delirious.

I haven't given much of a life update lately, so here are some bullet points.

-This is the best summer of my life. Easily. Every day here is the best day of my life. 

-I am moving in approximately seven days. To where? I have no idea. With whom? My two dear friends A and B. And a giant black dog named Stella. Say hello to family sing-a -longs, cuddle puddles, and riotous dinner parties. If we find a place. If not we'll be homeless, or squatting. Three therapists under one roof. Aye Ca-rumba.

-July has been a shit show. SHIT. SHOW. I have no idea why my body hasn't just completely shut down. I'm loving it. Minus the sleeping a total of ten hours in a span of five days. That shit's got to end. Luckily I clocked about ten hours of sleep last night, so I'm basically recharged for the week.

-I am LOVING my current summer school class. It's Family Counseling and it makes me never want to do individual counseling again because so much of what people struggle with in themselves is directly related to the issues in their families of origin. Oh, the webs we weave.

-I bought myself a Thermarest for my birthday because there was one on sale for $55 on Steep&Cheap. I am SOOOOO excited for my next backpacking trip. Mostly because I have been near freezing every other trip this summer. Comfort is going to be oh so lovely.

-My best friend C is back in Montana. Hello heart happiness. I'm having palpations just thinking about it. She just gets me and now we're together again. Heyo!

-I went to see the Heartless Bastards on Saturday night. Which means they were sold out and I snuck in. FO FREE. Huzzah. The show was amazing. If you haven't heard any of their stuff, you owe it to yourself to check them out. Right now.

-I'm having a fling. We'll call the him The Professor, because, well, he has his PhD ( In Radical Economics. Hi HO Marxist!!!!!) and teaches at a college. Not my college, which means that he left today.  It's been fun and it's not serious which is perfect because I am in no place to actually be dating another human yet. He's handsome and tall and does all these extreme things like surfing and mountain biking and fly fishing. The other night we played scrabble and fell asleep watching a movie. Other nights we double date with his best friend and my girlfriend B and get riotously drunk while having heated debates about our ideological differences. A girl could get used to this. Alas, all good things must end, so this fun had a shelf life. Unless..... Stay tuned.

- I've taken to riding my bike pretty much everywhere. And spending afternoons at the beach. I'm basically a filthy, dirty, deliriously happy person. I'll take it. 

to no one, anymore.

I want you to call me. Or text me. Or show up at my house. That's what I want.

I want you to feel so compelled to be near me, to touch me and talk to me, that you find me. You sniff me out in the air and somehow know what direction to go to get to me. 

I want to feel challenged by you and I want you to make me feel beautiful. At the same time. I want to feel confused and safe and wary in the same instant and for you to feel the same way. But to reach toward me anyway. I want to be burned and blistered by you and then have you rub aloe onto my wounds. I want it to somehow feel like a constant contradiction and only make sense to me and you.

I want to be able to touch you whenever I want, but secretly, because I don't want anyone else to know how desperate I am to feel your skin. How desperate I am to make sure that you're real and within my proximity. To test the texture and and heat of you.

I want to lose you at parties. I want to be having a conversation with someone interesting and attractive and to catch your eye across the room and I want us to have a look for each other that means "I can't stand you so far away from me, lets meet up in five minutes in that hidden corner and run our fingers and tongues all over one another and then let's lose each other until we give this look this way again."

I want it to be tawdry, and I know it will be. I know it will be explicit in a way that is new to me. I don't care. I want to feel like I'm falling right now. I want to be falling into nothing. I don't want to float, I want to plummet. I want that feeling in my stomach when gravity hits you hard because you're in a long drop. I want to feel nervous to see you in the instants prior to your arrival and I want you to pat my behind and whisper something stupid in my ear like "Nice shades," and then talk to everyone else before you come back and really say hello to me. Because that's how you are and I like the way you are. You can ignore me initially, but I will use the sheer force of my will to draw you to me, trust. 

I want to lie on blankets in the grass at parks and watch you smile when you talk and admire how handsome you are, even if your legs are too skinny. I want to argue back and forth sarcastically and get flustered and raise my voice and live in that place that never has to be too serious, because there are many things in my life that are serious enough. And I want to see you pet dogs that wander our way and speak to them like they're human children, and then watch you lose interest in them and discard them like a human child would do, because that is just the way that you are. 

I want to lie with you in bed with the windows open and no clothes on in afternoon light and to make a tent out of the sheets. That is when I will really look at you. That is when I will really feel safe to openly stare, when we're lying there under a tent of legs and light fabric and no one else is around to see. I don't want anyone to know the depth of my adoration for you, I couldn't bear it. It's important to me to keep this private, you see. 

