That being said: My reaction time is top tier– I know that from Wii Sports|Tennis. I have the energy! For a subject I’m passionate about, I could muster up the strength. I just need to be given a chance.

I don’t enjoy inflicting harm. I don’t enjoy getting hurt. I don’t WANT to fight. But I’m a little bit sad that I’ll never know how I would’ve scrapped on the playground. A core experience is completely missing. Now, it’s too late. Well, it’s not too late, but it’s way less convenient and the damage is more permanent. It becomes a legal situation…

Plus, I’m more level headed than ever, so the odds of me landing in a tussle are slimmer than ever, but I still wonder about that dwindling sliver of a chance…

If I fought, would I win? Would people cheer for me? How would my friends react? How would I look throwing a punch?

There’s only one way to find out, and hopefully, it’ll never happen. But if it did happen (me, in a fight), here’s how I would want it to look:

No announcements

No “meet me out backs” or “catch me outsides” or “we duel at dawns” for anybody to hear. Nobody can know when or where it’s happening (aside from my opponent). The less notice, the less time there is for people to dissuade me from partaking. There’s no need to leave time for people to worry. I will have one emergency contact who is ready with the appropriate first aid supplies. My opponent will be allowed the same.

No crowd

Fights should be about fighting, not vanity. I want to focus on the task at hand (the fight) without clouds of cheers* blocking the moment. NO SPECTACLES HERE. How about instead, we have a quaint tussle that’s rooted in conflict resolution? It’s more ethical that way, in my opinion. Remember, we’re all entitled to our opinions.

*(Or boos. People are mean sometimes— literally adding insult to injury!)

Livestream

There would be a notification when the fight commences. I’d want people to see it even if they’re not present. This is a big deal for me, after all: my very first fight. I’d want my friends and family to attend the same way they attended my graduation. Maybe even sprinkle in a few coworkers and strangers. I’m sure they’d be curious. You can come too.

Morph suits

We wear morph suits*. You’d know it’s me obviously– from the mannerisms and the voice, but I need to feel a little bit anonymous. I’d need to detach, so I can dive into the experience. We can color code, so you know who’s who. That’s probably the least emotionally complicated way to go about this I think.

(for reference*^)

Grassy field

It has to be in a grassy field to soften any impact. I don’t want anyone getting seriously hurt, but it’d be nice if the field were near a hospital just in case. Oh– also, it can’t be too scenic or I’ll get distracted. Preferably behind a shopping mall or something– after hours, so nobody passes by.

Breaks

We take breaks to talk. What I lack in the arena, I make up for in dialogue. Every so often, I’d like to pause our fistfight to continue establishing my point or to check if my opponent changed their mind maybe. If not, we can keep fighting.

Quitting

Quitting is allowed. Tapping out is encouraged. There’s no loss of clout. The goal here is embarrassment and nothing further. We shake hands at the end.

No forgiveness

Unfortunately, we will not be friends after our scheduled fight. I will respect the outcome and carry on with things and I hope you’ll do the same. That will be that. Why do some people insist on forgiveness? Let’s mutually accept the consequences of our actions and move forward with things. Lessons were learned!

Yes— I understand that by staging a fight, I’m losing spontaneity and authenticity– two of the most compelling parts of an actual fight. Those are prices I’ll pay for exploring my first scuffle so late in life.

If you know anyone who’s interested (and at my skill level), let’s seriously chat! Maybe I’ll host tryouts. Please note: Participants must be willing to jeopardize our friendship since once again: I likely won’t want to stay friends afterwards. Win or lose, it’d just be too much for me. Maybe, YEARRRRRRS down the line, we can run into each other at a party/cafe/wedding/etc. and share a few laughs about it. We can reminisce on a carefree moment then snap back into our routines. I feel like that’s how fights tend to go.

I wanna be clear: This isn’t a “cat-hater” situation– it’s the exact opposite. I quite enjoy cats. In fact, most people consider me a “cat” sort of person. And I take that as a compliment! But for some reason I struggle in my relationships with literal cats.

There’s no better surprise than visiting a friend and discovering their secret lil buddy– tucked away behind a couch, or peering from over the stairs. I love receiving updates about what Fluffy Jenkins had for dinner. Every time I visit a cat, I want one for myself. But the feeling is not mutual. Most cats look at me and seem uninterested– like I don’t bring stimulating conversation to the table.

