Questions

I.

"Do you think God makes just one person for each of us? Do you think you can only have one great love of your life?"

When asked, I said, "No", but I don't know the answer to this question. I don't think I'm supposed to know.

II.

When I was 13, a boy fell in love with me. He was 16 and loved me with a respect and sincerity I did not appreciate, could not appreciate. He wrote me a letter to express his feelings because he was too shy to say them aloud. He had beautiful handwriting, a deep strong voice, and an easy smile. He became my first boyfriend. The shyness never went away so we continued to write letters. Somewhere in my parents' garage there is a binder filled with letters, his words of shy affection scrawled in pencil on lined paper. Sometimes he'd play me songs-without-words on his guitar. Looking back, I realize that everything he felt, everything he was too shy to say aloud, was in those songs. We never kissed. We hugged a few times. I was young and didn't understand the depth of his emotions. I ended it. I can't remember the reason now but I know it wasn't good enough. We continued to be in each other's lives and became good friends. I never talked to him about other guys. I knew that beneath the surface of his friendship, his heart ached, that he still loved me. He told me on several occasions, yet all I was able to say was "Thank you for loving me." He didn't deserve the "friend card"; it seemed too cruel. Yet there was no other card I knew of, and so I played it over and over and over again. And I felt awful every time.

When I was 18, I moved to San Diego for school. Shortly before I left, he announced he was leaving on a missions trip to Thailand that would last for several years. His parents held a prayer meeting at their house before he left so I attended with my parents to see him off. He handed me an envelope and an unmarked CD and said, "Please, don't open this till I'm on the plane tomorrow morning." Of course, I opened the letter as soon as I got home. It was long, filled with congratulations and high hopes for college and well-wishes and reminders to keep in touch. In his familiar, beautiful handwriting, he ended by saying he loved me, had always loved me, would continue to love me, and that he had to leave because he didn't know what else to do. He had tried dating other girls or preoccupying himself with other things but found his heart and mind were always with me. He said he knew God was taking us on different paths and that he hoped they would cross in the future.

I cried.

I could not understand--and felt guilty because of it--how this boy-turned-man could just love me steadily and quietly for years knowing that the part of my heart he desired would be out of reach. I felt worse knowing that I could not ease his heartache. The CD was a beautiful compilation of songs, a tribute to our friendship, the letter had said. I listened to it and wondered,

What happens if you fall in love with someone who's not meant for you?

I heard from him a few times while living in San Diego. He'd send a card from Thailand or an instant message if he was in a major town and had access to a computer. It was always good to hear from him. He reminded me of home, of simpler days. Always, he'd end his letters or his messages with, "I still think about you every day. I still love you." It broke my heart every time. It seemed so unfair for him to love one person--me--with such unwavering devotion and not be loved in return.

Over time we stopped being friends. He told me it hurt too much, that it was just too hard for him. I complied. Years passed before I received a random phone call asking for girl advice. A few months later I got a text message just saying, "Hello". The last time I received a text message from him was when I was on my honeymoon. We were in Monterey, and it was late. It said, "Congrats, my mom told me you're getting married." I'll admit that after all these years, I still felt a twinge of sadness for him, felt the need to protect him from the truth. I just said, "Thanks!" and hoped he would leave it at that. A few minutes later I received another text: "When's the big day?" I hesitated before responding. I didn't know what to say aside from the truth, and the truth seemed insensitive. When I needed them most, my words failed me.

III.

I still ask that question, you know. I'm the happiest I've ever been in my life and am married to a man I don't deserve; I live a blessed life. Still, sometimes I wonder about my first boyfriend and other men and women like him who have fallen in love with someone who hasn't chosen them. My heart aches for him, for them. I didn't expect to get so emotional while writing this entry. I cried. I cried because I was there once, and I remember the bottomless ache. I remember loving that person's heart and soul so much I wanted nothing more than to simply be in his life. I chose his happiness over mine, and I continued to love him even after he chose another. Another story for another time.

What happens when you fall in love with someone who's not meant for you? What happens if you love someone who's unavailable?

IV.

Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, I just wanted to say I'm sorry I couldn't love you the way you needed me to.

The view from here: A Mike and Bean Thanksgiving

Here are pictures from our feast.  It was more than enough food for the two of us.

I didn't think it was possible to fit so many marshmallows on top of that little casserole dish but Mike was determined.