I want you to make me food, entire meals, and I want you to feed them to me in bed with your hands, even though the thought of that is actually kind of disgusting. I want disastrous spills, where we both jump up and rip the blankets off of the bed as fast as we can and then laugh hysterically because it doesn't really matter and anyway we're a couple of naked assholes with sticky, soggy, blankets. And then I want us to sit on the bare mattress and finish eating. And when we accidentally fall asleep half-sitting-up, I want to wake with a crick in my neck, but I won't dare move because I'm resting my head on your bare chest and it's a perfect moment. Yes. That is something that I want. 

I want it to feel dangerous and risky sometimes. I want to sometimes be mad at you for being distant and acting too cool just so that I can be relieved when you do something unexpected and nice or say my name the way that I like it to be said. In just the right tone of voice. In love, I can be very forgiving, but it doesn't even have to be love, I don't need that. I only care about magnetism right now. I want to be pulled. I want to pull you as hard as I can without you even realizing it. You're already pulling me. 

I want to watch you when you're busy. You're a very busy person. Always creating an atmosphere or starting a riot or bringing cohesion to the group of people who are thrown together randomly. I want to see you being busy and make whatever task you've set your mind to more difficult, on purpose. And I want you to act or actually be annoyed by it, but to want me anyway. I want to be the person who makes being the way you are harder and easier at the same time. I don't want to save you, I never want that to be my job, but I do want to make you want to be better. More than better, though, I want you to be happier. It sounds noble to say that, but I'm not trying to be noble, I just have no use for more unhappy people. I want you to be happier, selfishly, for me. Okay, part of it is true, I do want to be the person that makes you happier. I do want to be partially responsible for the swing in your step. You've got a good step.

I want to ignore your habits and stew about them in private. I want to worry in my own way without you knowing it. I want to be withholding sometimes because the things you do are sometimes foreign and scary to me and I want you to know that you scare me without drawing attention to it. You can make it up to me some way other than changing. I don't want you to change. I don't want to be held responsible for you feeling as if you need to be more responsible. Responsibility is a bitch, anyway.

But, I do want to make you do things you probably never do, like play scrabble or watch movies. I bet you never watch movies. I bet you don't have the attention span for it. But I want to try to make you watch a movie and act annoyed when you talk through the whole thing or try to get my attention. I'll act like I'm ignoring you and really focus on the movie and then you'll pull out the big guns and reach into my underwear and I'll sigh and roll my eyes and give you my attention reluctantly, but I'll be elated that you even want it. 

I want you to teach me how to fly fish or teach me one of your other hobbies and I want to be a natural at it because you're not a patient person and neither am I. I want to be good at the things you are good at, and I want you to be impressed by it. I don't need you to act impressed, though. I just need you to want to be around me. To need to be around me. Not all the time, just when I want you to be. I want you to have your own life, I want to get to keep my own life and all my freedom. I think we're a lot alike in that regard.

I don't want to be a burden to you. I know you throw out dead weight quickly. I will be light and breezy, I promise. 

I just want so much.

27.

Yesterday was my birthday. It was an absolutely stellar day, and I am now 27 years of age. I've got some plans for 27, but you know, I think the past year deserves a little tip of my hat. So here we go.

26, man. 26 was a great year. You know, all that growth and stuff I did. I moved to Montana with stars in my eyes and she took me in and gave me a home in this valley of five mountain ranges. No place has ever felt quite this way for me before, and I'm grateful for the risk I took and the homesickness that sometimes washes over me for the ones I left trailing in the rear-view. They're still part of me, and I miss them, but 26 showed me that out of sight does not mean out of mind or heart. 

26 helped me learn how to cry again, as much for joy as for sadness, and gave me these interesting people with beautiful souls who have become my family. 26 made me realize how important community is to me, and it also unearthed more mysteries about myself than I'll probably ever be able to solve. I've been more free to own myself than ever before, uninhibited by expectations of those who have known me as I clawed my way into becoming an actual person. Some people don't need that kind of distance to own themselves, but I did, and that's okay. 

I broke up with my best friend during my 26th year, after trying to hold us together for eight months of living apart across the country. It's a loss like nothing I've ever experienced, but I'm learning from it, too. How you can love a person and not be able to be with them. How grief can look different for everyone, and how I avoid it by refusing to let myself be alone when I'm sad. Even when being alone might be just what I need. I'm not there yet, if peace is a destination, but I can at least call myself on my own bullshit a little more, rather than depending on someone (everyone) else to do that for me. 

