Hi there, jellybean.

He never even called me "jellybean" when we were dating.  I don't actually remember any of the pet names that he gave me while we were dating.  "Jellybean," however, has always stood out to me, because he gave me that name after we were over.  I didn't become "jellybean" until after I called him and asked him not to contact me anymore.  It wasn't until after I stopped replying to his text messages and answering his phone calls.  He stopped being part of my life.  Yet, not only was it clear that he still wanted me in his, but it seemed like the role I had in his mind was only growing.

Hi there, jellybean.

That's the way I imagine he would greet me.

With a seemingly innocent greeting that would completely shatter my entire world.

There's a human in your heart of hearts;
hiding through colors made you fall apart.
In the middle you're a work of art,
but this is real life
real life

- Oh Wonder, Dazzle

-+-

"What do you want for Christmas?"
-- "OMG COLGATE"
"What?  No, that's lame.  What do you actually want for Christmas?"

dammit i love colgate

-+-

“Today is a fan-fuckin’-tastic day.”

This has been my daily mantra for maybe the last two or three weeks, but really, who’s counting? You could tell me it’s been two weeks, you could tell me it’s been months, and I would just shrug and nod with an apathetic, “Yeah, sounds about right.” The days are starting to blur together – I spent much of today muttering, “It’s December 15th?! When did it become December 15th?!”

When I was in college, my friend, Morrell, would sigh at the start of every school day, “Same shit, different day.” I thought it was just the most abysmal attitude to have at the top of the morning. What kind of mentality is that?! That’s no sort of pep talk! I wanted to yowl, “SIEZE THE DAY, BETCH! SIEZE IT!!!!!!”

Today, I kind of get it.

I sat in my desk chair, sipping on a cup of tea. The sunlight was barely peeking through the blinds. My co-worker, Cody, studied for his upcoming final exams at the desk next to me.

With neither small-talk nor segue, I sighed, “Cody, I think I’m starting to burn out.”

He maintained his gaze on his laptop monitor, and he sighed back, “You and me both, Christa.”

If there were ever a moment that I could describe a person as having “brooding shoulders,” Cody epitomized it. I couldn’t help but take a mental snapshot of our mutual stress, our mutual flickering filaments. We were light bulbs hanging from a thin wire.

Not to revel in his pain, but I have to admit, the solidarity helped.

Today is an incredible day in its own right – today was my first 8-hour workday since… god, I can’t even remember. I normally work an 8-hour workday – scheduled to show up at 8 a.m. and leave at 5 p.m. I was good on that for a long time, give or take an hour. I never minded staying an extra hour or so to get my work done. These past few weeks (or months? Whatever, who’s counting) have been a different story, and I’ve been putting in an average 11 or 12 hours a day.

To put it succinctly – as lab manager, I used to be really excited when I got assigned to my first project. I’m now on four (five?), and it can seriously kiss my ass like no one’s business. I’m on two pre-clinical drug studies, a pain study, and a fluorescent probe study. Probably some other buttface project that I can’t remember right now.  Whatever.

Although to be honest, if I were to spell it out for you, it would actually sound kind of exciting. I’m collaborating with a Nobel laureate, and I get to help produce drugs that have serious potential to help a lot of arthritis patients in the future. My work is a necessary step in the pipeline to get these drugs into hospitals and, within as soon as five years, help real patients fighting rheumatoid arthritis. Honestly, some of the results we’ve been yielding have been incredible and exciting, and I feel very truly like we’re making considerable strides in the clinical understanding and treatment of rheumatoid arthritis.

That being said, my projects can still kiss my ass like no one’s business.

I’m used to being assigned to one major project, maybe two, but being on this many has been incredibly draining, both mentally and physically. Two of my projects are hitting their crux at the same time, and are both demanding my full dedication – but good god, there’s only so much Christa to go around!

I usually leave work way after any reasonable dinner time, frantically get something to eat, and then pass out from exhaustion. Lately, I’ve slept more days in my work clothes than I have in my pajamas. I’ll have some fantastic ambition to not even do much, just to lie in bed and watch a few episodes of South Park, maybe blog over a beer. Even then, exhaustion will take over and I’ll instead pass out in bed, only to wake up just in time for work, to start the game all over again.

Today, however, it is 6:48 p.m. as of the writing of this sentence, and I am not at work. It’s a fucking miracle.

I’ve been sick, I’ve been overworked, I’ve gotten rejected, I’m behind on everything, but I don’t even give a shit. It’s 6:48 p.m. and I’m not at work.

I left my lab, breathed in the cool San Diego air, and nodded, “It’s a fan-fuckin’-tastic day.” And I meant the shit out of it.

I’ll take it.

Today, my friends….

today was a win!

One good girl
is worth a thousand bitches.