Look!  I'm domesticated. :)

A Mike and Bean Thanksgiving

Mike and I just celebrated our first Thanksgiving dinner as a married couple. We had planned on spending it with my family but ended up running to the grocery store on Tuesday to buy all the fixings for a "traditional" Thanksgiving meal.

I cried (a little). This was my first Thanksgiving spent without seeing my family. I won't get into all the emotions I felt; too messy. I missed them. And the food. But I received an unexpected gift: a free pass to spend Thanksgiving however I wanted. With Mike.

We woke up Thursday morning and realized we had forgotten to thaw our bird. Since we didn't want to wait 10 hours to eat, we ran to Ralph's to purchase turkey breasts. Beginner's mistake. Let's just say we'll be eating turkey for Christmas, too.


Thankfully, we had no other debacles that day and we did get to eat:


So our table is set incorrectly. Let's just say it was all part of a very Mike and Bean Thanksgiving. :) We spent the day in our pajamas watching football, the National Dog Show, the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (my first time watching it!), The Incredibles, and of course, A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.

P.S. I realize Mike looks like he's flipping me off in the picture but he's really crossing his fingers. :)

The view from here: Carmel

Chubby squirrels!

Carmel is for lovers.

On the road: Carmel

As a Southern California native, I think I live in the greatest place on earth.  I'm not an arrogant snob--I just like where I live. :)  People vacation in my neighborhood (cut me some slack). :p  Our drive up the coast has done a pretty good job of blowing my mind and almost (just almost) convinced me to move.  Here are some of the things we fell in love with:

1. Elephant seals.

2. Chubby squirrels.

3. Carmel Beach. 

Things we dislike:

1. Drivers of Sebring convertibles. PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT:  If you feel the need to fly from Kansas or Idaho or North Dakota or (insert lackluster state here), rent an economy convertible (a.k.a. Chrysler Sebring), then proceed to drive along Highway 1 from San Diego to British Columbia, it is NOT necessary to go 15 miles per hour the entire way.  The speed limit in the state of California is 55 mph if not otherwise posted.  Yes, the coastline is beautiful.  Yes, your rented convertible can drive that fast.  Yes, I will pass you on a blind curve b/c it is that annoying driving behind your pasty, sun-starved ass.    I don't fly to Kansas and drive 15 mph around your corn fields.

2.  Cyclists.  It's called a car.  It's faster and requires much less effort.  Or are you just looking for an excuse to wear a spandex onesie?

3.  Cyclists missing limbs.  I bet you actually do have a car and a handicap permit.  B/c you can ride a bike for 100 miles, but you can't walk from the far side of the parking lot.  Seems logical.

**Disclaimer: Items 1-3 are Mike's contribution to this blog post.

4. Everything closes at sundown.  Carmel becomes a ghost town after dark.  We couldn't even find a coffee shop open at 7:00 and had to drive to Monterey!

On the road: Santa Barbara

I got married.

I will have to revisit this--a HUGE task--some other day when I have more time and am not on my honeymoon.  Be patient; wait for it...wait for it...

I will eventually start a blog with Mike to share all the sordid details of our life with you but for now, while we're on our honeymoon, I'll keep writing in this one.  My 13-year-old cousin, Michaela, and my sister, Sarah, asked me to keep a travel journal or honeymoon blog of sorts ("without the intimate details, please").  I assured them I would write diligently but forgot how awkward and cumbersome it is to type with fake nails.  Stupid vanity.  My progress has been frustratingly slow.

Since I'm behind and partially handicapped because of my talons, I'll only include the major highlights from our stay at the Old Yacht Club Inn in Santa Barbara:

1. After spending an hour or so in an emergency clinic, we found out that Mike had tendonitis in his left foot and not the broken toe we had feared.  Rx: rest and pain killers/anti-inflammatory drugs.  

2. The first breakfast I had--an omelette covered in "feet cheese" (a.k.a. parmesan)--made me sick.  I became fast friends with the pink stuff and took a shot every half hour.

Aside from those two surprises, Santa Barbara was lovely.  

Juggling, Part II

I.

It started with a question:

“What do you want to do with your life?”

“I want to be a writer.”

“What are you doing about it?”

Silence.

I didn’t like the question, but after years of avoiding its impenetrable gaze, it was staring me right in the face. I didn’t like my response either. Even the non-words, stacked atop each other in what I had hoped would be a formidable silent barricade, could not withstand the searing truth.

