What is the best way for me to describe this last month?

Do I start with the rigorous finale to my two years working in the research laboratory, or do I dive straight into my college commencement -- the grand finale to my college career at UC Merced?  Do I start by describing the fulfillment of my nearly lifelong dream to walk the streets of Manhattan, or do I introduce with how much of a blubbering mess I was as I said goodbye to my best friend as we parted ways in Merced?

This is a story that will take multiple posts to document.  I want to write about them all over the next few days/weeks, because I want to engrave them into my memory through written word.  But where to start?

-+-

I know what's freshest in my memory, and it's the image of him in my rearview mirror in his khaki shorts and his blue-gray T-shirt.  

I promised him I wouldn't cry again while we were saying goodbye.  While I couldn't hold in a few tears, I saved the heavy crying for after I turned the corner, and I drove away from his neighborhood for the last time.

I spent the morning helping him move out of his house, right before I was about to move out of mine.

"I'm really wishy-washy, aren't I?" I pouted at the start of the morning, apologizing for getting choked up the last few times we hung out that week.  Over the last two days, I got teary during my last time in Merced riding shotgun in his car, and I cried a little the last time that we played video games together.

"Yes, definitely," he replied, without hesitation.  

We laughed.

"Okay," he said, indicating that it was time for me to start wrapping up to leave, "It's time."

Right after deciding that I wouldn't cry during our last few hours in Merced together, the moment he said that, tears started welling up in my eyes.  I clung to his arms and gave him a big hug, as my tears developed into a heaving sob.

"I-I-I'm gonna misssss yooooooo," I whimpered, almost unintelligibly.

He hugged me back, laughing at how much of a mess I quickly became, "Awww, why are you crying so much?  Oh my god, you're super 'ugly-face crying'!  Awwww, Christa...!"

I let go a little, leaving an enormously wet stain on the shoulder of his shirt.  I whimper through tears, "You know what I realized?  I think out of everything about Merced, I'm going to miss you the most."

He hugged me again in solace, "Aw, what?  Why me?  What about the lab?  What about everyone else?"

I fell back into a heaving sob and tackled him with a hug.  I wept in his arms, "B-b-b-b-but... y-you're my beeeest friiiiieeeeend.... nyehhhh!!!"

As I finally calmed down from all my heart-wrenching FEELINGS, he laughed, "You know, I'm never going to let you live this down.  I will always make fun of you for how much you ugly-face cried today."

After I manage to muster, "nyeeeeh u assholleeeeee nyehhhh," I ask him, my eyes still brimming with tears, "Can I just hang out while you clean? purleeze i so sad"

With another laugh, he agrees.

After two hours of packing and cleaning, it was when I was about to leave that would be my most vivid memory of the entire saga of "The Last Days of Merced."

"I'll leave when you're done sending this e-mail," I mumble, sadly.

When he hits the "Send" button, we exchange a sad look, and I whimper like a sad pug.  

"Well, it's been a lot of fun, Christa," he smiles as I continue whimpering sadly.  He kisses me on the forehead, "And we'll have a lot more fun, okay?"

And I hope I would never forget that reassuring little kiss.

With a little smile, I nod, "Mmhmm, yee!"

When I drive off, I ask him to pat me on the head one last time, after years of asking him to pat me on the head at times of both celebration and sadness.  (I've learned I like getting patted on the head.)

"I love you, maynnnnnn," I yell at him through my window as I pull out of my parking spot, "Bahhh!"

"I love you too, Christa," he smiles, "Byee!"

As I drive away, I see him in my rearview mirror, and I stick my hand out my window to wave at him.  Then, just before he's too far that I can't see him anymore, I try my best to really concentrate and remember him, standing there, in his khaki shorts and his blue-gray T-shirt.

Desire is my masquerade;
want you,
I never will.

- Vienna Teng, Unwritten Letter No. 1

-+-

I'm going through that phase again where my thoughts sound like blog posts, and I know that I'm overdue to write again.  They almost always start with some hook that I would think sounds intellectual and cool, something faux-philosophical that usually makes me sound more like a cliché, amateur poet.  

An example is where I stare outside the passenger window, admiring the trees, and think phrases like,

'This may be pretty bold of me to say, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that in some alternate universe, there's a version of you and a version of me that's very happy together.'

Yeah.  Yeah, that sounds pretty cool.

'There's a version of you that ends up at a university less than ten minutes away from me.  We watch the same sunset behind the Pacific Ocean, and we complain about the same June Gloom.  We're busy pursuing our respective careers, but after we're done settling into our respective grooves, we still try to catch up every now and then, meeting for lunch or dinner.  We take time to mature, and to grow into our own skin.  

Then, we realize that we're not waiting for the clock to run out anymore.  It's no longer a matter of weeks, but a matter of years.  At some cheesy romantic moment, whether it's when we watch the sunset side-by-side or simply when we're waiting at our table for the restaurant to cook our ramen, we verbalize our mutual realization that we're worth giving this a shot.'

I get distracted when I awe at the cows standing along the meadow, and giggle when one of them seems to stare at me.

I hear your voice next to me, "You're such a spaz."

I then submit to another daydream.  I continue reflecting à la blog,

'Someday, I won't be hearing you say that on a daily basis anymore.  Isn't that such a strange thing to realize?

Because this version of you, the one sitting next to me right now, is not the version that ends up at a university less than ten minutes away from me.  You'll experience a different June than mine, with its own weathers and seasons, and you'll be waiting with someone else for your delicious orders of ramen.  What is a matter of weeks is simply a matter of weeks.

But if I were to think about the other version of you, and the other version of me, I'd simply think, Good for them.'

You park your car, and I take a moment to show you the bruise that I got from running into a sink.