- Kanye West, Bound 2

-+-

"If something's important to you, it doesn't matter whether you have time.  If you really care about something, you'll make time."

-+-

As you may have noticed, this is my first time writing since September.

I'll tell you all the excuses I have, but point is, I haven't been here since September for pretty much negligible, half-cocked reasons.

The writing stopped, but life didn't.  There's a lot of highs and lows that you missed -- a lot of fun moments and a lot of drama.  I think that's one of the reasons that I didn't want to blog.  I convoluted my blog with so much melodrama and sensationalized commentary that you wouldn't blink at the thought of me writing for Grey's Anatomy.  I felt like I dug myself into an emotional hole of a blog -- not only did it get me stuck in a certain style and topic for my blog posts, but reading over my old blogs would just make me go, "Oh, boo hoo, poor baby."

But enough of that.  I know, I know, write whatever I want to write about, it's my blog, blog like no one's reading.  I know the gig but nobody's perfect, right?

Anyway, I digress.  Let's get to the real business.

I could tell you about Washington, D.C., I could tell you about my love life, my work life, my museum life, but I know what everyone's really eager for...

PRODUCT REVIEWS.

Today, I was shopping for Christmas presents, when a thought suddenly struck me: "I should buy twist balloons to make balloon animals."

For some reason beyond me, the fact that I used to make balloon animals has been coming up in conversation lately more frequently than I'd expect (note: the first time i mentioned it was already 1 time too frequently).

When I was a freshman in college, I went through a brief but enthusiastic phase during which I taught myself and practiced making balloon animals.  Mind you, I didn't get very far.  As I explain to people, I knew how to make a balloon dog, a balloon giraffe (which is essentially a dog with a long neck), and a balloon sword (which is essentially if you only make half of a dog and stop there).  A highlight of my phase is that once, I visited Phuc at UC Davis, and sat in on one of his lectures.  I happened to have my balloon animal materials with me (because why the fuck not?), and when Phuc discovered that I did, he started asking his classmates if they wanted balloon animals -- "You can either get a dog, giraffe, or a sword."  By the time lecture started, there was a small cluster of students in the middle of the lecture hall with various balloon creations.  (Not only was that moment the highlight of my balloon-shaping career, but it's now one of the few anecdotes that made the highlight reel of my entire relationship with Phuc.)

Then, one day, I decided to diverge from my trifecta of dogs/giraffes/swords and learn how to make other balloon creations.  When I learned how to make a swan, I left the little blue swan out in the living room of my dorm.  A mix of amateur technique and Merced heat made my swan lose its initial shape, and a friend of my roommate told us that "it looked like we had a balloon penis in the dorm."  My self-esteem was still severely fragile at the time, so I was so embarrassed that I not only destroyed my balloon swan, but I threw away my balloon-making materials and never made a balloon animal again.  If that same situation happened now, I probably would've giggled and told him that it was indeed a balloon penis, and that it was commissioned by his mom because it was the only thing that could adequately fill her enormous vagina.

Whenever I mention my short-lived balloon animal phase, people always double-take, "So you've never made a balloon animal since then?!" and I would nod.  Sometimes they would ask, "Wow, you were traumatized that badly?" and I would think about it and reply, "Hm, I suppose not, I just never thought about getting back into it.  It's just been so long that it's not on my radar anymore."

Today, that changed.  I had mentioned the balloon animal story so much lately, that when I was walking around the store and saw the sign that said "TOYS," I thought, '...dear god, i wonder if they sell a balloon animal kit?'

Spoiler alert: the answer was yes.  I bought it in a heartbeat, hoping that people would think it was a Christmas gift, but no actually yeah I'm srsly really just waiting in line so I can buy a balloon twisting kit for myself and nothing else.

I had all these great plans to go grocery shopping, to go to the driving range and hit a couple of balls, but as I ran to my car with my balloon twisting kit in hand, I dropped EVERYTHING and rushed home so I could practice making balloon animals.  I know, I have heightened acuity for good priorities.

As I slipped my first balloon onto the balloon pump, the lip of my first balloon tore and I didn't think much of it.  I probably just suck, right?  Then, as I inflated a second balloon and began to twist, that balloon broke.  Alright, so this is starting to suck.  I think it's not just me.  You're supposed to leave a 1/2 inch of balloon uninflated for every twist you're going to make, and either I had to leave a LOT of give for the balloons to not pop, or they would just kamikaze and pop anyway in all defiance of logic and physics.

I flew through maybe a dozen balloons, and only managed to create three creations without popping the balloon halfway.

