She dreams in color

I felt young again as I raced down I-91 blaring "Even Flow" out the window of my old car. I was returning from a hot date with Pearl Jam, my grunge spirit fully revived. Despite an adventurous start to the night (who knew there would be about 20,000 drunken Connecticut frat boys dying to get in touch with their anti-establishment selves?), I found myself on a grassy field, in a cloud of marijuana, wrapped in the enchanting angsty sounds of Eddie Vedder's voice. The night was warm and clear. As I sat under the stars, soaking in the memories of my once marginalized underground existence, I became increasingly nostalgic for the rock-n-roll passion of these songs. Although I might have missed the height of the grunge movement by a few years, I still sported my fair share of flannel shirts. I too shielded by face from the voyeuristic unforgiving cruel world with long unkempt hair. Life, it was full of pain and full of music that connected us tortured souls. I know I am undoubtedly in a better place now, but man, did it feel good to once again rock out to these soul-ripping melodies.

Lasts - 2

I am all alone at work now. All alone because my commiserating friends are officially gone, and now I am left to miserate about this heartless academic abyss without the com-. This feels like everyone has graduated with their shiny diplomas, but I have to take an extra semester. The three-week countdown has definitely started.

I have a pretty bad case of workaritis; I just don't seem to care much about most of the things I'm supposed to care about. My replacement follows me around day after day, diligently scribbling notes about all the logistical details I keep spewing left and right. It's a good feeling of responsibility displacement. Plus, it's summer, which means that everyone's work ethic decreases by 30%, at least.

I probably should be spending this time honeymooning at the beach, but then again. Money only grows out of seashells in my dreams. Just kidding. In my dreams, money IS the seashells. And weapons are butterflies. And everyone emits rainbow auras of love and peace.

Dear stranger,

I woke up from a dream this morning with a heavy feeling of longing. Fresh sweet-tasting memories of you-as-friend lingered in my head, as though I could just reach over and hug you again with one of those loving awkward hugs. You know, the ones where you hesitate to lean in first, unsure which way the arms should wrap around, and then you just go for it and end up in a tight embrace. I liked those.

I rode my bike to work still in a dreamy haze. Unaware of the passing cars or the wind chilling my face, I focused only on the nice surreal feeling of seeing you care, seeing you open up. Ah, that nice surreal feeling. And all throughout the day I tried to jolt myself back to reality: you are gone, mentally and emotionally gone, and you are not coming back. The end.

Then, I came across this while lurking at PostSecret. It was exactly the wrong thing at the right time for me. I know there is close to 0% chance you could ever think anything like this, but it was just the false hope I needed.

So all this is to say: please come back and hug me awkwardly again.

Stranger than strange,
A familiar remnant

With this ring

I haven't written in a while, and yes, a lot has happened and changed and turned my world upside down. One event stands out in particular:



June 14th was a crazy joyous amazing whirlwind, but at the end of the day, I went home with my best friend. And I know, with him, everything will be ok.