The chaos of my life has swelled and also ebbed in the past year. I'm half-way through training for a career that feels more like a journey of life's work than a commute and a time clock. Some days I spring out of bed in awe of my new skills and others I hide under the covers and doubt every conversation I'll ever have as a counselor. And then, no matter what, I try harder anyway. I am the most dogged person I know at times, which means I'm can be unhealthily competitive, but also that pain and fear can't paralyze me. I prefer to build the little dwelling that houses my soul directly in the middle of the chaos. I know that now, and I can make it work. 

26, yeah, 26 was one doozy of a year. I'm bruised and battered by the wind and the blows life has thrown, but I'm also sun-tanned and smiling. I'm surrounded by music and laughter and plumes of smoke from the tip of my cigarettes and the near-constant campfires I sit around. Even some occasional humiliation. Okay, more than occasional. It's all part of the story. I just hope 27 can keep up. 

backpacking. 

birthday boating. yowza. 

These people are all ridiculously talented at playing music. I mostly just hang out.

girl gone bad. part 2: a half-assed conclusion.

I know I have a part two to write regarding my run-in with the law, but let's face it, I'm not always good with finishing things. The long and the short of it is basically that the judge joked around with me, gave me the smallest fine possible, and told me that I can get the speeding ticket taken off of my record all together in December because I seem like a good driver and 'We don't like to treat all drivers the same.' Which seems a tad strange (racist/unfair), but I'm not complaining because it has benefited me in this instance even though the woman in front of me in line had pretty much the same issue and she got the fuck fined right out of her. That doesn't sound right. She had to pay a lot of money. Also, the judge just glanced at my insurance card and was all "This really isn't legit, but I am just going to believe you that you have insurance because you seem like you have it together.'

Ha, sucker.

Aaaaaaanywho. I call my dad afterward and I'm like "Dad, I need to have the insurance people send me a better card, they told me my shit wasn't valid.' And then I'm like, 'Did you renew my policy? They haven't done that direct debit thingy for my payment for a couple of months.'

Turns out he DIDN'T renew my policy because I'm almost 27 years old and I need to learn how to handle my own shit.

So I actually don't even have insurance.

But the judge just BELIEVED me that I did.

So, I'm basically above the law.

Not really.

But kinda.

I was going to write something else, but that took a turn and got strangely longer than I anticipated.

So that's it. Bye bye.

girl gone bad. part one.

I recently had my first brush with the law. Well I mean, not really my FIRST brush with the law, but basically my first brush with the law since I stopped peeing all willy-nilly in public and shouting at strangers when I'm drunk and driving my car too fast. Not at the same time. I'm an idiot, but not the drunk driving kind. That shit is seriously idiotic. I live in Montana now, the speed limit is like 75, I really don't need to go faster than that. Plus my car REALLY doesn't like being pushed faster than that. I don't like to test her, she's getting old and rickety. 

Anyway, this particular brush with the law occurred one morning as I'm crossing the bridge over the Clark Fork River, which bisects Missoula. It's a very popular bridge, and I have hella bad luck with it. I've even run out of gas on it before. I loathe the thing. Anyway, I'm all hungover and trying to make it to the gas station AND make it to work on time AND talk to my friend Erin about my epic previous evening. So I'm not really paying attention to my speedometer. I roll into the gas station, totally oblivious, and when I look up, I've got Johnny Fucking Law behind me with his lights flashing like a bad disco party. 

And I'm like "Shit," because obviously. 

So Johnny saunters up to my window, which is parked at a gas pump at this point and requests the usual. So I grab my license no problem and then I open my glove box to grab my insurance card and registration.... and all I have in there is like an entire deck of Cranium playing cards. I'm not kidding. Cranium. What the fucking fuck, right? 

Anyway, I direct my attention back at the officer and I'm all apologetic and kind of panicking because I honestly have no idea what happens to people who don't have that shit with them and on the ready. I've never to my knowledge not had this shit on the ready, except now I realize I haven't had it for at least ten months, so that's responsible of me. 

Anyway, Johnny takes my ID and tells me I can go ahead and pump gas while he runs my plates. Which I realize as he's walking back to his motorcycle are FUCKING EXPIRED. In this moment I begin to have an existential CRISIS because what the hell is wrong with me? My new plate, that my father so kindly renewed for me, is sitting on the table in my fucking breakfast nook with all my unopened bills and other important documents that I've chosen to ignore up to this point. 

I am officially failing at being an adult. FAILING. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars. 

Whatever. 

So Johnny Law heads back up to my window and at this point I'm SUPER glad I showered that morning and didn't reek of booze for this chance encounter with law enforcement. He explains to me that I was going 37 miles an hour in a 25 zone on the bridge, which is super uncool.  He also tells me that he's just giving me a warning for the registration being expired and for not having my insurance card handy.