So I pretty much want to punch the manufacturer of these balloons in the face.  This kit is the kit that you get when you want to troll someone because you really want to discourage them from getting into making balloon animals, and their subsequent failure rate will demotivate them so thoroughly that they'll start having nightmares and lose all enthusiasm for life.  As for me, I want to take a balloon swan, and send it to the manufacturer with a note that says, "This is for your mom's enormous vagina."  But I can't because it'll probably pop as I try to put it in a shipping box anyway.

This product is so terribly fragile that my roommate came home and thought I was murdering a man with a gun from the sound of shots firing off in my room.  It might be vaguely sufficient for practicing new balloon animals (with persistence and patience for a high fragility rate, but I did admittedly manage a 25% success rate), but don't use it for actual "performances" unless you're okay with making a lot of people deaf and angry from the balloons popping everywhere.

I just pray to the good lord almighty that whoever made these balloons never considers going into condom manufacturing, or else our overpopulation problem is going to get a hell of a lot more severe.

Just know that you'll soon see me walking the aisles of Party City or a similar bona fide party supply store, buying twist balloons that, this time, hopefully weren't produced by Satan and his brethren.

And they all got the same heartbeat, but hers is falling behind.

- Echosmith, Cool Kids

-+-

Me:
yeah the whole time i was like no fucking way
like it wasn't even going a little well
it was going like
really well
like suspiciously well
i'm like
no fucking way it's going this well
LOL
i wasn't even trying to not be awkward and he totally was a champ about it
he was like what's up and i was like oh uh sorry i was objectifying you
and i explained to him that while i enjoyed receiving compliments, i was really bad at giving compliments
and so he was like well i got this for both of us then
and told me all these nice things about how he thinks i'm beautiful and he likes my smile
and i was like
uh
if i were to give you a compliment, i would... give you one... now
and he was like
not scared off
LOL

-+-

I usually enter a new dating experience with some healthy skepticism.  I won't neglect a red flag, but in general, I'll try to play on your team.  You have friends and loved ones that see the best in you, so I should try to see that, too.  Innocent until proven guilty (Though admittedly, some reach a "Guilty" verdict much faster than others).

Usually, if something seems worth going all-in for, I've never been one to hesitate in playing all my chips.  I've always been one to go for the leap of faith.  I've convinced myself that humanity deserves that.  A few bad eggs shouldn't take away from the theme that overall, humanity ain't that bad.

Lately, however, I've been washed with cynicism that is honestly unlike me.  I'll admit, some events this year have given me good reason to be cynical (coughalexcough), but I'm usually super gung-ho about the goodness in mankind and all that jazz.  So surmise it to say that I'm surprised at my recent behavior: I'm reacting to everything with a, '...no fucking way.'  

Of course, when going into a dating experience, you always want things to go well.  This time around, I literally can't believe that things could be going this well.  My attitude on the matter is, 'NOPE I GOTTA BE GETTIN PUNK'D OR SUMMIN, NAH WAY MAYN, NOPE'

A considerable part of me is waiting for the punchline, for the "lol jk!!!!!!"

Lemme paint a picture for you.

Meet Drew.

Example 1) He demonstrates exuberant laughter and banters with my corny jokes.

I tried to tell him this gem:

Q: How do you put a zebra into a refrigerator?
A: You open the door and put in the Zebra!

[Drew: Wait, how does a zebra fit in a refrigerator?  Zebras are pretty big.  I mean, do you have to sever its limbs to make it fit?  I don't think that's ethical, Christa.
Me: SHUT UP. It's like, an industrial-sized refrigerator, then!  Those are huge!  Those would totally fit a zebra!  ok shut up the joke isn't over]

Q: How do you put an elephant into a refrigerator?
A: You open the door, take out the zebra, and put in the elephant!

[Drew: Hold on, now.  I think if this is an industrial-sized refrigerator, there would be enough room for both a zebra and an elephant.  I don't think you need to take out the zebra if the fridge is that big.
Me: SHUTUP.  It's like, a perfectly elephant-sized freezer, then.  An elephant would be snug in it.  It would just fit one elephant.
Drew: But see, even then, I think if you were to arrange it so that the zebra was underneath the elephant, they could still both feasibly fit in the refrigerator.  I just think you could be more space-efficient, Christa.
Me: OMG I'M GONNA FIGHT YOU]

Example 2) Not only is he completely game to meet my friends, but he also has an instinctive understanding that ice cream is my one true love.

Me: My friends invited me clubbing with them tonight, but I have mixed feelings about it since I have work tomorrow... Hm, do you want to come?
Drew: Sure, that sounds like fun!
[...]
Me: Arrgh, maybe we shouldn't go.  Cover is super expensive now since I waited until the last minute.  Do you want to just do our own thing instead?
Drew: Are you sure?  I don't want to take you away from your friends!
Me: Nahh it's chill, I'll just hang with them next time.
Drew: What do you have in mind?
Me: Uhh, well there's a lot of bars in North Park, uhh.. Hm, what else is fun?
Drew: Do you want to stay in and eat ice cream and watch Netflix?
Me: oh dear god i would love that

Example 3) He can hold a conversation about bees.

