20+ years and it works extremely well for them and they never intend to change that. I also know great couples close to my own age who’re swingers/in open relationships/polyamorous and they believe they’ve got the soulmate (or multiple soulmates!) thing down pat as well. At the end of the day, who is anyone else to complain or judge when it comes to that shit?

When I was in my teens and broke up with my first boyfriend, I never thought I could love anyone the way I loved him. At 24 I’m sure you’re feeling the same way: like you’ve thrown away so many years on something you thought was going to be forever, yet here you are right back where you started, only miserable? I say fuck it. Be 24. Early-mid twenties means so many different things to different people - let it mean loving yourself for right now; let it mean bubblebaths and connecting so well with your close friends that you don’t remember what it was like not to have ‘date night’ with them instead of your shitty cheating boyfriend, let it mean going for a two week holiday by yourself and reading 14 books in that time. Let it mean whatever you want, because I promise you, everyone gets at least a few shots at love; it’s what you do with ‘em that counts.

Tonight is my last night sleeping alone. Today we signed our lease and handed over two and a half grand; this week the love of my life and I move into our first house together. Our new place is on stilts and has blue walls, a bathtub and a balcony. I’ve always wanted a balcony but more than that I want my babe. I’d have lived (loved) anywhere at all, a room the size of a shoebox as long as it meant waking up with our butts touching every morning - we were lucky enough to find a little corner of perfection & a house that will be only ours. 
Andrew and I started out so rocky but I think a part of me knew I could love him someday from our very first conversation. From a first ‘date’ drinking $4 red wine amongst departed souls at night, to me coming in his mouth for the first time and tasting myself on his beard afterwards, to falling asleep on each other’s laps in the backseats of relative strangers’ cars on the other side of the world, from there and back again including every moment of the past two years of being blessed enough to be in one another’s lives, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere but here. 
Tomorrow night we’ll cook our last meal in this shitty kitchen where we can’t find anything, nothing’s clean and one of my housemates will passive-aggressively sigh when I make a corny joke, as if his bedroom didn’t have a door. After that it’s slow dancing as we wait for the kettle to boil and watching movies naked on the couch because finally, finally everything belongs to only us.

Tonight is my last night sleeping alone. Today we signed our lease and handed over two and a half grand; this week the love of my life and I move into our first house together. Our new place is on stilts and has blue walls, a bathtub and a balcony. I’ve always wanted a balcony but more than that I want my babe. I’d have lived (loved) anywhere at all, a room the size of a shoebox as long as it meant waking up with our butts touching every morning - we were lucky enough to find a little corner of perfection & a house that will be only ours. 

Andrew and I started out so rocky but I think a part of me knew I could love him someday from our very first conversation. From a first ‘date’ drinking $4 red wine amongst departed souls at night, to me coming in his mouth for the first time and tasting myself on his beard afterwards, to falling asleep on each other’s laps in the backseats of relative strangers’ cars on the other side of the world, from there and back again including every moment of the past two years of being blessed enough to be in one another’s lives, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere but here. 

Tomorrow night we’ll cook our last meal in this shitty kitchen where we can’t find anything, nothing’s clean and one of my housemates will passive-aggressively sigh when I make a corny joke, as if his bedroom didn’t have a door. After that it’s slow dancing as we wait for the kettle to boil and watching movies naked on the couch because finally, finally everything belongs to only us.