How To Fake Writing Good

So many to choose from.

Sitting in the music building on a college campus and listening to everyone practicing. It’s the best worst symphony.

Waking up to an open window and everyone in the world except for the birds is asleep.

People noodling around softly at Guitar Center.

The low-fidelity hum of music when you’re outside the building it’s coming from.

Campfires.

Snow against a board.

Crickets in the middle of the night.

The sound of my house’s heater turning on.

When my sandal scrapes against concrete; largely, I only wear sandals to the beach or at home. So when I hear them against concrete (none found in my house), it means I’m at the beach.

Colors of the Wind playing during World of Color.

When you’re sitting in the trunk of your car in the parking lot of a park. The quiet you hear is broken only by the living.

The general quietness of parks, actually.

The echoes made by a basketball in a gym. The swish of a shot.

When the book you put back on the bookshelf makes that clack of the pages against the wood.

|blog|blog|blog

The first time I saw her was in a psychology class I took in my first year at a four-year university. (I started as a junior because I’d gone to a community college prior to enrollment here.)

I remember thinking that she was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. Even now, four years later, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone that would me reconsider that.

The first time we met, however, was a year after seeing her for the first time. She’d been in multiple of my classes, so I assumed we had the same major. I was trying very hard to focus on school because I felt I was so behind already, given my age, so for a long time, I didn’t even consider the prospect of dating. But here was this girl, sitting in front of me in a night class on the day of a test (after which we were allowed to go home), holding on to every bit of hope that I had that she was proof that I had a Person. You know, that dreaded, wistful, oversaturated word–a soulmate. So I finished my test quickly and early–school, for all the focus it took from me, was not very hard nor challenging–so that I could turn in my test close to when she would turn in hers. It’s called moves?? Look it up.

I found her walking to our school’s parking lot, so I walked up to her.

“Hey.”

“Oh, hey.”

“Did you just come from [redacted’s] test?”

“Yeah, I did. Did you?”

“Yeah. How do you think you did?”

“I think pretty well. I studied a lot for it. I’m [redacted], by the way.”

“Oh oops, my bad. I’m Nico.”

“Nice to meet you. I feel like I’ve seen you around before.”

“Yeah, I think we have some of the same classes. What’s your major?”

“Psychology. What about you?”

“Me too!”

Nothing substantial came of this. A couple months of flirting (I tried not to because based on her Instagram profile, she had a boyfriend. And if this was going to be something good, I’d rather it not start off with me as the homewrecker, which I concede is a subjective term.), a couple years of waiting (she’d moved to SoCal after graduation), and one almost-date.

I’m happy and sad that I pursued her. Happy because it was something (read: someone) I really wanted. Sad because it was the most work in a long while that I’d put in that ended in unhappiness. I like that it’s both, though. I feel happy to have wanted someone so badly because at some point I wasn’t sure it would happen again.

|blog|blog|blog

I flew from California to Toronto, Canada. But in the interest of transparency, I didn’t want it to be a romantic gesture, and she was hoping that it was.

I take after my mom and my dad (in vastly different ways) (but happily). My parents love to travel to visit new places. It fulfills multiple things for them, one being a break from the norm. It’s cathartic to balance a life spent mostly at home or at work. It’s a chance to see beautiful and noteworthy things and places and to try new foods and to experience life in cultures completely unlike their own. There is an aspect of culture, however, that only those who partake consider it a piece of culture: alcohol.

My parents rarely or never drink. It’s not really for any particular reason (that they’ve told me). They just don’t do it. And while I’m not an alcoholic (allegedly), I do drink often. It’s never really that heavy, but I like to have drinks socially; it’s comforting to have something in my hand to resort to, even if, at some point, it’s just melted ice with a dash of a cocktail.

I consider alcohol an important part of a developed place’s social culture (I don’t know enough about un- or underdeveloped places to know if it’s important there too). We drink when we’re happy or comfortable or celebrating. We drink when we’re nervous or uneasy or upset. I drink when I’m with people, and I’m usually happy with people. So whether I drink when I’m happy or when I’m with people, I like the forwardness alcohol affords me and others. It’s a substance that affects disinhibition, and I don’t let this go to waste.

It was in preschool. I attended Montessori, and there was this girl there. I don’t remember much about preschool besides a few core ideas.

In no order,

• I absolutely abhorred my preschool teacher (her name was [redacted])
• I loved oranges and bananas
• Woody was the only correct Halloween costume
• I was in love with this girl I’d never seen before

Facts about this girl:

• I’d never seen her before
• I haven’t seen her since (I don’t think)
• She was just the cutest thing
• I loved her name

Her name was Sabrina.

SAS: Share a story.

I received a box of cards from a resident, each one with a unique prompt. The cards are meant to help people get to know each other. I plan on sharing the cards with our residents here, but since I won’t be sharing with them, I’ll be sharing with you. You’ll get to know me, and hopefully I’ll get to know you.

There are so many things right with the world. I can’t possibly list them all because, frankly, I don’t know them all. There’s a butt ton wrong with the world too, to be sure, but we’re not on that today. Kindness is one of the best things right with the world. It’s so hard to get wrong, even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. Music is so, so good. At any given time, there’s so much you either already love or can and will love. It’s mind-boggling, honestly. Parks and Recreation is a perfect and flawless show, and Jean-Ralphio being unable to stop a rap line on the rhyme is an absolutely flawless moment on an endlessly charming story. Calvin and Hobbes is a sublime work of art. Conception, execution, background, external references, moral and ethical examinations, art criticisms, I could go on and on about what this strip has to offer. But like its creator, Bill Watterson, I’m withholding everything but the strip itself.

Clearly, there is a lot that is right with the world. But I would be remiss to omit the greatness of hope. Found at or near the core of anything we are or do, hope is as inseparable from humanity as love is from dogs.