Drew: What are you thinking about doing grad school in?
Me: Uhh.. so long story.. but uhh.  OKAY, you're gonna need some context.  So I'm a honey collector, and it kind of spiraled out of control when I moved to San Diego.  I was a vendor for the San Diego Honey Company and now I'm a member of the San Diego Beekeeper's Society.  I'm really into bees.  So I'm actually looking into getting a degree in bee neuroscience. [I wait for classic reaction of laughter and/or disbelief]
Drew: That's awesome! I know everyone is getting really concerned about bees with the rise of Colony Collapse Disorder.  [I think, 'wait what he actually has an opinion about bees?'] I remember when everyone was just taking the bees for granted.  Someone proposed a future where we lose all of our bees, and that someday, people would need to pollinate their plants by hand.  At the time, everyone thought this guy was crazy, because that sounded so impossible.  So do you think that's a real, tangible threat?
[Commence full-fleshed conversation about regions of China that are already devoid of bees, so people have to pollinate their own crops there]
Me: WE JUST HAD A CONVERSATION ABOUT BEES, THAT'S AWESOME

No fucking way, right?

...

no fucking wai

...

...

so it begins

-+-

Me:
no way it's going this well
it's gotta be a trap or something
it's going way too well
lol oh dear god
am i jaded

After that he's just hopeless
soul mates become soulless

-- Kanye West, Hold My Liquor

-+-

me: i think i might be a little jaded
me: [...] told me, "i've never connected with someone so quickly in my life"
me: and i was just like
me: neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerd

-+-

There is one really bad habit that I used to have, and one that I can fairly say that I’ve kicked.

For years, I’ve been in the habit of taking naps in my car.  Honestly, if you can park there, then I will nap there.  I’ve napped in various mall and outlet parking lots, I’ve napped while parked along various neighborhoods, I’ve napped in school parking lots.  I’ve napped right in front of my apartment complex or while parked in my driveway.  It usually starts when I first park my car, and I’ll check my phone for all the text messages that I ignored while I was driving.  Then while I reply, I’ll recline my seat, and make myself comfortable.  Then, I’ll find myself browsing Facebook, Reddit, Instagram… then before you know it, I open my eyes and it’s dark out.  Sometimes I’ll nap as a break before the next errand – fit in a power nap before I hit the mall or go to the gym.  Woke up super early to drive my sister to the airport?  I’ll just drive to work, nab a great parking spot, and nap in my car until it’s time to start my day.

Over the course of several years, I was the poster girl for loitering.  Even though I would experience an occasional drawback every few months, it worked for me.  I’ve had a run-in with neighborhood watch, I’ve had a tap on my window by a solicitor at the parking lot of a Target, I’ve had a concerned couple check on me while I was parked outside my apartment complex.  Nothing too extraordinary, and nothing worth stopping my serial nap streak for.

That was until I fell asleep in North Park in San Diego, CA.  I met with a friend in the neighborhood, and had just parted ways with her.  However, I had a few too many drinks, and I didn’t want to drive inebriated.  The answer, of course, seemed obvious to me.  Nap in my car until I could sober up and drive.  I nap in my car all the time, so it didn’t seem like a big deal to me.

There were a few news reports of assaults against women in North Park, so I carried mace with me and called it a day.  That’s a crime of young people.  We hear things on the news and think it won’t happen to us.  Danger seems like such a world away from us.  We’re so full of life, we figure we’re invincible.

Let me start by reassuring you that this ends with a happy ending, but it’s just pretty creepy and cringe-worthy throughout.  I know you already have an idea of where this is going, and you want to punch me for being so stupid and reckless.  I want to punch me, too.

-+-

North Park.

I wake up in the middle of the night.  I'm slow at orienting myself.  I see a flickering streetlight, I feel the curves of my carseat, and I hear the sound of men laughing, “There’s someone knocked out in there!”

I realize that these voices are talking about me, so in a sleepy haze, I run on reflex and instinct.  I sit up a little bit and wave a hand, “I’m fine, everything is fine!”

My eyes adjust and evaluate the crowd in front of me.  It's a couple of burly guys, dressed like they tore a page straight from the Thug Stereotype Handbook.  Oversized white shirts, oversized jackets, baseball caps in the dead of night, baggy jeans struggling to stay attached to their bodies.  I try to keep a pretty open mind about cultural stereotyping, but you have to admit, it can be pretty valuable in a life or death situation.  Especially when you realize you’re a young, delicate Asian woman flying solo in the dark streets of North Park.  You’re more likely to instantly put your guard up when you think, ‘Oh fuck these guys are ghetto thugs, perhaps I should be aware for my safety’ vs. ‘oh suspenders and hipster glasses, neeeeerds.’

