Habits

I think there is romance in ritual - something you liked so much, that you would do it again.

And again.

And again.

EtOH

Young wine is called "must". It steeps, heavy with the stems, the seeds, the skins. A decadent, virgin pulp.

I like that it's called "must". There is something eerily poetic about "duty", about "necessity", and about "insistence". There is meaning behind something that cannot be put off.

It's fitting though, in the way alcohol works. In the way wine loosens your tongue and softens your expression. In the way spirits make these moments linger, like they are all you really have. In the way liquor turns your hesitance into action, and your "maybe"s into "must"s.

See what I did there?

You drink with me when things go right, when things go wrong. When things are right, we celebrate. The word "bubbly" has connotations: of girls with high spirits, of soapy bathwater, of champagne. Cheers to the joie de vivre.

When things are wrong, we commiserate. Looking at the bottom of the glass like a wishing well. Misery loves company, and company is always welcomed with a drink. In medical labs, you learn a few tricks about cleaning bloody messes. Water rinses. Bleach disinfects. Alcohol fixes.

Sounds about right.

Alcohol is a solution. Literally, figuratively. It's social lube, is what it is. It makes us greasy and easy and hard to grasp, so that we can slip in and out of each other's psyche like eels. It makes you less of who you are and more of who you want to be.

Is that better? TBD.

1 shot, you promise, 1 shot for the night. But lest we forget, sometimes it only takes 1. Bloodshot, out of earshot, gun shot. Loaded gun complex, we pull back, shoot, get through it. It's a minute (read: mĭn′ĭt or mī-no͞ot) pain - you want seconds. You want "lost count"s. You want "shootout"s, "blackout"s, old western movies. Point blank, gun it. 

1 shot to end the night.

If you ask me, I like you after three. Loose yet lucid, present yet fluid. Tell me now, be honest. How many parallel li(n/v)es do you think intersected, from a drink too far and an inhibition too few? From cocktails like wizards, writing mathemagic, spitting fairy truths. How many drinks must I put back, until I like this blurry v(i/er)sion of you?

Bucket List

1. Eat a blood orange X
2. Find a pearl
3. Swim with jellyfish
4. Make a lasagna from scratch
5. See the lantern festival in Thailand
6. Write a book?
7. Hot air balloons, in general
8. Host a dinner party
9. Get into medical school
10. ...Get into medical school
11. .......Third time's the charm
12. Visit Japan a Christmas. 
13. Visit Japan in the spring
14. See a musical. Maybe I'll like it
15. Publish a paper (Come on Tim)
16. Get a tattoo
17. Dive in a shark cage
18. To be continued... Another class hahahahahaha

Idioms

Heavy Rain

To think of deluge is to think of you - swift and torrential. I got in trouble once, as a child, for standing in my driveway while the rain fell in cold sheets on my shoulders. There was something decadent about the act, something forbidden, that made every drop more worthwhile on my skin.

It's the water that attracts me, lures me, leads me on. What can be said about the sudden sensuality of downpour, the deafening drama of a storm? My favourite rains hit hard and heavy - like I said, they remind me of you. They remind me of those early days, where falling only meant returning to the start. They take me back to the way things were, when the sound of scattered raindrops so closely resembled the beat of my own heart.

And beat it did, a frantic vibrato, hummingbird wings in my chest. It was almost funny, the first time I heard yours, the surprise I felt when they almost matched. Staccato like a tattoo needle, a woodpecker building it's nest.

I think rain is intimating - it brings us closer to the surface. A figurative and literal cleansing, a purge of thought. How else can you explain the lightness in the air after a storm has passed through, the hazy appreciation of beginning anew? I can't shake the feeling that sometimes the universe needs its own catharsis, when all that builds up breaks down. But maybe this is just an excuse for me to exploit this pathetic fallacy, in an attempt to intimate my own feelings.

And intimate I do, with the sky as my backdrop. I want to share hot drinks with you by cafe windows, as raindrops make tracks on the tempered glass. I want to wake up on Sunday mornings beside you, as pluming grey clouds roll in for a stay. I savor the moments when you walk me home in the rain, pretending not to notice how wet you are getting, as you try to keep me dry. I can tell you don't mind.

The next time it rains though, we'll leave the umbrellas at home. I want to be outside when the first drops fall - I want to catch the momentum, the cascade. I want to feel like I did all those years ago, like I'm trespassing on some natural order, going places I've been forbidden to go. I can almost feel it now - the rivulets, the streams, all the same temperature as the sky. It's raining so hard I can barely see, but that's fine.

And maybe on this kind of stage, I can tell you my secrets, cold and crisp on my tongue. Maybe like this, you can try to open up, worn down by some endless rhythm. It's hard to say. But no problem seems so bad in a lightning storm, no difference so jarring as a thunderclap. Nothing calls me like the rain knocking: tip-tap, tip-tap.

The Thickening

My Favourite Things

I love:

Seeing subway lights as the train rounds a corner.
The first bite of an apple.
The smell of hot glue.
Sitting in the car.
Coke bubbles up my nose.
Crying during happy/sad/scary/any movie.
Breaking fortune cookies.
Surprises.
Thinking about surprises.
Giving people surprises.
Giving people presents.
Making you laugh.
My brown leather boots.
4 AM heart to hearts.
Heavy rain.
Mechanical pencils.
Printed photos.
Opening mail.
My hot pink penny board.
The ravine in spring/summer/fall/winter/spring,
Sweet and sour sauce.
Holidays.
Rereading my favourite books.
The bridge between Castle Frank and Broadview Station.
Lana Del Rey
The smell of grapefruits.
The taste of grapefruits.
Eating pomegranates.
Digging in the sand.
Forehead kisses.
Long, long, long, long, long hugs.
Staying up late with friends.
Walking home.
Wearing pretty dresses and colourful tights.
The sound of dial-up Internet.
Folding stars.
Knit sweaters.
Hands.
Anything floral.
Seeing your name on my phone screen.
Talking about the past.
Talking about the first times.
Talking with my mom.
Sour gummy worms.
Slang.
Times New Roman.
Sleeping in on Sunday mornings.
Writing a good test.
Candles.
Having exact change.
New metropasses.

And if you read this far,

I probably love you too.