It’s not like I don’t try! I think the first hangout would be fun— lots of pets, compliments, maybe a lil house tour, etc. But eventually, the sun would set and the cat would start lookin at me funny, like:

“Why are you still here?”

And I would have to hide my tears. I would shuffle around for a bit– looking for newspapers or cups or whatever cats like to play with, but I would be too nervous to find anything.

“I’m, like, going to be your, like, guardian,”

I would explain, but that type of thing doesn’t work on cats. You have to show them your leadership, not tell them about it. You have to prove it to them (so I’ve heard). Most cat parents I know have faced a Trial. They’ve done a dance, or cooked a gourmet meal, or taken an exam and scored perfectly. You’re supposed to put on a show of your talents— flaunt your dominance amongst humans to win your cat’s respect (I think). I don’t know if I have enough time for test prep or choreography.

I’ve heard they’ll ask you to redecorate. And if your vision is uninspiring, they’ll growl every time they pass you by. Most cats would gawk at my mood board and I would lose sleep over it. I welcome criticism! I would appreciate the conversation. I just don’t know if I’m ready to add a cat to my panel of judges.

They’re all-seeing. I don’t think I could lie about my workout routine the way I could to most people. That cat probably sat right by the window and watched my every lap. Probably timed me too. Probably gonna confront me about my lack of improvement.

When I come home from work, I wouldn’t even know where to look. Are you under the fridge? Are you buried in the sofa? Are you in the closet? Are you in this dimension? It’s a power play! And don’t say “You’re being overdramatic– most cats will come say hi at some point or another,” because you haven’t seen cats around me. My cat wouldn’t.

Having a cat is having a companion who pushes you. You fill their little cat bowl and they fill you with so much wisdom in one glance. They’re the type of friend who can’t sit idly by while you make mistakes. They push you to be better. They’ll give you a snuggle when you’re down, but ultimately they want to see you thrive. They love you, but it’s definitely possible to disappoint them. It’s like having an intrusive roommate.

It *could* work (me and a cat). But we’d need to be on the same team. And right now, I don’t know if I’m ready.

We’d butt heads. We’d fight over food and space. And the cat would win and it would genuinely cause me to spiral. I think “Alpha” is more of dog thing, but if I had a cat, the cat would be “Alpha.” It’d be cute, but I’d feel insecure. Someday I’ll welcome one into my life. I hope.

But I think I probably have to work on myself first.

I am not drawn to conflict, but I’m also not afraid of it. I’d say I operate on a confrontational middle ground– a scheduled debrief or a snippy remark. Occasionally it’ll unravel into a back and forth— but for the most part, it’s pretty manageable. It’s good, but it’s not ideal. I always walk away from discussions wishing I’d either done more or said less. There never seems to be a sweet spot.

My perfect confrontation will never be attainable because it’s simply not practical: When people cause me distress, I dream of giving them fish.

Let me repeat myself in case I wasn’t clear: If you say something nasty, I’ll take a deep breath. I’ll say “give me one second,” and I’ll go to the pet store. I’ll find a fish* with a mean side eye and I’ll ask the shopkeeper for its favorite food and a suitable fish tank (regardless of the size of your living space or your decorative scheme). I’ll leave everything right there at your doorstep.

I’ll Zelle-request you for the supplies. That’ll be that.

*I’ll be channeling my disgust into marine biology— that’s the idea here. The variety of fish depends on the person:

If you keep stepping on my shoe, you’ll get a goldfish. If you betray my trust, you’ll get a shark. If you’re avoidant, you’ll get 500 guppies. If you’re unappreciative of art, you’ll get an eel. If you’re abusive of people’s kindness, you’ll get a salmon– multiple even.

><(((())))*> ><(((())))*>

I’ll take some space to contemplate whether or not I have the emotional strength to keep you in my life…

Certainly not now– but maybe after you’ve learned your lesson. In the meantime, you will worry about that fish.

You’ll probably be puzzled at first. It’ll take you a moment to process: “UUuuuUuuh, is-is she really giving me a…fish?”

You’ll realize I probably forgot to charge you for the fish itself because I moved with such haste (I was angry! I wasn’t thinking straight). You’ll laugh about it for a second. Then, you’ll argue.