I warily eye the men as they pass by me.  Oh, thank god.  They’re walking away, just exchanging casual laughter about the girl napping in her car.  They’re about to turn the corner.

Then, one of them does a double-take at me.  Fuck.  My heart sinks into my stomach as his pace stalls.

‘No, no, no, no, keep walking, keep walking, keep walking,’ My fingers urgently search for my mace in my purse. ‘C’mon, keep walking.’

“Oh, hey,” he exclaims, “Actually, you’re pretty cute!”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.  He turns around and walks towards me, his entourage following him.  He walks over to my driver’s seat window and knocks ardently.

“Hey girl, roll down your window,” he smiles.

Jesusfuckingchrist.  I'm used to getting hit on at bars and other public settings, where if something goes amiss, at least I'm in a room full of people.  This is different.  If anything happened to me right now, there’d be zero witnesses other than a dying streetlamp.  I remember that numerous assault cases have been happening in this neighborhood.  Oh god, am I the next victim?  I evaluate my options, and I evaluate all the cultural stereotypes in my arsenal to think of how to handle this situation.  I decide that I’m possibly in a life or death situation, no time to be politically correct!  The only thing reassuring me is that uhh, at least my windows are rolled up.  In front of me is a moderately burly guy.  Behind him are two extremely burly guys.  Oh, great.  That’s reassuring.  I look over their clothing again.  From my understanding of thugs from movies and television shows, a lot of them wear baggy clothes... to hide guns and weaponry.  I realize that if I try to pull a Christa and sass my way out of this, this has a real potential to get ugly.  I don’t know their tempers, I don’t know their lives.  I decide that if the worst possible scenario were to happen, my windows sure aren’t bulletproof.  I have better luck getting out of this calmly and verbally than by freaking out and trying to mace three huge guys at the same time.

I roll down my window, literally an inch.  Just enough to exchange verbal conversation, nothing more.  He still decides to slip his fingers as far as he can in the inch-wide opening to shake my hand.

“What’s your name, girl?” he inquires.

At this point, I’m already walking on eggshells.  I try to stay observant.  I quickly notice that he reflexively runs his hand along his chest and his stomach as he talks, surely in some showy effort to emphasize his physique to a woman that he’s attempting to court.  At first, I’m trying to ignore the awkward hand movements.  Continuing his showiness, he lifts his shirt a little, I think to show me his abs.  It’s impressively cliché, actually.  He’s the exact person I usually lol at on the internet.  If I wasn’t so scared out of my mind, maybe this situation would be a little funnier.

Instead, it gets a lot less funny, real fast.  As he lifts his shirt, my eyes catch view of something.  Either he has an extremely ambitious boner, or that’s the hilt of a gun tucked behind his belt.  His friends start lighting up a joint behind him, and marijuana smoke starts creeping into my car.  It’s a scene from a bad movie, and I’m in the thick of it.

I start coping with the idea that there’s an actual possibility of this night ending with a bullet in my head.  Hopefully improbable, but the likelihood is still higher than I'd like it to be.  I never thought that this would be my mantra in a situation like this, but I find myself thinking, ‘Oh dear god… please let that be his penis, please let that be his penis.’

“Christa,” I nervously smile.  Giving up my name felt like an act of surrender.  In this context, it felt like the situational equivalent of being mugged for my wallet and quietly handing over my purse.

“Watchu doing here, girl?”

“Uh, I didn’t want to drive drunk, so I was taking a nap until I sobered up…”

“Cute and responsible, would you look at that.  Well, girl,” he licks his bottom lip while running his fingers across his chest, “what's your plans tonight?”

“I’m actually pretty sober now,” I force a chuckle, “I think I’m gonna head home pretty soon.” ohgoodlordinheavenhallowbethyname

“Well, girl,” he says, “give me your number, then.”  Again, I evaluate my options.  I realize that I’m still gambling on whether I’m being held at bulletpoint or penispoint.  From the look on his face, maybe both.  I decide to not take my chances, and I surrender my number.

With his next sentence quickly resolving this debacle with a happy ending, I feel like I win the lottery.  He calls my phone to make sure I didn’t give him a fake number, then says…

“Well, I have to drive my friends home, but I’ll hit you up in the morning.”

Did he just say he’s leaving?  HE’S LEAVING?

AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

For all I know, I was just being an incredibly terrible person and a stereotyping bigot.  Even then, I have to tell you, words can barely describe the relief that washed over me as he and his friends drove away in his lowrider.  In the upcoming week, he texted me several times a day and left me a bunch of voicemails, but that discomfort was chump change compared to my constant thankfulness that I got away from North Park in one piece that day.

