And so I became 11 again

Let's be angry somewhere about a Zed or a Master Yi being fed.

Fuck this. Throw a table. Throw a fit.

You and me, in Chuckett or ballroom-looking Lamont, you name it, stirring up the place with rowdy clicks from us spamming League abilities. Eventually, the whole place is empty and ours.

You and me splurging on open fridges of soymilk. I don't hate myself yet and we're all praying we don't have too much work to catch up for tomorrow.

I'm belting out to Celine Dion again. "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" and I swear I'm only passionate about winning the game. 

I had a thought in my head somewhere about how Taylor Swift ought to have an acoustic version of the Midnights album soon. And yup, lo and behold, she does. 

Definitely not wondering if this is the last game. It'd be a cold walk back. Or in the earlier days of my life, say 2 years ago. When this girl couldn't walk, it'd be too cold to have naked fingers holding crutch sticks against icy pavement. A miracle she made it home. A miracle she had the will to crutch up two flights of stairs like a young, hungry man. 

She once dated a young, hungry man. 

I definitely did once date a young, hungry man. It was lovely. He was the best.

At what though? I remember everything.

-32 degrees can definitely kill this woman. 

I will never shave my head. Ever. I could. And I'd look hot. But I will never shave my head. I'm too vain and in love with these locks of straight-down-aquatic-waterfall hair. Asian mermaid. Unwet.

I'm just sleepy. Sober. Not drunk. I write like cooling pastries about to be put back into the oven because they're not burnt enough.

Pastries are never crispy enough to me. 

I remember Natalie once bought us two boxes of pizza. Guess who finished it? All three of us. Raw. 

Remember it. Remember that it was real and how raw it was. Pizza on our fingers. Pizza scented oil on our keyboards after. I'd have to look for wipeys after.

It's 1:30 AM EST but it's 12:30 CST. There's a 7 page essay awaiting me to sniff, whiff, and piff.

Fiff. Giff. GIF.  It's JIFF not G-if. 

Lucy, I swear I know you're reading this and wondering if I'm having an asthma attack. I will definitely be responding to you in kind on Instagram. I can't believe I just leave messages untouched for weeks. 

I do that. It's so fucking bad that I do but I do that. I have no idea why I fear messaging people back. I'm literally a self-proclaimed poet and writer -- can't even write back. Why am I so silly? So damn silly. I don't get it. 

There's a man out there. One singular man who has bought every ticket to see me. And I thank you. I thank him. I thank you. Curtsy low for this one. Keeper.

I will never fuck up at anything again. I don't want to. I don't.

Don't.

Good night silly people.