You’ll try to say: “That’s so unfair. Why are you thrusting that innocent fish into such a hostile situation?” and that’s just not how I’ll see it.

Remember when I was an innocent fish thrust into your hostile situation?

Everything inside that tank is a lesson. I’d choose the fishiest fish with the nastiest attitude. I’d choose one that hogged all the fish feed and clogged up the filter. He sat on the prime fake rock all day soaking up the fake aquarium heat while his friends shivered. I’d tell myself, “Aw! Look at this misguided fish I’ve paired with a lost human soul– hopefully they’ll find peace together.”

<*(((())))>< <*(((())))><

You’ll call me, but I won’t say much (assuming I even pick up). I may use reverse psychology. I may tell you: “I bet you can’t do it,” and hang up the phone with a lil smirk. I may subtweet you afterwards. It’ll push you. You’ll wonder how.

Time will pass and you’ll grow exhausted – depressed even – by the constant hum of the MegaTank 360 I tossed onto your doorstep. It uses all three of your desk outlets. You can barely see your TV. But what are you gonna do– give it away to a marine-loving friend?? Find a trustworthy Facebook group where you can sell it?? Research your local flora and fauna and release it into the ecosystem if appropriate??

No! That would mean I won. I challenged you and you accepted. You’re not giving up on that fish.

In the beginning, you’ll be taken aback— upset, humiliated even, by the fish that’s been imposed on you. You’ll be quiet, confused, and eventually reflective. You’ll have no clue what to do, so you’ll just start feeding it.

In that moment chaos, you’ll pause. The warm cold sweet indifferent eyes of that semi innocent fish will force you to nurture it. I think after a few months, you’ll start sprucing up the tank. You’ll buy fancy aquarium rocks and heart-shaped coral.

You’ll create something beautiful and in doing that, I’ll create something beautiful.

You’ll run into me at the grocery store and I’ll most likely turn my head the other way. You’ll be so off-put, you might even speed to the pet store to buy another fish. You heard me– another fish.

I’ll be proud of you. You learned.

><(((())))*>

Friends will ask: “Hey ______ , when did you get that fish? Where? How?”

Maybe you’ll say my name, maybe you won’t. That depends on who you are. If you lied, I wouldn’t even know. I wouldn’t even care. It’s not about me. It’s about you and how you take care of that fish until you reach self actualization.

There was a moment so offensive, it caused me to drive all the way to the store and dump a fish into your life and every time you look at that tank you will revisit that moment, and at the end of the day, you’ll be proud of the colorful little world we built. It’ll be introspective for me. It’ll be introspective for you. It’ll be great for that fish! Hopefully, we can remain acquaintances. I understand if not.

“Ohhhh…so Melody thinks all of our conversations are copy & paste,”

and that is sooooo not what I’m getting at.

Not every conversation is the same– my friends and I are dynamic individuals with varying experiences, fluctuating moods, and colorful commentaries.

But there definitely seems to be a template:

*we’re seated at a booth in [insert restaurant here]*

Person A: It’s been a really tough week… I’m scared I’m gonna lose her.

Person B: Oh my god I’m so sorry, Person A— what happened?

Person A: Okay— so a few days ago, she and I met up at Tony’s Bar and Grill.

Person C: Ah I LOVE Tony’s. Remember when we used to go there for trivia?

Person B: Can I confess something? I never liked Tony’s to be honest.

Person A: Sureeeeee.

Person B: You don’t believe me?! I’d always just get fries and grab food afterwards.

Person C: You think you’re above everyyyything now. Ugh.

Person B: Ah– wait– sorry I sidetracked.

Person A: No, no, no— don’t worry. You’re good.

And it’s weird because there wasn’t an agenda. But still— Person A clearly has something to get off their chest and we’re all desperate to share the burden, but passion doesn’t always drive a conversation forward— it oftentimes spews it all over the place.

Person A: Ok so like– yeah – we met up at Tony’s this one time and she kept talking about how her back ached and OH MY GOD- oh my god. The waiter looks just like that guy– that guy Person B can’t stand– Rebellious?? YEAHHHHH Rebellious Jones…

*moment of silence*

Person D: Can I get you some more water?

Person B: No thanks.

Person C: Nah I don’t see it.