So I'm like thank jeebus, whew, so glad I'm not getting carted off to jail this morning. What a relief, I am not even mad about the ticket, I'm just glad they don't throw you in jail these days for failing to be an adult at age 26. 

And then I start my car and go on my merry way to work. 

BUT WAIT. 

This is the part where I reveal just HOW FAR behind the learning curve I actually am, you guys. 

Because in glorious Montana, you only get two weeks to get your shit together and pay your tickets. Since I'm me though, I don't even look at the damn thing again for THREE WEEKS. 

Whoopsie pooooooopsies. 

I realize that little gem of knowledge and I'm once again like, "Shit." So I decide to walk my happy ass right down to the municipal office, which I found out is where you pay tickets thanks to google, and I prepare to just handle this in person. You know, be like "I just realized this is a teensy bit overdue so I just stopped by in person to take care of it to prove I'm really sorry and appeal to your soft side with my sad apologetic look, kthanksbye." And then just bounce. 

But when I get there, a very curt woman who someone has unfortunately placed in a position of some moderate amount of power just looks sourly at the insurance card I place in her grabby little hands and shakes her head. She's really hung up on the fact that there is no date provided on my insurance card. And I'm like "What do you want me to do, this is what they sent me in my packet? That's the only fucking card I have, lady." Only without the curse words or attitude. And then I offer to CALL MY AGENT and have them fax over a letter of proof of insurance since my card is apparently inadequate. 

But no. Bridge troll with too much power decides she doesn't want to deal with me. So she says "I'm just going to send you in to talk to the judge. Courtroom two around the corner."

At this point, I am actually dumbfounded. 

I am not a criminal. I don't fucking stand in front of judges and wait to be bitch slapped by the long arm of the law. I'm just a simple girl for the Midwest who says 'Yes, Sir" to authority figures and has the decency to look away when I roll my eyes at them. I don't belong in here with these petty criminals at municipal court! This is an abomination!

So I walk in and take my seat and there are only like three people in front of my waiting for their judgement to be handed down, which is nice. But it also allows my some time to develop a serious sweat problem, a serious tremble, and some seriously clammy hands. 

To be continued....

she's back again. glory, glory!

When I woke up this morning and I realized it was July, my heart did a backflip. The thought itself was like that full-body stretch that feels so good first thing in the morning. You know, when the sun is beaming in through the shades and you don't really have to get out of bed for several more minutes, so you can really just enjoy the comfort without moving. July is a perfect, luxuriously relaxed morning. July is my spirit animal. July is what I wait eleven other months just to get back to. And here she is again. 

It's kind of become a tradition, this tribute to my favorite 31 days of the year:

More July Love!

I can't help it, though. Some people just don't understand my love of sticky thighs and melted ice cream. I try not to fault them, I just can't empathize with their misery. There's something beautiful to me in a time when everything melts. When glasses sweat as they try in vain to keep cool the beverages they contain. It is legitimately dangerous to leave chapstick in your car and you have to take care when reaching for the seat belt. 

Something about the days seem longer in July, like they're swollen, stretching to contain more life, more activity. Sure, I do my fair amount of lazing about in lovely July, but there's plenty of time. I float in rivers and lakes and do my best to burn myself to a crisp. July can stand to let me be lazy, it hugs its days around me and lets me pack more laughter, shouting, howling into every day. We're kindred, this month and I. 

I try to keep a popsicle in my hand for most of July, my teeth and tongue stained pink or blue or purple. I try to groom as sparsely as possible and wear sunglasses constantly. In July I sing the loudest to the music in my car and refuse to dine indoors. 

Some folks aren't fans of a constant layer of sweat keeping them damp. Some don't like how their skin and the skin of anyone deemed worthy of a kiss tastes like salt. I am a fan of both. July is sexy, it is voluptuous and tawdry, and occasionally the best kind of miserable. In the winter I'll go days, weeks, without touching anyone. Not in July. In July I feel pulled to put my skin on the skin of others any time it is possible. I can't help it, I'm magnetized. 

July is the store of good energy that I try to build up as much as possible so that I can survive the winter months. I am like a hibernating grizzly in the winter, July's heat is the sustenance that gets me through to spring. 

July makes it more difficult to be self-conscious. It's so uncomfortably warm at times that it's just not even worth it to try to wear pants or sleeves. But that's perfectly alright, because July also makes everyone look more beautiful. There's a magic in it for me, a sprinkle of pixie dust or a spell that I fall under. I find myself accidentally striking up conversations with strangers and going out of my way to help wherever I can. So, if you need a favor, you've got 31 days of my unabashed delight to come to your service.

