One for the road.

I feel slightly guilty and I can't help it. A guilt that an only (semi) selfless person can truly feel, I suppose. I've been encompassed in nights that end with quiet thoughts of "I can't wait to tell my offspring and their offspring about this." And then I think "Wow, I can't wait to tell Laura's unborn child these things." And that excites me, fucking real life. I hope it's a girl so I can tell her to slow down and never settle for anything but this feeling.. the feeling of beautifully adoring friends and loves of your life. So I can tell her to have an open heart that is wise beyond years, yet never guarded in any sort of defensive barbed wire. I hope it's a boy so I can tell him to be reckless in life, but extraordinarily careful in love. So I can tell him to be the best brother and son and father and boyfriend ever. Some boys haven't ever been told that. It's not their fault, they just never knew how fragile such a silly little organ could be.

What a giggling mess I've become. Grateful is an understatement. I can slap my best friend across the face with such force that both of our eyes lock in maddening shock.. and then we laugh. We laugh like we were watching some sort of amazing sitcom in which we both got the punchline. I can be tough with a side of love and a boy understands that I mean business. That I will slap him harder than her if he chooses to get on my bad side. I ride home on the back of another boy's bike, treacherously weaving in and out of the cracks of Elmwood while I try to puff on a Seneca and simultaneously hang on for dear life. I quietly think "What a good story.. I am living in the movie Now and Then and riding home on the bike of a wormer." We have good talks about life and how small Buffalo really is and we secretly tell eachother we never want to leave. I run inside and strip down to underwear, being greeted graciously by sassy Peterbilt. He reluctantly follows me around as I make my nightly routine of over-buttered, over-cheesed grilledcheese and I unconsciously dress into a dirty, gigantic wifebeater that has been left behind. Without much thought, I inhale it's fading smell of sweat and brash soap and I smile. Part of me is mad that I've become one of those girls, but the less rational part of me can't get over the way it fits perfectly in an odd manner. In 4 hours I will awake to drive my little, yet constantly growing brother his spare set of car keys. It's nice to know that he still needs me. That I should be annoyed and inconvenienced and aggravated, but I still need him too.

In a few days I will be on an epic journey, fleeing Eastward to the smell of an ocean and dirt and grime. I love this summer. I think I'm happy.