Person B: I kinda do…

On paper, it looks like we’re tugging the spotlight back and forth, but it doesn’t feel like that at all.

It feels more like reading a book and pausing to leave an annotations off to the side, then stopping to Google the thing you just annotated, then texting your mom to ask for her opinion on the situation because you feel like you remember her saying something similar, then realizing you’re kinda hungry and slicing up an apple to snack on. Then, you sit back down and keep reading:

*we probably order an odd collection of shareable apps*

Person A: But yeah, anyways, me and her met up at Tony’s and she had, like, tears in her eyes or whatever. It literally looked like she was about to cry. She kept rubbing her back and complaining. I think she even brought an ice pack. I asked her if her back was bothering her.

She said: “Yes, from supporting this entire relationship.”

I literally had to hold back laughter. It was so crazy— who even says that with a straight face??

Person B: I’m cracking up just thinking about it… It’s crazy because I feel like that’s happened to you before— remember— with your soccer team?

Person A: Yeah… with the goalie… yeah. That was different though! That was about sports. Recreational sports. It’s different when you’re talking about, like, an actual relationship. Like, this is serious. Oh my god.

Person B: I can’t believe that keeps happening… I’m so sorry.

Person C: Yeah. I’m so sorry. Have you ever researched your emotional attachment type?

Things get hyper specific and a little bit annoying. We want to know what color sweater she was wearing when she broke your heart or how her sibling dynamic shaped her approach to conflict resolution. We zoom in so far, the image becomes indecipherable. We discuss matters so granular, they’re avoidant of the matter at hand.

Person B: These Dirty Shirleys have barelyyyyy anything in them. Where’s the dirty?!

Person A: Yeah, I feel like I got scammed.

Person C: Why do we keep coming to this place?

Person B: I don’t even know. I guess it’s the most convenient option or whatever.

Person A: Hm…

Person B: Oh my god I am so sorry for side tracking again– what happened next— after the back ache thing?

Person A: Well, I was in shock– what do you mean YOU’RE carrying this entire relationship? I knitted our entire couch by hand. I sheered the sheep we used to stuff the cloth with wool.

Person C: That’s right! How’s the farm doing?!

Person A: It’s good! It’s great! Honestly, it’s the best part of my day at this point– crazy because my brother used to complain about it all the time. I’m not sure what was up with him. I’m having a great time!

Person B: I’m so happy you’re living your dream. Rod complains about everything so I’m not surprised he complained about that too.

Person A: Yeah– it was different for my brother. He’s always stressing himself out with needless drama. By the way— he’s still caught up with that guy.

Person C: The murderer?

Person A: Yeah.

Person C: Ohhh right. Yeah. Let me know if you ever wanna vent about that.

Person A: Yeah. Yeah. Another time…

Person B: What were we talking about again?

I don’t think I’d ever be able to pack this conversation in a neat little summary. It’s a meandering dialogue you just gotta stew in— absorbing what resonates and enjoying the rest. It can go in circles. It can overlap. It can go completely off the grid. I’ve been Person A, B, C, (and D lol), and I’ve had the best time. I hope I’m lucky enough to keep this conversation going for the rest of my life.

Maybe the natural breaks allow us to rest. Maybe this isn’t a podcast or a seminar or an essay— it’s just natural. There’s time for zoom-ins and zoom-outs and digressions and stream of consciousness. Maybe next time, we need to carve out a bit more time.

Person C: Oh right— we were talking about the breakup.

Person A: Well it’s not official yet– *checks phone* Oh… now it is.

Person B: Oh….

Person C: Oh noooo

Person A: *Tears up, takes a sip, and powers through* Sorry I keep getting interrupted– deep breath– continues: so basically-

Writing is supposed to be one of those things that’s objectively good for you– like running or knitting or vegetables. But running without eating isn’t a healthy case. Knitting yourself into sleep deprivation is controversial. And apparently if you eat too much broccoli, you’re at risk of excessive gas, bloating, or diarrhea. Anythingggg can be detrimental if you’re creative enough.

So on a concerningly warm January evening, why not investigate the negative impact that writing has had on my life?

Escapism as a blessing and a curse

I’ve mentioned this before– I’m not the greatest at regularly journaling (working on that!), but there was a point in my life where I never skipped a day.