I don't need sleep, I don't even really need food. I don't really need anything in this hallowed time. My desires are pretty much limited to hot sunshine and chilled beverages. Sweat and strained muscles. The good kind of tired. July allows me to become easygoing, unfussy. My best self. So now, I'm off to do that. To frolic outside and spread all this joy exploding from my heart.


Thank you, July.

you.

Ready? Ready set go. Here's a tour of our life. In a blur, speed lines trailing behind, all lit up like fiber optics. This is not an exhaustive history. God, I'm exhausted. Don't expect any order, you know I'm not a linear thinker. I remember everything, I promise.

You know all about my freakish memory. You were there when I gave the maid of honor toast at my sister's wedding. My first memory, clear as day, was the day she was born. I stood there, teetering a little, champagne in hand, and tried to hold my voice steady as I told 500 people what I'd never just managed to tell my baby sister. How pivotal she is to my existence. How much I love her. That meeting her was the first thing to gain enough traction to stick into my developing mind. I wasn't even three years old. You were there for that speech. You were sitting right next to me. You were a groomsman that day. You were part of my sister's wedding. You were my date and my backbone. You squeezed my hand and smiled at me afterward and that's how I knew I hadn't fucked it up. I nailed it. What a relief. You are the relief. You're the check-in. I swear if I tried to have that procedure from Eternal Sunshine to delete you, the past ten years of my life would be gone. Glaring, gaping, empty you-shaped holes. I remember everything.

This one wasn't that long ago. We were together, at least. You'd send me pictures of the turtles you rescued from the middle of the street while you were driving around on country roads for work. You're so stoic most of the time, you know. Damn it, like the only thing you had feelings for in abundance was me. You're a softy, though. You saved those little guys, couldn't bear the thought of their shiny bodies becoming speed bumps for some soccer mom or idiot teenager driving too fast. Any person that pulls over to the side of the road to rescue a turtle on a hot summer day, that's a person I want to know. That's a person I want to associate with. Then again, I would have loved you anyway. I already did. 

Things are weird, and I don't know how to deal with it or make it better, but the distance between us has never been greater. It's an abyss and we're standing on opposite edges and I can't even shout across it. It feels cold. Mostly I associate the time before we were together as summer, but this memory, this one is chilly, dreary, gray.  I'm 22. You're dating Her. She 'knows how you used to feel' about me, so we don't really spend time together anymore. Not like we used to, driving around aimlessly for hours every night whenever I blew through town. But for some reason you agree to meet me and we go to McDonald's and glance awkwardly at each other and push food around on our paper wrappers. Not a whole lot of eye contact is happening. We're not laughing. I hate it when we're not laughing. I'm trying to talk about anything but Her, and you seem to be doing the same thing. We've got all these things we can talk about, anything, really. But we're not saying a lot and it's excruciating. The last time we hung out we both got drunk. And we kissed. And you crashed on my parent's couch. We stayed up watching shitty reality shows all night because at least we were spending time together. That was right around the time you met Her. Whoops. We go to a store after we eat, like a warehouse with junk and trinkets and statues and shit. You buy Her a little porcelain unicorn. Actually, you forget your wallet, so I buy her the goddamn unicorn. I drive you back to your car. You get in it and drive away. It feels like a punch to the gut when you don't even look back. You always look back. I've really made a mess of things this time.

We're driving to Nashville with D. All of us are under 21, I'm probably 19. We have my friend M buy us a bunch of cases of cheap beer and we hit the road. You guys drive three hours out of the way to come get me. God, you drove to come get me so many times from school. Remember that New Years Day when we cooked breakfast and I scrubbed the confetti stains out of the linoleum with bleach? That was the first time I ever saw you wear shorts. Your skin was so pale it looked otherworldly. We walked to the grocery store, which was mercifully open, and when we got back you whipped up hashbrowns soaked in beer while we listened to Sunday Morning Coming Down on repeat. But that's not part of this memory, fuck. It's just a splinter sticking out of it. I probably owe you $4000 in gas money from all the times you would just come and get me, just know I needed rescued for a day, night, weekend, however long it took until I could handle that place again. On this trip we're driving to Nashville and having exhausted the pitifully small amount of music we can all agree on, I'm forcing you to listen to Brand New. We thought the trip was going to take three hours, but we're on hour eight now. You've let me drive this gigantic diesel truck you borrowed from your uncle through a narrow construction zone, which was terrifying but made me feel like a badass. D didn't get to drive it. Now I'm back in the passenger seat. We've made D sit in the backseat because it's an unspoken agreement that the front seat is mine in any car of yours, regardless of the fact that you guys have been friends since you were five. We've been in the car so long that I'm starting to get loopy. Like, crawling-up-the-walls slap happy. I'm being so ridiculous that you're both looking at me like I'm an animal that has escaped from the zoo. I unleached, I fully unleached the crazy. And you took it. You just took it. Our first kiss was the weekend. We slept in a half-constructed tent in the rain in a campsite that was really only made for RVs. And then you drove me back to school and drove away. One of us is always leaving the other, it seems.