In the aftermath of this conversation, I began thinking about probable responses in the way I labored over formulating the perfect retort to a caustic remark; it consumed me.

My excuses, once so convincing, had lost their appeal. It’s a lonely place to be, really, when you’re out of excuses. The masses have gotten tired of hearing them and have slowly abandoned you to listen to the sound of your own voice. I imagined myself as being left behind by the circus, standing in the middle of an empty field littered with stale, damp popcorn, tattered fliers, and trash. Forgotten stakes, a few cigarette butts, and the shriveled corpses of popped balloons are the only remnants of the bustling show that turned the nothingness into a wonderland.

Alone, I began thinking about the juggler.

I thought of him juggling in the park, an easy smile across his face. I thought of him juggling staplers and hole-punchers in the stairwell of an anonymous corporate building, white paper dots flying everywhere. I thought of him brushing those paper dots out of his hair while putting the staplers and hole-puncher back in their usual place on his desk. I thought of him sitting down in his chair with a small sigh, barely audible over the click-clacking of synchronized keyboards, before contributing to the din.

II.

It has taken me weeks to find a response to the initial question. My fingertips have been poised over the keys, hesitant, waiting. I have watched the cursor blink against the blank page countless times, an unbiased metronome controlling the rhythm of the non-words in my mind. On the eighth day, a break through: write.

III.

The juggler doesn’t talk about juggling—he throws things in the air. A writer doesn’t talk about writing, shouldn’t write solely about not-writing because it’s safe—a writer writes.

IV.

And so, I write.

Juggling, Part I

I responded to a Craigslist roommate ad my fifth year of college and found myself living with a juggler, a pilot, and a Mexican Jack-Johnson-wannabe with a penchant for grooming his genitals; I discovered the evidence on more than one occasion floating in the toilet like a furry Portuguese Man-O-War. I even found a hair stuck between the blades of my Mach 3, which I left in the shower to shave my legs. I asked the juggler and the pilot if they had used my razor and they said, “I have hair down there” and “I do that at my girlfriend’s house”.

Silence.

We erupted into a fit of mock dry heaving, followed by uproarious laughter. Everyone told me to confront him but I never did. What was I supposed to say?

But this isn’t about “Jack”. This is about the juggler, but before he was the juggler, he was just “Matt”. He was quiet, a lanky fellow with sad eyes, a slow smile, and a mop of brown curls. I left him alone most of the time because he was always studying, or appeared to be studying, as both the pilot and the juggler were majoring in aerospace engineering. Shortly after I moved in, I discovered the pilot was a movie junkie. We spent much of our time watching movies from his vast collection of pirated DVDs; of all the roommates, I was the easiest to persuade to postpone homework.

One such afternoon, he asked if I wanted to watch a movie, and since it was 4:30--too early to start studying--I agreed. I sat down on our dingy, sagging couches while he walked to the kitchen to get chips, salsa (El Pato), and salt. I should mention the pilot ate his chips and salsa in a particular fashion: take chip, scoop salsa, sprinkle with salt. Eat. Repeat. He had just started his chip-eating routine when he turned to me, crunching furiously, and said, “Have you seen Matt juggle?” I raised an eyebrow. The pilot sprinkled salt onto his chip before continuing.

“Matt wants to be a professional juggler but his parents won’t let him.” I raised the other eyebrow, grabbed a chip, dipped it in salsa, and after a moment’s hesitation, sprinkled it with salt. Instant upgrade. The pilot, excited he had converted me, raised his arms into the air and yelled. “See? The salt makes the whole ‘chips n’ salsa’ combo better. Anyway, yeah, Matt juggles.” I salted another chip. Crunch.

“Juggles? Like, he juggles balls? Really?” Crunch. Salt. Crunch. Drip. Salsa had dripped onto my pants. I wiped it up and licked it off my finger.

“Matt is fucking crazy. He juggles knives and chainsaws and shit. I’ve seen it and thought, you are fucking nuts, man!” Crunch. Salt. Crunch. I imagined Matt, tall and quiet, tossing three roaring chainsaws into the air at a construction site. I don’t know why I imagined him juggling chainsaws at a construction site. It was either the construction site or the circus. It freaked me out.