I whine, "i gots a bruisies nyeh"

Without hesitation, you punch my bruise and laugh.

'Yes, I say, Good for them.  But honestly, I'll be okay if we never meet those other versions of us.  All I truly hope for is that we can always stay like this, and that time can nourish what we have now.  I like these versions of us.  After all, this version of you and this version of me.. it sure ain't bad.'

I stand there whining as you start walking ahead of me.  You call, "C'mon, spaz."  It's my turn to laugh, chasing after you.

'Ain't bad at all.'

Everything was cool the way it was:
just me, my thoughts, and I.
And then, there was you, so randomly too;
the way that you walked by.

- US, I Will Wait For You

-+-

Dearest world,

It's kind of funny... but there are times where, for me, no news is good news.

My blog and I, we've gone through some ups and downs for the last ten years.  We've gone through surges of inspiration and longing days of Writer's Block.  In fact, since I last posted, my ten-year anniversary with my blog passed -- on November 24th.  (Cheers!)

In fact, little do you know, I've come and gone to this website many, many times in the last month.  My private page is endlessly riddled with incomplete "I'll-Get-To-It-Later" posts and half-finished sentences.

You missed much.  Far too much, and that was when I realized that I must come back to these pages.  You missed my newly-discovered fangirling over the television series, Supernatural -- I am now that fangirl that has been Googling Supernatural conventions with fervent determination to meet actor Misha Collins.  You missed Finals Week -- the week that extremely unfortunately fell at the same time that I discovered Supernatural, but luckily I still managed to get in all of my studying and finish the semester with all A's.  You missed my grueling days in the laboratory; my mentoring post-doctorate left for a professor position in Spain, and we had the scramble of our lives as we rushed to collect data before his departure.  You missed my loving memories with friends, family... the things that made this last semester wonderful -- my last Fall semester of my undergraduate career.

I haven't been here much for good reasons, though.

"You know... you can talk to me about everything," he said soulfully, as his hands grasped the steering wheel.

We would spend the next few months cashing in that check, solidifying the conclusion that I told him before we parted ways for Winter Break: "You'll always be my best friend in college."

He playfully wept over my lackluster choice of words, "Oh, your best friend only in college?  I see how it is..."

I smacked his shoulder with the back of my hand as I corrected myself in laughter, "From college!  I meant from college!"

We would run through all of the usual conversations: he would be the blessed beast that introduced me to Supernatural; he would troll me in every way possible; and of course, we would, at some point, have that one conversation again -- why we'll always be bros, and never sweethearts.  It's just not written in the stars, and the constellations are all-knowing.

All the while, his ears would be my journal.  Even though it had been such a long while since I posted on my beloved Xanga, my fingertips did not starve to express my thoughts in written form.  I have a lot to say, but it's all been said.  I have a lot to share, but it's all been shared.  I just realized it was about time that I shared with the rest of my loved ones (and my blog), too.

So I arrived here, with so much worth saying.  However, looking over this post again, I realize that really, honestly... I mostly talked about Supernatural.  So here's a gratuitous picture of Misha Collins!

MISHAAAAAAA!!

Sincerely,

me

-+-

P.S. Huong, I still need to write to you! T_T

I'm keeping it steady, that's just how I was raised:
head held up, walking tall into each broken wave.

- Delta Rae, The Morning Comes

-+-

-- "Bro, what the hell, look like you're happier to be seen with me!!!!"

Yet, this is all I managed to come up with.

After recovering from a defeated sigh, I realized that it had the perfect amount of pseudomystery -- "This is perfect for my blog!"  And so, a multimedia post was born!

As I now hit the homestretch of my undergraduate education, I've been pursuing to be less terrible at capturing memories.  "I'm such a bad Asian," I would pout, "I suck at taking photos."  Hopefully we'll start seeing more fun visuals on this site.  Then again, I always say things like that and never follow-through.  But still.  HOPEFULLY.

-- "Dude, I know you're hesitant, but I swear, we can actually make this whole BFF thing happen.  Let's totally keep in touch after we graduate.  Okay?  Like I mean that.  Like, mean that mean that.  Okay?"

He finally surrenders with a smile of humble defeat, "...Okay."

I could hear the subtle tones of quiet disbelief and pessimism, but we'll see.

Weeeee'll seeeeeeeeee....

dun dun DUNNN

If I'm butter,
then he's a hot knife.

- Fiona Apple, Hot Knife

-+-

"Flu shot!"  

It's a full-fledged battle cry, as he vigorously pokes me in my left deltoid.

I helplessly yelp in pain, "ahhhhhh you asssssssss"

-+-

I look on as he drives down the long country road for our regular carpool home from campus.  Our elbows are barely touching on the central armrest.  He's playing the new album by The xx, and I make a mental note, 'I love this song!'

When we make the turn into my neighborhood, I remember that I have good news, and I gleefully clasp my fingers together, eager to share.

"I'm all done with counseling!"

He turns his head towards me in acknowledgement, "Yeah, aren't you doing pretty well?"  I nod cheerfully.

I had been regularly seeing a counselor on campus, mostly to invest in the prevention of any more panic attacks.  The semester had a terrifying start, and I'd be damned if I didn't do all I could to prevent another frightening surge of anxiety from ever happening again.

He has a follow-up question, "So how exactly do you know that you're 'done'?"

I elaborate, "So my counselor gave me a bunch of coping therapies, and then she stopped and realized, 'But.. actually, you already did all of that,' and then decided that my next appointment's only going to be follow-up.  Man, can you imagine?  Last time I went to counseling was for my depression, wayyy back when, and I was a lost cause.  Now I'm going in for follow-up."

"Well, that's back then.  You're a different Christa now."

"...Thanks, man.  Hell yeah."

He nods, "Good."

"Ja dude," I agree, "hella good."