You're whiskey drunk and I'm really skinny. Depression-chic, from my breakup. It's J's going away party and we're down at IU drinking and carrying on, a bunch of us. The usuals. Some randos. Why am I not at school? Maybe it hasn't started yet. OSU started so much later than anyplace else. Your hair is long and stringy and I'm flirting with everyone. We're avoiding each other because you want to be with me and I know it and I've still got a broken heart from the guy I dated my first two years in college. You made it really hard to love him, but somehow I still did. It's my first real heartbreak so I feel like I'm bracing for impact on a moment-to-moment basis, my entire person is bruised, my entire essence feels whip-lashed and battered. But I feel pretty tonight. I'm tan and I'm wearing my favorite jeans and oh my god am I fucking thin. I feel like I'm attracting everyone. But not you. I'm avoiding an inevitable stand off. Suddenly your face is in my face and you're angry at me. You're shouting "I'm in love with you! Don't you fucking understand that? I am in love with you and there's nothing I can do about it!" And I'm getting angry because you're so drunk and causing a scene and now everyone knows you're in love with me and I'm the girl who refuses to love you back. I just keep yelling "I'm sorry," like I'm a bitch and don't mean it because you're pissing me off right now. Except, you know, I do love you back. I just can't do it. I just don't know how to be with you yet. I so didn't want to be the villian tonight. I was avoiding this confrontation with you. It has found me head-on anyway. I say I'm sorry some more and you storm off into the trees. I let you go. I have no idea what to say to you. You tear through the house when my high school boyfriend shows up with a bunch of weed, you hate him. You break the shower curtain rod in half and punch a hole in the wall and start throwing shit around when you find out I'm in there smoking with him. D looks at me like "Well, this is your problem. You did this." So I corral you into the bathroom and talk to you softly and hold your hair and rub your back when you vomit. Which you do, a lot. I put you into D's bed and crawl in next to you. When I wake up, you're sitting in the computer chair next to the bed with a blanket wrapped around you. It must have been too hard to lay so close to something you couldn't have. It broke my heart to hurt yours. It always has.

We're driving, god, we drove a lot. We're driving and I'm scratching the back of your head. You know the spot. The one you love. I'm running my fingers through your hair and we both wearing sunglasses. God I hated those sunglasses of yours. We're in the Chevy Aveo we rented for the weekend. You're in a great mood. We're on our way to St. Louis because I bought you tickets to see the Phillies for your birthday, months ago. For once I felt like a did really well on a gift for you, our seats are going to be killer. Usually on long car trips we've been getting into tiffs and spending a lot of time in a pissed-off silence. Not today. Today the weather is beautiful and we're going on vacation and we're in love. If you hadn't been driving I would have climbed into your lap and curled up in the warmth of the feeling. We make jokes at each other and talk about what we're going to do while we're in this new strange city. We're getting along, it feels like it has been so long since that happened, since it was easy. It's like we were best friends again. I could cry thinking about that moment. I'm crying thinking about that day. Fuck.

We've both smoked eight swisher sweets. We're cruising around singing duets together and trying to get lost on the country roads. Sometimes we succeed. We hit a huge puddle and we both scream. The engine gets wet and stream starts pouring out of the hood, so you stop the car. We get out of the car in the middle of nowhere and both walk up to the front, headlights still on. You're wearing a Phillies shirt that is too small and we're both looking up at the zillions of stars in the sky. All I want in this moment is for you to kiss me. The moment passes. We don't even touch. We slide back into our seats and practice blowing smoke out of our noses. We're probably old enough to drink, but we're not drinking. Kind of like that Christmas night when we kidnapped D and made him drive around with us until four in the morning. We kept fucking with him and we wouldn't let him fall asleep, which is what he tried to do when he realized that despite his pleas, we were not going to take him home. It was snowing and night time and we drove around the deserted downtown streets talking in Australian accents, cracking up at each other and our conspiring against D. Poor guy, he's such an easy target and we're an unbeatable team. But the cigars, we sit and practice smoking them in the Kroger parking lot. It is just what we did that summer. I'd wake up and my pillow would have that sweet tobacco lingering all over it. I'd be taken back for a moment to the night before while I was still balancing on that tightrope between awake and asleep. Being with you was so easy, effortless. It made me so happy to not have to work for it.

