Read Where's My Cow and make me cry. Read Never Let Met Go and make me cry. Listen to Tell Laura I Love Her and make me cry.

I really don't know. And hormones are, to say the least, interesting. It is definitely strange to be jealous, and the I got here first rule obviously does not apply in real life. But I suppose it is not so much of me getting there first, but the stark difference between what it seems and what it actually is. So, yes, please live off dreams. Toggle, juggle, cuddle the theoretically impossibly small apples of Fantasy, imagine your entire existence reduced to the most miniscule, most undetectable, indelectable of brain activity. Be pretentious and say: unphilosophical arguments are the truth of life, and not beautiful in a fragile way at all.

The simplest things, sometimes. Ho. Do you not wish that oneday you could flip open this book again, fit names, genders, reality to vaguely described people? Say things you would never have hoped to say. Laugh over things you no longer care about. All this in a room bright with morning light, against white curtains, and finally realize this is what all the (metaphorical) spilt ink, the ripped corners, the crumpled pages have brought you to.

Ho. And how many times can I possibly quote VU? Probably too many.

I miss Debbie Lee, A and B, my personal time, Microsoft Word, and the sense of gratification.

I am sorry if I should reuse words so heartlessly, but this like lottery: terrifyingly hard to find the right combinations.