bee-york

Just now I was sitting down at my cluttered kitchen table so I could finish listening to this comedian telling a story about early adolescent awkwardness–you can find it on June 12's This American Life–and it reminded me of Christopher, this guy I dated last summer (and who generally keeps up with this blog, I think, so Hi!), not so much because of the content of the story but because of the way this comedian talked and then Ira Glass says, that was Mike Birbiglia and I think, What a coincidence, I swear Christopher told me about that guy, but I can't know for sure because was it by letter or phone? Who knows. Since my first letter box became stuffed to the brim I have yet to start a new universal letter saving system. They end up stuffed in books on my night stand, book shelf, desk. I've got to do better about that.

So I think about what happens when you subtract 365 days of your life–that's what inevitably ends up happening when I remember Christopher. You know those things that are forever linked in your brain, here's one of mine: summer 2010, Paraguay, him. To press on, I've been stuck in this meditative state since I graduated, you know, all philosophical ideas and bittersweet emotions (I'm growing up and accomplishing things! Oh wait I've failed! New chances! Lots of goodbyes!), but I'm not so sure these bittersweet emoticons are so different from a lot of how I felt 365 days ago. The knowledge is different. I've changed. But I'm still the same, I have the same feelings. The impossibilities of life: change and the same.

Thankfully I'm not hyper explosively stressed like that year ago, although I still have the incurable nervous tic of scratching the skin off my right middle finger tip. Last week my roommate hosted a little dinner at which we were asked the [hypothetical] question: would you rather eat a live puppy or one of your fingers while it was still on your body? I would definitely choose to eat off my middle finger. I try to keep from ripping the skin off by taping it up in black electrical tape (three layers) but you can't always fix your life with black electrical tape. You can fix your bike seat though.

How do I turn everything morbid? And my life does not need fixing. Goodness.

The thing is we return to these same emotions, we move through a repeating pattern of heart, specifics change but underlying we're still working through the same internal feelings. Right? Or is that just me? It seems as though we're conducting a science experiment, try out the conditions–people, places, experiences–until you figure out why you feel...or how to change the way you feel...or something...