“If he wants to be a juggler, why is he majoring in aerospace engineering? Couldn’t he have picked an easier major if he just planned on juggling after college?” The pilot quickly brushed the salt off his lap and stood up to get us beers.

“Matt is also obsessed with planes and flying shit. Like me.”

Matt never talked about juggling—I don’t think he knew I knew his secret—so I didn’t bring it up. I thought I would one day catch him juggling spoons or empty beer bottles in the living room so I waited. And then I saw him as I was leaving for school one day, juggling in the park next to our apartment. A six or seven-year-old kid was watching him with his head cocked to the side, eyes squinting from the effort of trying to follow the pins flying high above Matt’s 6’ frame. He had a wide, easy smile across his face, his eyes hardly blinking. He looked really happy. Anyone who saw him at that moment could tell he was doing what he loved, what he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

When I told him I saw him juggling in the park, he just smiled and said, “I was just practicing.” I asked him if he would juggle knives for me, as long as we were outside and I was standing far away from him. He salted a chip and said, “Sure”. Crunch.

He got a few paid gigs at Disneyland performing in the parades. I never got to see him but his face lit up when he talked about them. I admired him for pursuing his dream despite the fact it seemed to contradict reason. That didn’t seem to matter—it made him happy.

We graduated in June and parted ways. Last I heard he had followed his girlfriend up north to Stanford where she was attending grad school. I think he got an office job like the rest of us, maybe an office with a view. Matt was a genius. Although I can’t say for sure, I bet he is still juggling. I secretly hope to see him juggling in the parades at Disneyland. Even though I know he’s up north, I still look for him among the brightly-colored, spandex-clad jugglers, a tall and lanky fellow with a genuine, easy smile across his painted face.

Words.

I love words.

I don't claim to understand a lot of them or use them in a fanciful way, but I do love them, truly I do. I like the way they taste in my mouth, the way they roll around on the tongue and bounce off the sides of my mouth before springing lightly from my lips. It's my favorite guilt-free indulgence. Words words words. They come in so many shapes, colors, sizes and can be used and reused a number of times. They are a familiar friend, and yet there are times when they escape me. Sometime I desperately want them to encourage a soul caught in the doldrums, warm the cockles of a despairing heart, or assuage a broken soul grieving a loved one's passing, but alas, it is at those times they elude me. Lately, I have found myself without words, a place I once thought would be uncomfortable but now realize is necessary, becomes more comfortable with time, with maturity. I have found that the simplest words suffice. Really, what can I say to my friend who has just lost his sister, whom he has been taking care of during her four year battle with cancer? What could I possibly say to comfort him as he packs up his sister's entire life for the long, lonely drive home? What do I say to my friend who is trying to riffle through what's left of one chapter of her life? Everywhere she looks she is reminded of the end of her marriage: receipts, credit cards, junk mail, forgotten shoes, countless mason jars, etc. How do I tell her to cling to hope? And although I desperately search for the right words--differently shaped, some shiny, others tarnished and worn--none of them are appropriate. Oh words--don't fail me now.

In the absence of words, the non-words have appeared. They were shy and indistinguishable at first, mere wisps of words. Once they became accustomed to the silence of my mouth on sabbatical, they lingered and took a definite form, smooth and velvety in texture, cool to the touch--like Jell-o pudding. I have learned to love the non-words and the silence that accompanies them. The non-words, in their own, shy manner, have helped me see they are the words I had been looking for.

I have learned and am still learning to say little, sometimes nothing at all. I am learning to hold back the confetti language for another day, a brighter day. I am learning to get used to the taste of non-words in my mouth. I am learning to let silence do the talking because the non-words I feel are best conveyed when I cancel out the noise.

Noise

"There is no such thing as a long piece of work, except one that you dare not start."--Charles Baudelaire

I am a writer.

It feels weird to say it aloud (with any amount of confidence) so I generally whisper it; sometimes I just scrawl it on a scrap of paper before throwing it away. That way, I know the statement exists somewhere, even if that somewhere is at the bottom of my trashcan beneath used napkins, empty yogurt containers, and velvety banana peels.

I am a writer, yet I haven't written anything in months. Maybe even years. I have good intentions to write, I really do. Some days the creative juices are flowing and I can't seem to write or type fast enough. Other days are quite the opposite--I can spend hours staring at a blinking cursor or a blank page. I twirl my pen a few times before it flies from my fingertips. I stroke the keys lightly in anticipation. And then--nothing. I get discouraged and walk away.