I am the designated driver for you and D tonight, which never happens, so the novelty of it actually makes me not mind watching all of you drink all night. It's T's birthday and we go to this bar his family owns in this tiny little town in the middle of nowhere that I've never been to before. It's dark and I'm just part of the caravan driving out there, so that's easy enough. It's a dive bar, which is fun. You're all drinking whiskey and having a good time and we make D go up and dance with some random middle aged woman. Pictures are snapped. The Skunk Holler Band comes on and more people are dancing. I do one shot of whiskey with you guys when we first get there, but mostly I'm laughing a lot and taking it all in. This wannabe cowboy from high school somehow shows up and asks me to dance. I say no at first, but eventually acquiesce. I'm not a good dancer. I'm talking to this guy uncomfortably, he's being too forward, thinking about how I'm going to make fun of him to you when this song is over. I glance over at you and we lock eyes. You storm out. I could leave him standing there, I know you're mad at me and I should go smooth things over. But part of me is just a little pissed off. I'm not your girl. I'm just a girl. I'm just your friend. You don't get to throw fits every time I talk to another guy.  Eventually the song ends and I walk out into the warm night and you're leaning against the building, a lot more drunk than I thought you were. It wasn't much after that when you stopped drinking whiskey all together. It doesn't do good things to you. I step toward you and you're seething, you're so angry. We're not really talking, but suddenly you're yelling and you punch the wire cage that holds propane tanks. The sound is high and hollow. It's broken, your hand, I know it instantly. You've got to stop punching things when you're mad at me. You cradle your mangled limb in the other arm and that is when I know it's time to go home, wherever that is right now. I wrangle D and get you both into the car. You're on the passenger side whimpering and fading in and out of consciousness. I play all of our songs and sing my parts at the top of my lungs to try to keep you awake. D is saying asinine things in the back seat and I'm ignoring him. I'm kind of lost because I've never been here before, so I'm leaning forward, gripping your steering wheel and squinting into the darkness. When I finally see something familiar I almost shout for the relief of it.  I don't know why I have this effect on you. I don't understand it. I'm nothing special to anyone else.

I walk in the door and throw my keys on the shelf. The dog bounds up to me, all 150 pounds of her at full force. I give her the obligatory hello scratch and head to the bathroom to wash my hands. I'm so allergic that if I forget to wash my hands I'll be hitting my inhaler in less than five minutes. But we're living together, so I'm making it work. I'm getting allergy shots every week and she's not allowed in our bedroom. It's working. I come into the kitchen and you're making bacon, back turned to me. You're making dinner. Our dinner. I bury my head in your neck and shoulder and you turn to me, bear hug me, crack my back, kiss me hello. You taste like the sun has been beaming on your face all day. Burning sunshine. We have our routine, and it's good. You cook dinner, we watch our shows and hang out for a few hours until I go to sleep or go read. We're building a life of sorts, I never realized how much of everything we have to make up as we go along. Right now, it feels good. 

I'm drunk, again. And I've been smoking cigarettes, which is going to cause a major argument. Something is wrong with me but I can't explain it to you because I don't even understand it. Getting drunk with Erin on random Tuesdays after work feels good, though, and not a whole lot else does right now. I get home and you're in front of the TV and I know it's bad because only your eyes move to look at me when I come in the door. Usually you look at me with your whole body, especially if you haven't seen me in several hours. You're angry. I figure I should maybe try to disguise a little bit of the drinking and smoking, so I just run into the bathroom really fast like I've been holding my pee in for three days. I'm fully aware that we both know I'm not fooling anyone. But at least I'm trying. I jump in the shower and brush my teeth and when I get out, you're in bed with the light out. You don't turn to me when I get into bed and it scares me a little. What am I doing to us? Why am I doing it? 

I am twenty five and we went to a wedding last night, which means I'm hungover as fuck and you're driving my car back in the direction of home. It's been an okay morning, rehashing last night's events and saying goodbye to my college friends. I was a bridesmaid. I had an awesome hair day. All was well. We woke up in a bed with a feather comforter that felt like a cloud. It was luxurious. The night before the wedding we stayed in a smarmy motel by the airport because it was cheap, but that wasn't even too bad either. We just really get along well when we stay in hotels. It's probably the sex in a different environment. Whatever, it's been a good weekend. But as soon as we get into the car, I am unable to function. I insist that I am dying the way that I always do when I have too much to drink the night before and you matter-of-factly inform me that I am not, in fact, dying. The way you always do. Something in that transaction always makes me feel better, like you really know me and still care enough to placate me on the most basic level. I demand we stop for provisions and you run in to the gas station to get me beverages. When you come back out, you've procured me no less than four different drinks. Because you know me. Because you know how I get when I get too thirsty and I don't have exactly what I need to quench it, which is bratty and insolent. With the right person, even feeling like you're dying doesn't have to be the worst thing. 

