Fever

The most important decisions get made in that magical crescent between sleep and consciousness. Unless you really make an effort to impress them into your memory before you fog out into blackness and then dreamland, you never quite remember them in the morning. And I, fading in and out between the realms of sleep and awake all day, had quite a few important realizations.

I would like to say I am able to do everything. I am able to do quite a lot, which some people who know me well may regard as an understatement. Unfortunately, this weekend has proved to show that I am, in fact, quite human, and not capable of doing everything. It made its point by having a a cold sent straight from hell into my system on Wednesday, and it’s flattened me to my bed since Friday. (I’m not even kidding–it’s like a Flu Wannabe; all the usual sniffles and coughs are there, plus a tremendous lack of energy and a fever that won’t take no for an answer, despite taking Tylenol faithfully, something my kidneys I’m sure are grateful for.)  There is nothing like a good cold to remind you of your mortality.

So at any rate, this weekend Nature rang and left her calling card, a pointed warning for me to slow down. I got a human reminder too, in the form of a scathing, but well-deserved email, telling me to slow down. I forget, sometimes. I want to be everything to everyone at all times, but I forget that I can’t do the job as well, if I’m being asked to do twenty jobs. I also forget it’s bad for me, to keep saying “yes”, not just for me, but for everyone involved. It’s also good for my pride, to remember that I am not superwoman, and although I pride myself of being the queen of having it all together, I only stretch so far, and I shouldn’t ask myself to stretch that far. And usually, when I start to suffer from a swollen ego or show any signs of starting to get prideful, someone or something usually kicks it in the teeth and it goes right away. Something about Fate or Nature or my mother likes to keep me humble. It’s good for me, in the long run, although the lesson almost always stings when it’s being administered.

Fever dreams are odd too–full of bright flashes of color and noise, and then long, drawn-out episodes that seem to be repeating the same story over and over. You come back to the same themes and people and the same place, but it’s the same, yet not quite. They’re like stories your subconscious has been puzzling over for weeks, but couldn’t be bothered to inform your conscious about, but here you are now, with a 102.6 degree fever, past all dream barriers. You won’t remember the dreams when you wake up shivering, but you’ll have the funniest feeling about what you dreamed, and it’ll be an itch that’ll stay with you all day, until you go back to fever dreams later. And the fever itself, to feel your skin very warm and simultaneously feel like someone dressed you in wet clothes and stuck you out in the middle of a February snowstorm. You can’t stop shivering. You can’t get warm, and then all of a sudden, the seven or so blankets you’ve piled on are suffocating, and they’re all on the floor, until the next round of February snowstorm hits.

I read a lovely snippet from poet Andrea Gibson’s Tumblr on Friday, and I smiled, because it was so fitting.

It read:

say every fever

is a love note

to remind you

there are

better things

to be

than cool.

You can find the original here.

So yes, perhaps. There are better things to be than cool, and that I mean in all terms of the word. Perhaps this fever has reminded me there are more important things for me to do than worry about how others see me or how I measure up. I have always sailed my own ship, and I fully intend to be captain of a fleet one day.

Why I Write 2013

I write because it clears the cluttered rooms in my head. I write to be honest with myself. I write because I love to fill up a blank page. I write to improve my penmanship. I write to warn people I am not perfect, to avoid setting a standard I cannot meet. I write because I have always believed words will change the world and I want to be a part of that change. I write because I’m self-obsessed and I like to pretend my life is interesting. I write to tell stories for people who will never tell their own. I write because people tell me I’m good at it and I need that validation. I write to find my voice in the clamor and chaos of everyone else. I write because it’s one thing I can’t trip over. I write to admire. I write because of the way the late afternoon sun turns everything golden and the way the trees look covered in snow. I write because I read. I write to give back. I write for posterity. I write to invite others into my corner of the world. I write to become a better person. I write because I can’t imagine not writing. I write to fill a hole. I write to get to the bottom of the hole. I write to let my snarky, cantankerous eighty-year old self with her six cats out. I write to be braver. I write to make people laugh. I write so I can feel the hearts beating of those around me. I write so people can hear my heart beating. I write to understand what this life is all about. I write to find patience with others. I write to find patience with myself. I write to be a child again. I write to erase and rewrite and delete and edit. I write because it is a part of me, as much as my hands or feet or eyes. I write to be humbled. I write because I am arrogant. I write because it feels like praying on paper.

Why I Write 2011
Why I Write 2011 (part 2)
Why I Write 2009

Waking Up

I got to start my morning slow, that delicious slow waking up, where your consciousness suddenly blinks on, like flicking on a light, but you don’t open your eyes. Not just yet. You’re not ready. Instead, you flex your toes, crack your ankles, and work on waking your body all the way up, before your eyes open.

That doesn’t happen very often. Most days, my alarm jangles and buzzes and all but dances on my desk, in an effort to get me out of bed. I’m usually out of bed in one sweep of the blankets resentfully being tossed off and a deep sigh of regret. So I love being able to wake up slow, letting the eggshell light of the morning filter through the blinds, letting it develop into the white wintery light of early afternoon, drifting in and out of sleep, eyes opening at every hour interval.

I will be the first to admit it. I take my life way too fast. I plan weeks in advance. I live by the clock, by the deadline, by my planner. And despite this–or maybe because of it–I hate taking my mornings fast. I wake up an hour and fifteen minutes before I have to leave my house, just so I can shower, eat breakfast, and carry out my morning routine without much rush. Days where I wake up late are never good days. I carry a disgruntlement through the day, like I was cheated.

I have been back at school since the 18th of January. It’s the second of February and today is the first day since I’ve been back, where I could wake up slow, without any plans pushing me to Get up, get up, you great lazy lump, the day is calling and you’re supposed to be somewhere already. I edited a friend’s creative non-fiction piece, checked social media, my last.fm station is going, and I can hear my suitemates banging around outside my door. I will eventually get out of bed, but it’s so nice to write under the warm weight of six mismatched blankets and think about what I want to do today, because I have a choice.

There’s a party tonight, but I’m not sure if I want to go. It’s so cold to venture out to be with all the same people, doing all the same things I do every weekend, and my body has emphatically told me that it doesn’t approve of me drinking heavily anymore. Is this part of getting older? I think I understand my mother a little better now; she, the wild child in high school, who partied loud and hard and then suddenly, in her college years, sobered up and   left well enough alone. I never understood that sudden switch, but maybe now I do. Maybe we are all more like our parents than we want to admit.

I think I will make a cup of tea, curl up in sweatpants and a big sweatshirt on our futon, and not worry about showering for awhile. I’m going to enter this day slowly, at my own pace. I’m not precisely sure when I’ll get another day like this.

Scribbles

There is a cool wind breezing around the back of my neck, running the hair that has fallen out of my ponytail through its fingers. And I’m listening to this girl whose voice sounds so good-morning-bright-eyed and her eyes are so wide with wonder, as she talks about brave first lines. Her enthusiasm is sending a delicious ripple through the air and everyone, even me, is sitting up in their chairs.

I’ll admit: I’m irrationally jealous.

There is an animated discussion of Camus going on and everyone else but me has read this particular book—The Stranger—and I am reminded again of how inexperienced I am, how unformed and unread and uncreased and so horribly NEW I am.

I have never liked being a beginner.

I am surrounded by writers, with big, beautiful, brilliant minds, who look smart and are saying all these big, beautiful, brilliant things and I feel like a fake, like a little girl putting up her artwork on Mommy’s fridge.

But I’ve got words inside of me, and the night is beautiful and warm and windy, my favorite kind of night, so I scribble while the professor is talking, and here we are.

I have not written in awhile.

I have not written in awhile. I have had so many words filling up inside of me, little drips from the faucet, plink plunking into the stoppered-up sink, and I couldn’t release them. It’s been like watching food coloring swirl into clear water, the way it clouds and fills the glass, this strangely slow and beautiful process.

I have not written in awhile: I could not write.

I had to carry everything around inside of me, in this big jar of water and food coloring, and I had to let everything mix around and settle out. Anything I wrote I knew I was going to hate. It would be a lot of angsty, unhappy, overemotional writing that would make everyone around me very nervous and I would be “that girl”. I saved it for my journal instead.

I have not written in awhile. It is difficult to describe everything honestly. It is difficult to explain bad moods that have seemed to descend like a permanent cartoonish black cloud over my head. It is difficult to be honest with everyone, let alone myself, and writing, above all else, bares it all. I am exposed in my writing, naked and unprepared. I was not ready for that honesty. I am still not sure if I am ready for that honesty.

I have not written in awhile. I have needed to be alone. I have needed to think about a great many things, and cry a lot, and read good books, and do some angsty, overemotional, stream-of-consciousness writing. I have needed to rage at the world and punch pillows and lie in the snow and stargaze. I have needed to be selfish and self-absorbed and a horrible person for awhile. And I’ve been struggling with being a relatively normal, decent, human being with having this overwhelming need to be selfish and self-absorbed and horrible. I have needed time to take deep breaths and quell the panic that rises whenever I think about anything other than the next few hours, about all the things I am doing this semester, about all the fighting that is still happening, about all the things that haven’t been addressed and will never be addressed, even though it is poisoning friendships. I have needed to figure out what will make me happy, what will keep me sane, what will allow me to be a decent human being until I can go home.

I have not written in awhile. There has been nothing worth saying. And now, I think, it’s time.  It’s time for that honesty.  It’s time to pull the plug on the sink, to let everything drain out, swirling and disappearing into nothing.

I have three words that I’m using this semester.

I want.

I need.

No.

Things that I am very bad at saying. To everyone. I think that might be the key, after all.

I have not written in awhile.

But I’m starting now.

Elementary Steps

I’m sitting on a swing in the elementary school playground, shivering, looking at the stars. It’s the January thaw, toying with my emotions, as I swing my legs back and forth, the soles of sneakers grazing blacktop as they hit the ground.

My car is parked in the lot a few hundred feet away. That’s something I haven’t gotten to say before. I can drive now, finally got my license (ha), and I’ve come here to sit and think awhile. I’ve stargazed by these swings a multitude of times. The soccer field stretches out behind me, yawning memories and phantom shouts to my back. The track sits dark and silent to my right-we never could afford track lights-reminiscent of days from March to June spent running circles, sweating, forming team spirit, finally being a captain of track, being the senior girl that others looked up to.

I can’t call this my elementary school. I didn’t go here. My friends forget that I moved here in 8th grade. I wove myself into the mesh of their memories and pattern of small hometown life as tightly as I could. I never wanted to unweave, to be a stranger in this place. I wanted to belong.

I’m wishing on stars tonight. I saw Orion’s Belt for the first time a week ago in Long Island and felt a little comforted finding another structure in the constellations. I’m picking the biggest and brightest star in the sky and wishing for a lot of things. I get to be selfish with stars in a way I don’t let myself with people. I go back to college tomorrow. I get one more night to sit with the stars, close my eyes, take one more chance to process everything that has happened, and be quiet.

Being a kid isn’t easy, no matter what people tell you. Even as a five, six, thirteen, fourteen year old, you face your own set of challenges. They might not be “grown up problems”, but to you, right then, they’re as real as anything. But nights like tonight, I’m holding onto these swing chains of my childhood and trying to find the Big Dipper. It’s going to be little steps that pull and tug and tease me through the semester. Small incentives to make me take that last step. A lot of deep breaths and a lot of breathless runs.

I often bite off more than I can chew (this upcoming semester is a STELLAR example), but I have to remember to chew before I try to swallow, or I’ll choke.  I think we see the big picture sometimes and panic. We don’t think of all the little pixels that make up the larger picture. Sometimes, I forget the people that have been holding my hand all along. The tsunami in my heart washes everything away in a blind natural disaster of panic and I flounder. But then the skies clear–they always do, eventually–and someone steps into the surf and picks me up. Or I struggle to the shore myself, with strong, defiant strokes that I didn’t know I had in me.

I get tired, a lot. I get tired of the cattiness and pettiness. I get tired of people not telling me the truth and covering up their lies. I get tired of trying to figure out if someone is angry with me, or just having a bad day. I get tired of the fighting and screaming and yelling and crying. I get tired of navigating social circles and being the peacemaker. I get tired of the stupid drama that people find necessary to bring into everyone else’s lives. It makes me into a person I don’t like. And so I go away, for a little while. I go for a run and let the cold air sear my nose, my throat, my lungs, until I can’t breathe. I write pages and pages of blue. I plug in headphones and shut myself away until I can be a good, decent person again. I can’t fix everyone, but goddammit, I will try my hardest until my dying day. And through that, I fix myself, work out my own answers, find my own peace of mind.

Sometimes, you’ll find me in the gazebo at school late at night, stargazing over the valley. It’s centering, stargazing. It reminds you, in the grand scheme of things, all these funny little human squabbles don’t mean very much. I can feel my heart beating and I can see the stars at night, and that’s all I need for that first baby step.

Hold on, to me as we go.

Hold on, to me as we go.

I have held so many people this year. In times of loss and suffering, we extend a hand. We stretch out our arms. We touch each other. Flesh meets flesh. Fingers wrap around other fingers, a hand, an arm, a shoulder, and we are comforted.

As we roll down this unfamiliar road.

At my age, at our age, we don’t know where we’re going. We’re damn lucky if we do. So we hold onto each other. We take a lot of unfamiliar roads. Sometimes others can’t follow us down those roads and we take them alone. Sometimes we travel together and figure everything out as we go. Sometimes there’s no light where we walk and an unexpected person hands you a candle to light your way.

And although this wave is stringing us along

For some reason, death has been very present lately. My aunt passed in the beginning of December. The Newtown shooting occurred. Two dear friends are battling suicidal thoughts–death hovers in the wings, waiting, always waiting. I see the shootings and the war overseas on the news every night. And today, it all came crashing down, as I looked into a friend’s eyes, so ravaged with the pain of losing his brother on New Year’s Eve. And in this new year, such a bright light has already been extinguished. I am so blessed and lucky. I gather my family and friends in my arms and thank God every day now. But I turn my music, Home by Phillip Phillips begins, and the tears begin to stream. There has been so much loss, so much death, so much heartbreak lately. And it seems, that no matter what kind of a person you are, no matter how much you give and love and try, some nights are especially dark. And they stay that way for awhile. I cast my tiny spark into that darkness wherever I can, but there are nights when I can do nothing but double over and weep for all the pain in the world. For the pain I feel, for this world that is so good at killing and tearing people down, for the unfairness that bad things happen to good people.

Just know you’re not alone.

Never alone. That is why we extend our hands, stretch out our arms, why I held my friend today, tight and tighter, like my arms could take his pain away. I smiled through my tears–just know you’re not alone. What a degree of comfort there, to have someone to turn to. To have someone reach out and hold your hand. I am there. I will always be there. If someone needs me, I will be there. That is my promise to the world, to myself.

Cause I’m gonna make this place your home.

I have often said if I can bring a little more love into this world, raise a good family, give back the goodness I have found, I will have led a good life. I want to create a space of tolerance and love and compassion wherever I go, and I’ll know my little square of the earth is alright. One more square of the earth that isn’t bloody and dark and ugly. The world needs more love. Love is that tiny spark you cast into the darkness; a thousand sparks might catch on fire and burst into flame, igniting this world.

Settle down, it’ll all be clear.

A deep breath. A good cry. A night of unbroken sleep. Time away. Conversation with someone dear. Let the dust settle. Close your eyes. Write. This too shall pass.

Don’t pay no mind to the demons

We all have them. Those inner voices that tell you a multitude of things. Some of us have a larger fight than others. It’s taken me twenty years to close the door in their face, but sometimes they open the window. But I’ve learned to rise in the morning and raise my chin and toss my hair in defiance in the mirror. A coat of red lipstick and a spray of perfume and I’m armored against the demons that tell me I’m going nowhere, that I’m not pretty, or the host of other hateful whispers.  I laugh louder, give more, and plant my feet more stubbornly because of them.

They fill you with fear.

I will not be afraid in the face of this darkness. Kindness goes far. Love reaches wide. I will not let this fear cripple me. I will hold and love and give until the day I die.

The trouble it might drag you down

But that’s why we’re here. To pull you back up again. To re-learn again and again the resilience of the human spirit. To say “No” to the demons. To say “Yes” to holding hands and love notes and singing spontaneously and hugs.

If you get lost, you can always be found.

I always think of Sarah Kay’s poem “If I Should Have a Daughter” and her opening lines:

“Instead of mom, she’s going to call me “Point B”
Because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me.”

It’s not so hard to find someone. It starts by extending your hand and saying “Hello”. Let yourself be found.

Just know you’re not alone.

Never alone.

Let someone know you’re there for them. You never know who may secretly need it.

**Lyrics from Phillip Phillips “Home”; found here.

Happy 2013!: or how I spent my New Year’s Eve.

I’m sitting in a fancy dress and my mother’s pearls, sipping champagne. I’m laughing, phone forgotten, impervious to the darkness glaring into our lit room from the windows all around us. The fire is roaring in the other room, CNN is on, filming the masses shivering in Times Square to watch the ball drop. I was there last year, surrounded by my Australian oldie from exchange, my grand-oldie, and about seven or eight Germans. And this year, I’m surrounded by high school friends. We’ve all come home and we’re all gathered here. We’re a lot taller, high heels, dresses, and ties in abundance, champagne and wine bottles are scattered over the kitchen counter. The boys have opened up a few beers. We’re in our second or third year of college now. We still whisper and laugh about the same things, exchange secrets over red Solo cups, assemble unwillingly for a group photo. We flash our pearly whites for a second, for immortality; someday we might be showing our children this photo, lifting it carefully out of a weathered shoebox. We make funny faces, try to be serious, and break right before the camera flashes–“GODDAMMIT GUYS!”–and I slip my high heels off with a sigh of relief, letting my toes sink into the carpet.

We haven’t changed much. Not really. Our personalities might have blossomed or expanded since high school, but we haven’t changed fundamentally. I still spit my drink out accidentally (because I’m that awkward girl) as one friend starts a story indicating her interest in Judaism hasn’t changed. Some of us are still sneaking out the back to smoke in the backyard. We’re all more or less still single. We’re scattering to the far corners of the earth this summer, and it’s a little sad to think that we won’t have a gathering like this until next Christmas or New Year. We’re growing up, adults making small talk and eating fruit and cheese platters.

Thrift Shop, by Macklemore & Ryan starts blasting out of the speakers. We’re lining the walls, either casually watching the pong game, singing and dancing along to the music, or chatting under the music. I forget that we’re 21 (or almost 21) now, and it’s still weird that my mother accepts that I’ll be drinking to celebrate New Year’s, and lets me go. (“Make good choices!! Don’t let anyone drive drunk!” is what rings in my ears as I scurry out of the house, cherry cheesecake and overnight bag in hand.) 

“I LOVE THIS SONG!” someone screams and we’re all doubling up in laughter, the world a little askew and sparkling, like the champagne bubbling up in our glasses.

And then Opa Gangnam style comes on, and everyone is dancing, even those who don’t know the dance. I’m filming and cracking up. Two of the boys are reenacting the music video and I’m very careful not to drink anything else and spit that out too, because I’m laughing so hard. It’s loud and noisy and fun and suddenly, it doesn’t matter that we haven’t seen each other since the summer. We’re home. We’re old friends. Our social gatherings have gone from sleepovers and nail painting and gossip to social drinking and playing music and Truth or Dare Jenga. (Which by the way, adds a whole new level of terror to Jenga, if you’re wondering.)

Someone realizes it’s 11:55 later on and we screech and flood into the living room, to crowd around the TV and Anderson Cooper’s face. Kathy Griffin comments are being made and suddenly it’s 11:59 and some people don’t have drinks and we’re counting down seconds now.

“Run, run, run!” we scream, because it’s unacceptable to not have something to toast with, and at 11:59:35, she’s back, and we wait, and start screaming at 11:59:45:

FIFTEEN. FOURTEEN. THIRTEEN. TWELVE. ELEVEN. TEN. NINE. EIGHT. SEVEN. SIX. FIVE. FOUR. THREE. TWO. ONE.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!

And the room erupts in even more screaming and we’re toasting and hugging and yelling “Happy New Year!” Then someone starts singing Auld Lang Syne, and we all join in. So we’re bellowing Auld Lang Syne, half of us standing on the couch, half below, and it’s 2013, and it’s the perfect way to ring in the New Year.

Old Friends

In a way, I feel like I’m in a time warp.

We’re all crashed at Katie’s house, lolling over two sofas, with an open bag of Cheez Doodles and mountains of sugary candy. The fire is roaring. Everyone has their iPhone out (or in my case, my little Stone Age phone). We’re discussing what there is to do in Cooperstown and complaining (like usual) that there’s not a whole lot of options past 5 pm.

It’s like nothing really changed much, except that we’re a little leggier, hair has gotten shorter or longer, fashion choices have evolved a little, and instead of playing mindlessly with our Motorola Razors, we’re all tappity tapping on iPhones.

But it’s weird. I feel like we were thirteen and fourteen just a few days ago, although I know that two of our number have just come back from semesters abroad in Kenya and Russia. No one is coming home this summer–we’re scattering to the far corners of Washington D.C., sunny California, Ithaca, one is undecided and well, I, I’m staying home. (The promise of free lodging and a fantastic waitressing job is too good for me to turn my nose up in the interest of “real freedom”.) We’ve got cars and my friends will all be seniors in college next year. (Upon which it was remarked: “It’s weird that you’re not graduating with us, Amy.” Ah, the joys of an exchange year, I’m a year behind. Which actually doesn’t bother me at all, really. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.) We’re talking about apartments and more semesters abroad and what we’re going to do after graduation. (“I figured it out this morning in bed. Here’s my three options….”)

I guess the funny thing is that slowly, we’re ceasing to play at being adults and actually becoming adults. We’re being eased out into that real world inch by inch and sometimes it’s hard to tell. The high school world seems so far away. We catch up on Cooperstown gossip by asking Katie’s younger sister, who is still in high school. We’re the older generation of young people now–our seniors have already stopped coming home.

One of our friends has an annual “get-together” each year around this time, where all fifteen or sixteen of us converge on her house dressed up and bearing food for a potluck. We may not have talked to each other in awhile (fifteen or sixteen is a lot of people to stay in touch with, I don’t know how we did it in high school), but it’s like old times again when we all see each other. We play catch up, tell stupid inside jokes again, take pictures, eat, talk about futures. We all turn 21  this year, another growing up sort of thing. (What, you mean, we’re allowed to legally drink together? Well that’s weird.) My friends promised that we’ll celebrate my 21st in style next winter (I’m the baby of this group, which is funny, because at college, I’m towards the older end)–someone will end up getting thrown out the window of The Pratt, one of two bars in our town. I think they’re joking–I hope.