When I was a kid I used to journal in one of those little magnetic diaries– probably from FiveBelow. I’d write one real entry and one fake one.

I think I was being a little bit avoidant. On bleak days, I would write about my fake farm or my fake fashion show or my fake trip to outer space instead. I know— fantasy doesn’t necessarily mean avoidance. If anything, it can amplify truths— I know. But this was supposed to be a journal. And mixing lies into my daily happenings was cute but a little bit detached.

At best– my little kid creativity might’ve enhanced my little kid reality. I’d like to think if a child psychologist and an English major teamed up they could pull some hard truths from some of those entries. But that’s just me being nice about it.

At worst, I created stress for myself that was completely unnecessary. I’d head downstairs for dinner with a headache over completely nonexistent battles.

Of my problematic relationships with writing, this one is definitely the tamest. At a young age, it kept me writing consistently and voraciously which is great because writing is great for you.

Attention-seeking, overstepping, and being plain old mean and nasty

I used to write fan fictions about– like – actual people or whatever. It is probably one of the darkest ways I’ve ever put pen to paper and to this day I’m sorry for it.

No, I didn’t change the names. Yes, they were 100% based in reality. Yes, they were drama. No– thank god– I didn’t publish or share them. That’s the only thing separating this tidbit from tragedy.

In my defense, I told all the characters – oops I meant people – involved about what I was doing– once I was done– when it was too late for them to ask me to stop. I’d say “Hey is it okay I wrote three pages about you auditioning for a play and getting rejected,” as if I hadn’t already done it– as if I wasn’t already holding three complete pages in my hand.

And I didn’t even see a problem with it. I thought I was qualified to say whatever I wanted because duh– I was writing– and that’s a good thing to do– right? I could pluck whatever I wanted from my mind and spew it out into the world with zero repercussions. Right?

Wrong. But at least it was a little bit funny.

I liked the idea that I was dissecting the world. I liked that I could look down at three proud complete pages that I mla formatted for some reason. I wasn’t doing any real thinking– just making my subconscious the world’s burden. And that was a little bit reckless.

I think there are situations where people want to be a writer but don’t actually care that much about writing. They don’t care about words, their weight, or how to deliver a message. They don’t care to learn. They just want to be writers.

Writing bad poetry because I was supposed to be a poet

I thought writing needed to look a certain way. I threw my entire lexicon in the trash and leaned darker and drearier and lacier and it stressed me out so badly. But I thought I was doing great since I looked the part…

Only I didn’t look the part– I looked a hot mess:

[Yes it’s real. They’re all real. I never delete things.]

Ideally, writing says something and I had nothing to say. I overthought myself into a tangle.

Stuck, I kept wondering what wouldn’t click in my brain. Humbled, I kept my thoughts to myself.

I decided that I wasn’t cut out to write about respectable things— the springtime or sheds or flowers or doves or tea or mysterious shopkeepers with glasses.

Sharing with the class

This came right after the NeedsToBeaPoet phase– a hard pivot towards my actual voice that leaned a little bit too honest. I hated gatekeeping so much, I hyper-embraced a low-barrier platform. I began an (ongoing) era of rampant twitterdepicting opinions too profound — too otherworldly — to address in regular conversation:

It alleviated my fear of sharing my work to a perfect extent– and then it kept going. Thankfully now, I’m mature enough to handle it.

You have no idea how many times I’ve received texts from confused mutuals asking if everything is okay, if I can please explain, or why would I tweet such a thing.

I feel guilty sometimes– like I’m desecrating words by throwing them out into the void so quickly. While baseless snippiness is exhilarating, some thoughts simply need to be built on.

I wonder how many essays I would’ve written if I had taken a second to sit with my fleeting thoughts. I guess it’s not too late.

I’m not sure why I felt compelled to write this.

Probably the same reason I decided to write about flying cars in my elementary school journal or tweet about how I was a mermaid in a past life because it situated me closer to seafood boils.

I’ll always feel better about trying than about saying nothing at all. I’m hoping my destructive writing habits sat on the conveyor belt long enough to become medium– maybe even beneficial to some extent. Ugh

I’ve always questioned if I’d want to learn my future. I’ve feared that knowing my future would set it in stone— that my knowledge would cause bias— forcing me to live the predictions into existence. Sorry to be cliche, but I would much rather live in the present so I can at least keep the illusion of control. Maybe I’ve heard one too many time travel paradox stories.