I haven't told you that T and I are back together and I have no idea how I am going to break the news. It's summer and I went back up to the island after graduation even though I knew it wasn't the right choice. It was what I wanted, so I did it. That's pretty much how everything happens for me which means I'm a pretty selfish person. You came to my graduation, drove three hours with my two best girlfriends, who you barely know, to see me for a couple of hours, sit in a sweltering stadium for an afternoon, and hang out with my family. T dumped me three days before my graduation because he didn't want to have to buy new clothes or meet my grandparents. Still, this is who I am choosing to give my heart completely. You already know my grandparents. You already know everyone. You already love me back. Anyway, T and I are back together, or at least we're sleeping in the same bed every night and hanging out with the same group of friends at the same time, which we were basically doing anyway, just with a much more tense flavor to it. Anyway, you've just driven five hours to come and see me. M is here too, you both decided to visit at the same time, which is great, but a little weird too because I won't be able to fully devote my attention to either one of you. Plus I've got this boyfriend who really isn't that nice to me, but for some reason I believe him every time he promises he's going to change. You hate him already. God, you're the best teammate. If it's ever the end of the world and we have to pick teams, you're the first person I'm going to pick. You're so loyal. You meet him and it's awkward and I force him to come to dinner and I can tell the instant it dawns on you that we're together. You close up completely. You're already shy, but now there is no getting in. Luckily T is underage, so at least you and M and I can go out to the bars together, just the three of us. I feel so horrid about not telling you that I am back together with T that I get stupendously drunk. You try to come upstairs with me to help me get my shit together and get into bed, and suddenly my boyfriend has his first moment of semi-lucid chivalry in the entire course of our relationship. He asserts his dominance or desire to act in the role of caregiver and I wake up the next morning next to him. He told me years later that he always felt intimidated by you, even when I'd only bring you up in casual conversation. Sometimes people just know when they're outranked. You decide to leave earlier than expected, so I drive you to the ferry in my friend J's car, half drunk again. You confront me about T and I brush you off, give some bullshit excuse about it being easier than being mad at someone I have to deal with every day. I can't bear to tell you that I'm so in love with him that I am drowning. I am a sinking ship. You never should have seen me here. I am in this phase the least lovable I've ever been and I know you're leaving because you can't stand to see me this way, with him. I don't blame you, but I'm not coming with you either. I won't' be saved. As with most things, I have to figure out a way to do that for myself. 

We're driving to the movies. I am seventeen. You are driving. You're always driving. We're playing the padiddle game and it's the best because you get so animated and you're never animated, as far as I can tell. It's hilarious to me. It's a very competitive game, we get worked up on purpose because there is too much energy bouncing around the car. It's spewing out of us so rapidly and whirling around us, trapped in the vehicle, no place to go. It's dark out and we're going to the movies and we're just friends but you're becoming my best friend and the summer is almost over which means I'm leaving for school soon, but we're not talking about that. We don't talk about that. You're smiling over at me and arguing with me and for some reason I break the force field between us. I reach across our seats and I put my hand over your mouth to stop you from talking, to quiet you so I can argue louder. Really, it's just because I have to touch you. I'm being drawn to you. I had to touch your lips with some part of my body or I was going to explode, spontaneous combustion. That's the only time we touched that entire summer, I think. The tickle fights and bruises came the next year. That's the first time I touched you. It felt like getting struck by lightning, in a good way.

These are nothing. These are tiny, miniscule. These are grains of sand. There are literally millions of them. They build up, I find them everywhere. Like dust, it's settled over everything. Like a universe stuck on one of the lenses of my glasses. You're gone and I feel unmoored, unsteady. Sometimes I feel nothing and it's a relief and it's wretched at the same time. I keep myself so occupied on a moment-to-moment basis that usually I feel okay or better than okay. But sometimes I'll be alone and I'll catch a flicker of a memory and I'll find myself frozen twenty minutes later, lost in the night we made fire biscuits or the way we fell asleep fully clothed two New Year's Eves ago when we shared that hotel room with my sister and her husband, or how you locked yourself in a broom closet at our fancy hotel in St. Louis. You taught me how to shoot a gun, you've attended more of my brothers' sporting events than I probably have, I've been to two of your grandmothers' funerals, and you've survived so many dinners with my family that you're not even considered a guest. My mother bosses you around with the rest of us. It's just a lot, you know. It's just the weight of pushing away someone who holds all of your context. I'll have to physically shake myself, like a dog coming out of water. I'm okay. I'm happy. I'm good. It's just so strange.