I spent the afternoon trying to teach myself to make a proper cup of coffee. The smell of grounds, the sound of the kettle, the heat of the mug in my hands. I didn’t burn myself. Small victory. It got me thinking about all the other things I’ve never done. Not just the big ones—like feeling a man’s weight on top of me, his cock pushing deep inside my cunt until I can’t tell where he ends and I begin—but the small, stupid ones. Like learning to cook something more complicated than toast and burning it. Like coming home drunk and having to fumble with my own keys. Like waking up with someone else’s morning breath on my pillow and not caring. I want the messy, inconvenient, gloriously ordinary life my parents are so terrified of me having. I want to trip over my own furniture and curse. I want to have a fight with a lover and make up by letting him fuck my ass raw against the front door. I want to prove that blindness isn’t the end of living—it’s just the start of a different kind of exploration, one where every touch, every taste, every sound is a map to something new.