Anywho… I interviewed roughly seven different people who tuned into my astrological expertise last year and it turns out quite a few of those predictions came true.* I have a gift!

It’d be a shame not to use it.

So once again, I’m gonna set aside my fears of future-knowing and life-dissecting. In fact, this year, I’m gonna try even harder…

I’m gonna close my eyes and take a nice long inhale and exhale first.

HUUUUUUUUUUUh HAAAAAAAAAAA

Here we go:

Cancer

Jupiter told me that you’re doing great…for now.

“Cancers are on a journey,” she told me, “Granted, everybody is. But they REALLY are. Phew.”

Promise me you won’t forget to be proud of yourself along the way. Direct communication is easy to learn but difficult to practice! Being vulnerable is hard! And you’ve made tons of progress— especially at work.

You’re still working up the nerves to speak your truth to friends and family. This year, you can expect to see some progress. You’re two pent-up-emotion-driven outbursts away from calm, confident, consistent communication.

But yeah…those outbursts are gonna be rough. Expect many lessons. I won’t give you any spoilers, but I will say: avoid ice cream shops on Fridays. Also, don’t wear green to the supermarket…

Sorry for being hard on you.

Leo

You think you’re done with your journey but you’re definitely not. Duh– most people aren’t. And while I love your self assurance, you are not perfect (although you are pretty close).

You’ve noticed that in all of your friendships, there is a teeny tiny void that’d be filled if you simply asked a few more questions.

You’ve shared many gossipy brunches and fulfilling runs, but you’ve never really learned their favorite color or their most embarrassing childhood memory or what type of animal they wish they could transform into or etc.

You’re becoming aware though! That’s my favorite part about you. You’re already working on it. Just remember to hold yourself accountable.

Avoid Tostitos this summer and avoid Aries the whole year. Something seems spiritually off.

Aries

You will replace your go-to sweatshirt because its ever-expanding rip has grown aesthetically displeasing and frankly, uncomfortable. That doesn’t seem like a big deal on the surface but you’re gonna internalize it. It’s gonna send you spiraling into an existential crisis:

So much has changed so quickly. It’s been a good thing for a while, but now, the discomfort of growing is catching up with you.

You’ll pick up a hobby this year that past versions of you would’ve scoffed at. Maybe you’ll join a volleyball league or an improv troupe— I don’t know— that part’s up to you. By December, you’ll feel more at peace with yourself.

I’m excited for you!

This doesn’t make sense now, but on April 2nd, it will: When you hear the word pretzel, turn your head to the left.

Taurus

The whoosh of Saturns rings; the flap of birds wings, fwoop fwoop. That’s right: Friendship is FLOCKING your way this year! It’ll take the form of either multiple people, or one overbearing person.

I’m excited and scared for you! There will be a whole lotta laughs. Keep them in your pocket for moments of frustration.

It’ll certainly be a challenge— but no match for your strong emotional and social regulations skills. If anybody can manage— it’s you, Taurus. You will end 2026 tired, but proud.

Be prepared for an extreme road trip.

Gemini

I foresee a life changing hairstyle. Seriously, life changing. Crazy because you never expected it. You still don’t believe me, but give it a month… an unusual yearn will take root. In the summertime, it will blossom from your scalp— just you wait.

It’ll become your go-to look. It’ll be different, but don’t worry— it’ll suit you. Anyone who doesn’t agree can leave.

A Libra will open up to you soon. Don’t take it lightly! Welcome them into your world— you know— if they have good vibes.

You will see one of your all-time favorite movies for the first time.

Virgo

You had a lot of fun last year… naughty naughty! I’m sorry— just kidding. You’re allowed to have fun. Sorry again– you definitely don’t need my permission. I’m sorry for overstepping. At this point, I wanna skip this one altogether.

I won’t though:

Your year will be prosperous because each day will be a small victory! Mainly because you will get better at time management.

You've always been ambitious, but this year, your growth will become more measurable. You’ll chart your progress, pen to paper, and that will inspire and motivate you to achieve something you once thought was impossible.

You also become a better pet owner. You’re little Snufflepoo is gonna get sooooo much happier to the point where you feel encouraged to adopt another.