It’s a story that I’ve forgotten in the month since it happened.  Until today.  Today, I left the coffee shop, and felt a little sleepy as I got into my car.  In a past life, I would’ve just given into the temptation and would’ve stolen a quick nap before heading back home.

Not this time.  This time, I remembered that night in North Park, and I just drove on home.

And that’s the story of how I became the ex-serial napper.

Muscle to muscle and toe to toe
The fear has gripped me but here I go
My heart sinks as I jump up
Your hand grips hand as my eyes shut

-- Alt-J, Breezeblocks

-+-

Our average conversations went a little like this.  When we laugh, I flashback to all those months ago.

SHE: Uh, so... I joined the San Diego Beekeepers Society.
HE [in a fit of laughter]: Seriously?!
SHE: Yep.
HE [sternly]: Are you a bear?
SHE [laughs]: Excuse me?
HE: Are you a bear?  Because now I'm starting to think you're a bear.
SHE: What?!
HE: It's okay, I understand.  After all... I'm a bear.
SHE: Oh, really? You're a bear?
HE: Well... you've seen my chest hair.
SHE: Oh, shut up!
HE: You want to know a secret?
SHE: What?
HE: We're all bears.
SHE: Like, everyone here?  Everyone at this restaurant is a bear?
HE: Shh! You're going to ruin the secret!

No matter what, there's one thing I have to admit about him.

Let me preface this by noting that I laugh profusely.  It's one of those laughs where my reputation has come to precede me.  People can tell I'm coming from a mile away because they'll hear my laugh down the hall.  I love golfing, but I don't do well on the calm-mannered course because I can't stop laughing.  People punctuate my giggle-filled comments with, "And she's not even drunk!"

As awful and hopeless and careless as he is, one thing he can claim is that he's one of few that matches my laughter.  For me, that counts for a lot.  I'm used to people telling me I need to calm down, that I need to temper myself.

With him, well.  We're a mess when we're together.  Everyone turns and stares at the pair racing through the building, devoured by giggles.

If even for just that reason alone, a piece of me will always look at him in a good light.

A piece of me will always know him as the boy that's as silly and awkward and strange and quick to laugh as me.

(P.S. but jesus fucking christ)

It started out with a kiss, how'd it end up like this?
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss.

- The Killers, Mr. Brightside

-+-

"You're beautiful."

What?  I must've misheard him.  He probably made some really bad pun that incorporates the word "booty" in it.  Classic.  That's totally something he'd do.  I know him well enough that it wouldn't surprise me.  I laugh it off, and think nothing more of it.

Some time passes.  Eventually, he says, "You're so pretty."  ...Wait, what?  I finally look at him, only to realize that he's admiring me.

I'm starting to think that I didn't mishear him.

"I missed you, Christa."

That hits me like a punchline.  I feel my heart skip.  Compartmentalization is an art form, and most days I feel like I have it down to a tee.  Then, there are moments like this.  Moments where I don't know where to place my next step.  Where I don't know what my next move should be.

Should I play the enigma, the detached, the carefree?

Or should I say the truth?

... I missed you, too.

Am I wrong for thinking out the box from where I stay?
Am I wrong for saying that I choose another way?

- Nico & Vinz, Am I Wrong

-+-

When I arrived the Garrett-Fulton wedding in Arizona, I awkwardly hovered by the lemonade & iced tea stand.  Jacob was a groomsman, so I had no idea who to hang out with or mingle with until the reception.

After some time, I hear a woman's voice, "Christa! Oh Christa, there you are!"

I look up.  It's Jacob's paternal grandmother, Jane.  We had spent time together back in San Diego.  She made dinner for the family, and exuberantly invited me to eat with them.  She was incredibly spunky for her age, and refused to let us help her cook or wash dishes.  She was absolutely impressive, and I enjoyed listening to her enthusiastic stories.

Jane hollers, "Christa, come here!  You have to meet the family!"

By Jane's insistence, I quickly transitioned from Awkward Perpetual Arnold Palmer Girl to getting to know much of the Garrett clan.  Jane proudly introduced me to her younger siblings and family as Jacob's date.  I spent much of the celebration with Jane and Jane's siblings.  It was delightful.  At the end of the wedding, Jane saw Jacob and jokingly yelled at her grandson, "Who is this stranger?! I know who Christa is, but who are you?!  I think I've seen Christa more than you this entire wedding!"

Even with so little time spent with Jane, I already have an incredible stock of warm stories about her.  My heart broke at the news of her passing, remembering her steadfast kindness towards me.  I can only imagine the love and warmth she brought to the people that knew her for their entire lives.

