Wednesday, June 12, 2013

(you are reading this it makes me uncomfortable)

We drink champagne from tiny soda cans in black plastic bags and sit with our feet in the grass in a park. It is good to have friends.

I walk 25 blocks to the subway. The train is late as usual, so I pull Claudine from the front pocket of my backpack and thumb to Iron & Wine.

He bought me a green iPod nano for my birthday and I cried. Not because it is an iPod, but because of the reasons why. That he thought about me. That he invested money he does not have in making my commute that much more bearable. In my having access to music at all times.

Eight years ago someone else bought me an iPod, and I told him I could not would not keep it. I was afraid of how he would hold it over me, and he did hold it over me-- that I told him no. He followed me in my parents' navy blue caravan as I drove back to their house after last period; he bumped the nose of his car up against the back of mine as we drove down Midland, and in the rearview mirror I saw him laughing.

Eight years later and I say yes, I'm crying a little, I feel loved. So. Healing is not always planned.

After dinner I suck on a tangerine popsicle and point the fan at my feet to keep from melting. I left my favorite jar in the sink for two days and it grew enough mold that I decided to throw it out. I am sorry, environment. I will miss you, jar.

The thing that is special about me is me. If I ever have children I want them to know every day that they're a miracle. At the same time I want them to know that they will act like little shits at points in their life and they'll probably feel pretty shitty too sometimes and other people are for sure going to treat them like shit occasionally and that this, too, is part of the miracle. Because there is a chance that who knows how many years later all that shit will have fertilized one phenomenal garden. And that there will be music there.

When I am old I intend to dress in bright psychedelic dresses with wild updos and wear brown, rectangular glasses on a chain that wraps around my neck, and I will stand on my porch shaking a broom at kids walking by. Then we'll all have a good laugh and I'll invite them inside for lemonade, just like always, and they will tell me about the kids who are mean to them in school and the stories they're writing outside of it and I will say don't listen to them be yourself.