I know I can write. I used to do it a lot when I was school, only then I thought my writing wasn't very good. I thought it would get better, that I would feel more like a writer once I received my degree. I thought it would give me credibility as a writer (not that I was going to frame my diploma and hang it around my neck for the world to see). I feel the same, only I write less (much less). No one cares about that piece of paper.

So now I'm trying to write. I've been having a hard time distinguishing between content/ideas and noise. I realize I spend a lot of time listening to noise because it's harmless, entertaining static. It distracts me long enough to prevent me from committing to any one idea.

Maybe I'm just afraid of commitment. That could be it. I am anxious about committing to a project because I might be horrible at it.

What if I am horrible at it? What if I've been deluding myself this entire time, falsely believing I have a smidgen of talent, when I'm really mediocre at best?

And this is where I am now. I locked myself in my room to be immersed in silence. Silence used to be a familiar friend when I was younger, a more passionate, reckless writer, at times brash and volatile but always honest.

I need silence to give me courage.

I need silence to hear God.

I strain my ears to hear the silence that has been eluding me, the silence that will free me from my fear of failure.

But all I hear is noise.

In between dreams

A Dream Deferred
By Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
Like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
Like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

"At 30 a man should know himself like the palm of his hand, know the exact number of his defects and qualities, know how far he can go, foretell his failures--be what he is. And, above all, accept these things."--Albert Camus

My life at twenty-five doesn't look the way I thought it would when I was twenty. I had pictured a glamorous existence as a starving, would-be writer living in a crowded apartment--with a fire escape, of course--filled with mismatched furniture, stacks upon stacks of books, newspapers, takeout boxes, and a cat named Oliver. I saw myself working two or more odd jobs to support my feeble attempts at writing, or one soulless job as a cube-occupying peon in a big glass building made of windows that didn't open. I relished the thought of living in dingy wife beaters and torn jeans, the tell-tale cigarette at my fingertips whenever I wasn't drinking my fourth cup of coffee or plunking loudly on my Underwood typewriter.

*I know it's more practical to use a computer but I think antique typewriters are beautiful machines. I was so close to purchasing one on Ebay but was outbid by an auction ninja. I cried.

I realize now I will never have that life. There's a part of me that mourns the death of that dream because I had convinced myself I needed that lifestyle to give myself credibility as a writer. I thought if I looked the part, I would be a better writer, would convince myself I was worthy of the title/profession.

I have a confession: I sold out. Instead of avidly seeking creative jobs that paid pennies for a byline, I put on unfamiliar clothes I had never before owned--ones that needed to be ironed and dry cleaned--and sought out those glass buildings with pretend windows and practically begged for a cubical and a name placard. I never thought I would work in a cubical but at twenty-five, I find myself sitting in a three-walled cell every day by choice. There are days I enjoy having my own corporate work space. I have grown fond of my stapler and Post-It note dispenser. They are very reliable tools that belong to me during my tenure at my current job. I have tried to humanize my cubical with pictures and toys. Some days I enjoy my job while other days drag on for hours and not even the My Little Pony can make me smile. I look for remnants of my original dream but all I see are plastic knights waging war at various areas of my cubical.

Not all is lost. My dream didn't die; it changed. If I'm honest with myself, I changed, too. I didn't realize it at the time but in retrospect, I can see exactly when it started to veer off course.

Enter Mike.

In the glamorous writer lifestyle I had pictured in my early twenties, there was no room for love. Oh, there was definitely room for exciting trysts, dramatic break-ups, and awkward run-ins with ex's and their ridiculously beautiful new lovers; that bleeding-heart material is great fun to write, especially in the late late hours of the night over a glass of red wine and a cigarette. Everything that flows from your fingertips is passionate, full of abandon, and slightly convoluted; emotional diarrhea at its finest. I almost sought relationships doomed to fail to give myself credibility. Almost.

Mike ruined everything. He entered the scene when I was looking for a friend, a fellow writer with whom I could smoke cigarettes and drink endless cups of coffee beneath a black sky and talk about real life (as we knew it). I didn't mean to fall in love with him. I intended to love him, yes, but not be openly in love with him. It seemed stupid to ruin a good friendship. Plus, if I spilled my beans and he didn't love me back, I would feel awkward and silly. More importantly, I would lose a fantastic proofreader, muse, friend.

I'll fast forward through the details and fill you in on the important part: he loves me. What does that mean? The starving writer scenario only works for a single person! In my mind, I could not have both Mike and that beautiful lifestyle. I had to choose. 

That part was easy. 

Do I regret my decision? 

No. 

For starters, I am no longer addicted to caffeine and tobacco, although I sometimes miss those addictions. They were bad for me but they made me so bad ass. All the writers I had ever known had those two addictions (at the very least), not to mention a collage of cryptic, artistic tattoos and a thousand bizarre adventures that appeared in various noteworthy pieces, the kind that get read aloud at cool writerly gatherings. Those addictions granted me access to the literary circle of brilliant, compassionate, extremely intellectual Lesbian writers at UCSD! I felt like I belonged, at least for a little while. Alas, those were the days. The tradeoff: I have a nice job and have met excellent people. They too are caged birds singing their own songs, telling their own stories of how they never dreamed they'd end up where we are--in between dreams.

Being in between dreams is not a fixed state. It's constantly shifting, changing, fluctuating. It's called living. I now realize my dream didn't die--it changed course. It is still coming into its own, still finding its shape and rhythm. At twenty-five, my in-between dream looks like a corporate job in a glass building. I am grateful for it. What does the next stage of my dream look like?

*shrug* Only God knows.

Although my job, addictions, wardrobe, and city have changed, I will keep scrawling away, littering my fragmented thoughts and unfinished stories in countless journals (paper and electronic) until my chicken scratch turns into something beautiful.

Sprinkles

Me: I've been really into triple chocolate fudge cake with cream cheese frosting lately.

You: Oh goodness my hips just exploded at the thought.

Conversations like that make crazy days at work so much better.

Good night, Moon.

I. 1:54 AM.

I received a copy of my birth certificate in the mail a few days ago. Have you ever looked at yours? I actually got choked up. Twenty-five years ago, my parents claimed me. They said, "Yes, she belongs to us," and signed their lives away. My dad was 25, my mom, 19. My eyes traced and retraced her signature, lingering over the neat, vertical loops and the carefully calculated slant. How could she have known it was going to be hard? I don't want to continue writing about this because then I'll never go to sleep. I'll revisit this soon.

II.
I was born at 8:27 PM. There's an old wives tale that basically equates one's affinity for day or night with time of birth. If it's true, it explains why I have always loved staying up late. I did my best writing between 2 AM and 4 AM with a cup of coffee in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and nothing but the stars to keep me company. That was all it took to clear my mind. I would stand on my second-story balcony, unhinge my brain, and scatter the dust, ash, and noise into the blue-blackness of the night. Three years later, I've kicked the tobacco habit, I drink coffee in the morning like everyone else, and try to sleep at a decent hour every night. I feel so grown up. I wish I could feel grown up--be grown up--without sacrificing my nights. I miss standing on the balcony and listening to the world sleep. I miss sitting on the balcony smoking a cigarette in my underwear, brainstorming for my next writing assignment. I miss San Diego night skies the most, especially the 3 AM sky. It's a breathtaking sight--black velvet peppered with white-hot stars, and if you look closely and if the time is right, you can see Mars.

I found my best friend, my "husband of the future" while looking for Mars and other red things. It was an assignment from our Writing and Culture class. Do you know how difficult it is looking for red things at night? We walked around our neighborhood and searched for exciting red things; I was hoping for a little blood (at least dried blood) but didn't have any luck that night. I wanted to have the coolest "red" piece to share in class. We didn't see too many red things that were extraordinary. Red curbs, a dying balloon in his neighbor's living room, brake lights, his roommate's t-shirt, and the fuzzy red flowers growing on the tree across the street; they looked brown in the street light but I knew they were red, so I jotted them down anyway. The best part of that assignment was getting to hang out with Mike. I remember sitting on a cold, hard curb beneath a brilliant 3 AM sky talking about life, smoking cigarettes, and looking for Mars. I remember thinking a few things:

1. I hope I stay friends with him forever.
2. I can't believe we're friends because he's effortlessly cool while I don't even make an effort to regularly shave my armpits, which makes me uncool.
3. I am BUTT TIRED because it's 6:15 in the morning but I don't want to be the one to say good night because he might realize I'm not very cool, and then he won't want to hang out with me anymore.

III. 2:48 AM

I am finally ready to go to bed.