Be prepared for some difficult lessons about pet ownership, work life balance, and…poker?

Libra

You know you need to work on something but you’re even sure where to start. You want to take this up a notch but you don’t even know which knob to turn. Oh no!!!

Don’t worry. Things get hotter! But this time, it’s a blast from the past…

Someone who you haven’t spoken to in 2 years and 7 months is going to attempt to rekindle the flame. You shared some pleasant memories, but they weighed heavy on your spirits. You fizzled out of touch and the question is… will you fizzle back in?! Oh my gosh!

And the answer up to you. You are in control of your narrative. Don’t let me hold you back. Definitely don’t be afraid to turn to your friends for advice. And don’t just ask for advice— absorb it. That’s what friends are there for. Good friends at least.

Also, don’t forget to keep a candy with you on May 8th. Or else…

Scorpio

That’s it! I’m cutting you off for the night!! You’ve done too much reflecting. That’s right: there’s such a thing as too much.

You watch your friends jump in pools or do cartwheels or DJ or whatever and this year you finally decide that it’s time to join the hype. To LET LOOSE. To express yourself and BE FREE!

You’re gonna plan a surprise for someone who hates it. Obviously, nobody is obligated to like surprises. But in this case, the surprise is not the root of the problem. You’ll discover a whole tangle of underlying tensions between you two. Is it worth sitting criss cross applesauce and combing through each knot?Evaluate whether or not this is someone you want to keep in your life.

Mercury is 10 degrees to the left this year, signifying that you will get busy on either Substack or SoundCloud— whichever one you don’t already have…

Sagittarius

The stars are twinkling weaker in the Sagittarius department— in my opinion. Don’t panic! You maintain your zest for life– nothing will ever take that away from you. But you are a little bit tired.

I need you to work on admitting that. Rest is okay. Rest is absolutely necessary! It’s gonna be a slow and steady year for you— don’t forget to embrace the steady. You’ll dive into yourself rather than constantly seeking out something new.

You have that one meal that turns out a little bit off every single time you prepare it and someday this year, when you least expect it, everything will fall into place! When that day comes, make sure you jot down your recipe. That day may come sooner than you expect ;)

Hint: A sprinkle of nutmeg and keep the oven at 375 degrees

Capricorn

15 comets shaped like a heart hint that deep, deep, deep, in that 365 days of 2026 is your 15 minutes of fame. Whatttttttt

Please make sure it’s for something you’re proud of. Also make sure you carry an umbrella with you on August 19th…

In the midst of your many successes don’t forget to check in on the people close to you– they may need a sprinkle of your advice, or honestly, some friendly company. Or maybe… some more than friendly company…

That’s for you to decide.

Haha

Aquarius

You’re good. Here’s twenty more dollars <3

Pisces

Keep going– I know your knee has been bothering you but this is the year things get better. Just remember to stretch/walk/run/rest/medicate/whateverthedoctororwebmdtoldyoutodo. I’m not gonna intervene there. I am no #medicalexpert.

But I do have a pretty good sense for things, and something deep within my liver is telling me: this year you will reach an emotional breakthrough. It’ll come out of nowhere while you’re knee-deep in some mundane chore. Sorry to bring up your knee again.

Just make sure you take a deep breath before you act. Feelings are very real, but that doesn’t mean you shoudn’t take a second to process them before acting. We can all learn a thing or two from you Pisces. Maybe start sharing more with your friends.

Let me know if any of these things end up happening to you. Then I’d have to start charging for subscription lolllll jk jk. Honestly, I’m not even sure that’s the point of the whole ~future knowing~ thing.

Maybe it’s about learning the story in the stars so you can take the lessons you need as you approach each day. Or at the very very very very least, it can be about having a good time maybe.

*untrue

I honestly wasn’t even sure where to put this– are there any #grandtheftautoheads in the building– any #GTAfolk? This is probably better off buried deep in a Reddit, but it’s not because you guys are my friends. Deep down, I want you to see it <3.

In the beginning, I wasn’t even sure what “GTA” stood for. I’d hear it sprinkled through conversation like some sort of sentence ornament:

• “You playing GTA tonight?”

• “LOL it’s like that one part in GTA!”

• “What’s your favorite GTA level? Mine is level 6.”

