Don't ask me what to do with lemons. I used to make lemonade from the very pout that sour left on unsurprising lips but now I think I would just drown in it. Perspective has become this devastating bird that squaks above my head, as if to say, hey, it could be worse, it could be better, but it is what it is.
No amount of sugar can change that.
When you are a multi-millionaire, you can turn lemonade into an enterprise: Fill cups with spite and middle fingers, make everyone drink from your misfortunes--see what brilliance you squeezed from the rind. Cue more middle fingers, more maniacal laugher, more vague threats. They say lemons promote clear thinking. Maybe this post is lemonade. Maybe the last two years of writing have been lemonade, too.
The thing I love most about a lemon is its thick outer peel: part zest, part security, it protects the fragile fruit. Never have you seen a bruised lemon; apples, pears, people cannot say the same.
And where's Becky-With-the-Good-Hair? Oh, she's reclaimed her throne. She infiltrates every moment and patters in the echo of your feet on the wood floor. She hums in the background of songs you forgot you wanted to like---her name pops up in the strangest of places--or maybe in the places she belongs, in spite of how you tried to be sweeter, to linger on.
Guess some people are meant to be Becky-With-the-Good-Hair and some are just meant to make lemonade.
This is Me:
My name's Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal.