update: i’m living in the mountains in California, cooking for 1,500 people each day, kayaking, biking, hiking, star-chasing, bear-watching, worshiping, getting chaco tan lines, waking up early, fueling a coffee addiction, staying up late watching seinfeld and going on night drives, exploring the forest, hanging out of sunroofs, and loving on people. update: i’m really happy.
Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply.
how to pack for a 4 day weekend in Oregon: throw literally everything you own into a suitcase and jam as many books as you can into your backpack. You are now prepared for your journey. You will wear one pair of jeans and the same hoodie the entire time, but you will have peace of mind that if the need for a velvet skirt arises, you are completely & totally prepared.
I hate a cheater in every sense of the word so I guess I’m a hypocrite because yeah, I’ll move my game-piece a few extra spaces when you’re not looking and while I’m committed to the present, I’m still in love with the past. The past and me, we don’t just have a song, we have a burnt CD filled with the sound of trains coming to a stop, coffee being spilled, a conglomerate of muffled laughter at 12:04 A.M, waves against concrete. I fell in love with the past- it’s freckles and red hair and lean body and nose rings. The past and I sat in the cold sand and shared secrets, danced outside, rowed a boat down the Mississippi, held hands in the dark, gargled Diet Coke like mouthwash, and beamed absolute joy over free bread from a bakery. We would start the night dancing and end it with pancakes and coffee. In 7th grade I had a crush on Jimmy Stewart but I made a speech about my love for Andre Agassi so what does that say about me? You were lovable but I think I saw you like Elwood P. Dowd saw Harvey- an illusion of what I wanted you to be for me. In reality I think you’re more like Agassi or rather, his racket. you’re swung easily although with a bit less grace. I’m not in 7th grade anymore but I still feel like it on nights when I spend my time throwing Mike & Ikes into people’s mouths from 4 stories above, later finding myself crying over something that I swore would never deserve my tears. ‘It’s not the years, it’s the miles-’ and if that’s true, then I’d rather travel years worth of miles alone through pine trees and rainy roads than stay in one place with one person for years and become unaware of myself and where I am meant to be. I want 56 more years of uneven tans and laugh lines to pile onto my skin so that when I’m 75, everyone will know that I have stories to tell and better advice to give than when I was 19. The past is my home which makes the present an addition- I’m building rooms as fast as I can so I can fill them with my memories and love letters written to hallway debriefs, dashboard hula men, frantic texting in the art room, Chicago thunderstorms, Tom Hardy shrines, and Foster Avenue at 5 AM. Be wary of falling in love with the past because it will give you a bittersweet sucker-punch to the gut each time you hear the lyrics that you once yelled through laughter in a sweaty concert hall. In the end the words I screamed in April will always be true: there’s not a single place that I would rather be.