Rest in peace, Grandma Jane.

-+-

Daniel and I made plans to drink and be merry together.  As we drove down University Ave, I told Daniel, "I think he and his girl are planning on long-distance."

Daniel scoffed, "Ha! Like that'll work."

I defended the couple's situation, as someone that experienced a similar -- if not completely identical -- tune.  Summer fling turned into a summer relationship turned into a summer love.  I said, "Honestly, if Jacob and I had just slightly different circumstances, I really think we would've worked out."

Daniel pondered, then conceded, "I suppose you're right."

I nodded, "You haven't seen the way he talks about her, man. He's crazy about her. I'm serious, I'd bet on them."

At that moment, I wondered if at one point in my life, Jacob ever talked that way about me.

-+-

That boy is smitten with his girl.

You can see it in his eyes whenever he talks about her, or in his urgent excitement whenever his phone vibrates with a new message. She drew him a wallpaper with a kind, "Hi have a good day," and he'd close all of his desktop windows just to look at it. When I wink (terribly), he can't help but tell me how it reminds him of her. Smitten.

As a very small lab, a lot of our small talk involve gossip or wonderings or even complaints about them.

For two of us in particular, we're simply having a ball. In fact, we'll find ourselves in uproarious laughter over the matter (although not necessarily because anything is that funny, but more because the two of us are known to laugh a lot. A lot.). The two of us chatted about love and relationships the other day, and it became clear. We don't giggle and smirk because we think any less of him. Rather, it's because we understand so perfectly both his adoration and his pain. We know it so precisely and so accurately that he reminds us of a younger version of ourselves. And who would I be if I didn't beat up my younger self for being a softie?

She is leaving this Saturday. It's the last day of their internship, then she'll be flying back to New Jersey - almost "on the completely opposite side of the country" as humanly possible.

We won't be surprised when he'll predictably visit her in New Jersey this winter break, just as I visited Jacob in Georgia and he visited his person in Boston last year.  We also know exactly how much his heart will break the day that she has to fly away.

"This is the one week that can drag on for as long as it wants, and it'd be okay," he told me.

It reminded me of the way my flats clicked along the linoleum tile on Jacob's last day. I could only remember how empty that hallway felt that day, how my footsteps seemed to echo especially loudly in its vastness. I remembered how afraid I was to reach the end of that long hallway.  How afraid I was to accept that it was our last day.

It feels like it was just yesterday that I was so madly in love.  There are some things in life that we don't realize and embrace until it's a gift of hindsight, but I can tell you this with confidence: if Phuc was my first love, Jacob was my second.

Speaking from the present, I can also tell you this: Jacob was my second love.

At one point in my life, I would almost describe Jacob as my muse.  He inspired me to blog, to write poetry, to draw.  Yet, I saw Jacob last weekend, and it was virtually nothing worth writing home about. I always have a great time with him, and I completely adore his family.  None of that changed.  We spent most of the weekend together, and over those few days, I realized who we became. We were no longer lost in love and in hopeless attachment. In fact, we became exactly who we always hoped we'd grow into.

We were friends.

I never stopped loving his company, his conversation, his abrasive wit -- but finally, I could say that I stopped loving him. There was an incredible amount of closure in our last embrace. It was full of heart, but devoid of chemistry. An excited smile, but no slight of sadness in the gaze. It was a warm and kind-spirited, "See you later!"

In reality, that's all I could really want, and that's all I would really ask for.  We lost romance, but we didn't lose friendship -- this is an incredible feat for me. I've never achieved this with another romantic partner before.  We lost being in love, but we didn't have to lose love.

After all, love is what is left after being in love has burned away.

For Jacob and I, that translates into him calling me a nerd and thoughtfully buying me honey.

And I'm okay with that.

I want to be like Kanye --
I'll be the king of me, always!
Do what I want and have it my way,
all day,
like Kanye!

-- The Chainsmokers ft. Siren, Kanye

-+-

Julie texting me at the end of our trip: "our friendship survived the travel test because we didn't want to kill each other"

<3

-+-

The following excerpts were live blogged throughout my trip in Portland. Enjoy.

-+-

The sun shone red and hot onto the horizon of Portland.  Light dripped between the clouds like like honey from a broken bowl. We descended through the cumulonimbus wisps, and I thought of how envious the rest of the world must be of me right now.

Other people are bound to soil, trapped by gravity. Yet here I was, soaring through clouds. Here I was, flying through heaven.

-+-

What first impressed me about Portland was its foliage. I hailed from Sacramento, known in California as the City of Trees, but the evergreens of Portland put Sacramento to shame. Here, the earth was vibrant. Refreshing.

Truly, it was as if I found a way to run away from life itself.