I think too, this New Year, three or four of us will end up hiking up the giant cross-country hill with a bottle of champagne and bundled in winter coats, and wait for the New Year to break up there, knee deep in snow (wheeee, giant snowstorm!) and then screech “HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!!!!!!” out over the empty fields at the top of our lungs, at the top of our world, where we can only just barely see the lights of our town below.

They say the way you ring in the New Year is an indicator of how the rest of your year will be. If it starts with a bottle of champagne and good company, it ought to be a very good year indeed.

The Terrible Twenties

Well blow me down sideways if I’m not the luckiest girl.

I got snow on my birthday. I got a beautiful winter wonderland, fluffy, White Christmas sort of perfection, to cover up the brown drudginess of everyday. I got magic on my twentieth birthday. What girl could ask for more?

I also got a plethora of well wishes from friends and family, all across the globe. (I was startled last night when they started coming in, only to realize that I’m already twenty in Europe and Australia. Welp.) I suppose it’s fitting as an exchange student that my first two birthday wishes were in French and German. I like it that way. So, thank you. Because I’m an emotional wreck and tend to get sentimental around my birthday and Christmas, I teared up a little reading all the birthday messages and texts and things. It’s not to sound conceited, but I apparently have a lot of friends. I mean, I’m still a little bewildered and overwhelmed and I really don’t know what to say, to think that people–a lot of people–really do like me and go out of their way for me consistently. And that I keep getting blessed with all sorts of wonderful new, interesting, and compassionate people in my life. I never take it for granted. Never. So thank you everyone. You, all of you, have made my twenty years of living so very beautiful indeed.

In other news, my mom bribed me out of bed this morning with the promise of a Diner breakfast. Let me explain to you the magic of the Cooperstown Diner. It’s TINY. Consists of four tables and a counter, and in the summer, unless you wake up in the wee hours, you’re never going to get a seat. The food is fast and cheap and homey, the same few faces work there, and it’s always crammed with the early morning crowd sipping coffee surlily over a newspaper at the counter or the families or the students. It’s a very small town place to be. Their omeletes are also sheer magic. I have never met an omelet I didn’t like, but I like the ones at the Cooperstown Diner the best. They’re cheesy and bacony and delicious–I can’t describe them, you’ll just have to come try one. So naturally, I bounced out of bed–well, bounced isn’t the right word actually; I more lay in bed for another ten minutes, contemplated leaving my warm covers, was finally heckled from their depths by my mother’s clarion calls from below, and grudgingly trudged downstairs.

Me: (early, grumpy) “‘Morning…”
Dad: (cheerfully, disgustingly wide awake) “Good morning and happy birthday AOD!”
Me: (suspiciously, half-asleep) “Do I want to know what that means?”
Dad: (still cheerfully, disgustingly wide awake) “Probably not.”
-a few moments of silence-
Me: (grudgingly) “Alright. I’ll bite. What does it mean?”
Dad: (grinning even bigger) “Ancient of Days.”
Me: “THANKS A LOT DAD, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME TOO.”

But goodbye teenage years. You were wonderful. You definitely had your black pit of doom lows, but you also had your cosmic highs. I went to Germany in your years and visited a lot of Europe. I graduated middle and high school and started college. I got into my awkward teenage years with braces and glasses and tall, awkward arms and legs and skinny face, and I grew out of them too. I kept writing all through your years. I kept reading voraciously, even getting in trouble for reading stuff that was “too advanced”. I moved to New York and said goodbye to a Southern childhood. I had my first kiss and my first date in your years and I learned some hard and important facts about living. I cheered for President Obama both times in those years and I got to vote for the first time too. I fell in love and I fell, many times, very hard out of love. I went to prom twice and learned a different language. I learned to love coffee and a good wine in your years. I fought a lot with my parents and I grew up and learned to see things from their perspective too. I was offered an internship and a TA position in your years, teenage years. I did pretty darn good for a teenager.

And now the twenties. A whole new decade. I wonder what will happen in my crazy, beautiful, dark, wonderful, tragic, joyful thing called life. Off to the roaring twenties.