-+-

Being in Portland is full of nostalgia - or rather, the lack of memories of Portland is what makes me nostalgic. I am realizing only now how much I ignored Portland the first time I was here. I was so enthralled with the boy next to me, who at the time received all my infatuation and admiration, that an entire city of color and culture flew over my head. I adored him so much that he made a brand-new city seem like a footnote in my story with him. Since then, he's become the last thing I ever wanted him to become. He grew into just another chapter in my novel. Portland, among many recent events, reminds me of how ephemeral are the syllables in my words, the verses in my poetry. Yesterday, I forgot who Portland was. Today, however, I will seize this city.

-+-

"My co-worker died today."

...

"A toast to Rommel."

-+

At first light, the air felt heavy and the world seemed overly quiet. It almost felt like the calm before the storm, but I knew that the storm had already come. The storm had already gone on a rampage through my life and tore a wound into my soul. All I could hope for that I wasn't in actuality trapped in the eye of a hurricane.

It's funny how the bad tends to compound upon itself. I'd like a life where I tend towards cautious optimism. In reality, every step and every gesture made me hold my breath.

'Please tell me it's over for now.'

-+-

I really want to tell myself that I don't know her story. I want to tell myself that she understood us as little as we understood her. I want to tell myself that regardless of what I think of her, her life has sustenance and meaning.

Yet as we walked away from the bar and back towards our hostel, I laughed and clumsily said what I really wanted to say, because I'm not that perfect, I'm not that selfless, and I'm not that free of judgment,

"Man, what a fucking bitch. She needs to get over herself."

I knew without a doubt that at that moment, she was saying the exact same thing about me.

Bitch.

-+-

During my time in Portland, I realized that I had a decision to make for my return in San Diego.

At the same time, during my time in Portland, I remembered something about myself:

I've never been one to hold back on love.

“I am. I always am. But it’s always worth it.”

My heart is pounding.

I'll worship like a dog 
in the shrine of your lies.

- Hozier, Take Me To Church

-+-

I don't know when I first learned about death.

I wonder if it was from TV or a movie.  I wonder if I watched something not targeted to my age range, and learned about death when the main antagonist was defeated.  I wonder if when he closed his eyes, I understood that they would stay closed forever.  I wonder if was from the many cats that we had in my family when I was a child.  I wonder if a kitten died and my parents struggled to explain the natural phenomena to me.  I wonder if I knew of death before or after my maternal grandfather's funeral, where my mom threw herself upon her father's casket, hysterical in tears.

In either case, I was aware by five years of age that someday, everyone dies.

My first memory of conceptualizing death takes place in my parents' bedroom.  They, and the rest of my family, were in the living room watching the television together.  I don't remember why I was in my parents' bed, but there I was, between the sheets.  It was the middle of the evening, and I was lying quietly in the dark.  I held my breath, and imagined myself no longer breathing.  I closed my eyes and imagined how someday, this darkness will be forever.  I imagined my mom being gone forever.  My dad.  That they would have to endure this darkness.  Then someday, me.  I was suddenly terrified, consumed by a fear of death.  Someday, I will die.  I became overwhelmed by tears.  I was a five-year-old girl rocking in my parents' bed, weeping, "I don't want to die, I don't want to die!"

My first memory of death is as a little girl, begging not to die.

I am currently at the generous age of 23 -- an age in a life where Death is still relatively kind to me.  I've lost less than a handful of friends, although the people around me have lost loved ones.  Both of my parents are still earthbound.  Death has flirted with me, but has not afflicted me.

In these past two weeks, Death made its presence known to me three times.  The first was my battle with the suicide note in my text inbox.   The second is something that impacted millions -- I've never been emotionally affected by a celebrity death before, but I truly mourned the suicide of Robin Williams.  Then the third -- my co-worker has been fighting cancer since before I started at my job.  He is being taken off life support today.  It might even be as I write this.  I'm not at work today, because I'm getting on a plane to Portland in the early evening.  I just know that when I come back to work on Monday, he will have passed away.

I would share my emotional turmoil, but I still need to pack my bags.  My boarding pass to Portland is a sobering reminder to seize life while I have it.  There is so much of the world that I haven't seen -- how much of it will I be able to see before my last breath?

I think a lot about my eventual death.  I think a lot about the last thing I'll see, or think, or feel.  Will I be afraid, or will I realize acceptance?  Will my final gasp be spent on a softly whispered, "I love you," or on a helpless scream?

I would think I'm going through my quarter-life crisis, but who knows if it's actually my midlife crisis, or my 90%?  Or, on the other hand, technology advances the human lifespan significantly during my lifetime, and I'm actually just a mere 5% done?  One can laugh and dream, but really -- who knows?

Death placed a hand on my shoulder.  I am stricken.  Yet somehow, life goes on.