I never unpacked it. I figured GTA was a t-shirt company or fashion brand– like Hello Kitty, but for skaters. I would toss it into a miscellaneous mental basket and carry on with my day. As I grew, I realized that I’d done that with far too many things.

I didn’t watch High School Musical until I was in high school or Victorious until I was in college. I knew so little about Pokemon that I thought Pikachu could talk and fistfight, and was shocked last year when I saw a clip of him shouting “pika pika” (I think) and crawling on all fours and my friends had to explain his situation to me.

I care a lot about the people in my life so even if I‘m 96 watching Robot Chicken I will do my very best to understand the things that bring them joy. The process has been quite enjoyable!

Ahem– yeah– Grand Theft Auto– well, it would be best to begin with some backstory of the game, but I started with GTA 5. You can Wikipedia the history, or the plots of GTA 1-4 if you’d like. For now I’m gonna focus on my experience.

Please note: I’ve only cleared ~5% of the game.

For starters, I learned that you don’t even skate in GTA— you drive cars. You steal cars. I guess that’s why it’s called Grand Theft Auto.

I’d describe my relationship with GTA as a Goldilocks situation where I wandered through the abyss until I found a slightly off putting cottage that I chose to make my home. It’s dangerous, but I’m welcome here. Not only am I welcome– I’m invincible– because I’m safe, happy, and protected by plot armor.

The characters are definitely characters.

I’m sharing my GTA experience with Michael (middle-aged, questionable husband and father, itching to return to his action-packed youthful antics) and Franklin (seems closer to my age, questionable family member and boyfriend (…?), yearning for direction in life, misunderstood). I’m assuming they both have good hearts but they have yet to prove it to me.

[I think there’s a third guy but I haven’t met him yet.]

I don’t think I’d be friends with them in real life, but hey– who knows. I’m the one logging into their world time and time again. Maybe we’d surprise ourselves.

At times, it seems like they are frustrated with me as a player– they say I’m too slow or too indecisive. I try not to take it personally. I’m also accompanied by thousands of computer-generated e-civilians. It’s nice having other people around, but oftentimes they shout at me when I walk too close to them– even after I apologize. Each time, I take a deep breath and remember to humble myself. For me, it’s a game. For them, it’s their world. I’d do the same thing in their situation.

I did not enjoy the strip club.

I also do not enjoy the violence– especially how unfair it is to the CPUs/background characters. I much prefer a Super Mario Bros bop on the head. As Mario, I can jump hard and proud because I’m fighting for what’s right (free Peach, free mushrooms). Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for Franklin or Michael.

I’m hoping there are some lessons down the line.

Some morals, god forbid. My favorite parts of the game are the not-gory parts— the car chases and cute interactive story moments. Recently, I helped collapse part of a mans house for seducing my wife.

I’d never used a joystick in that way before. I’d never played such a pivotal role in such a bold action. It was an honor to be trusted with such a responsibility. I was a bit stressed out, but at the end of the day… thankful.

My suggestion for the GTA scientists as they masterfully concoct GTA 6:

Consider implementing more fruitful side quests– volunteering, maybe. Or baking– incorporating some Cooking Mama elements. That would make these characters a little bit easier for me to root for. But that’s just me.

As a whole, I’m having a good time.

My absolute favorite part of Grand Theft Auto is the Auto (the theft can be kinda fun too depending on the situation).

The streets are so realistic, I feel a breeze every time I push the pedal.

If anything, they’re too realistic. I diligently abided the traffic laws during my very first session. Those roads looked all to similar to streets I’d once driven on. Swerving? Running red lights? SPEEDING?! I just couldn’t do it. I still find it hard to reject that knee-jerk *safety* instinct.

Once I ran my first red light, I was free. Zooming through the Faux Los Angeles streets has become a highlight of my day! I love to pull over during missions and flip through the radio– thankfully they aren’t timed.

It’s empowering. When I log into GTA I feel like I…I…

I can do anything.

Franklin is eager to ask questions. Michael never hesitates to demand more from life. I’ve been walking differently. GTA makes me feel like anything is possible.

Frankly, with every mission I feel myself becoming more confident, vigilant, fierce. This game is about growth, and I am growing. If there were points I would have 20 million. But that’s okay– I like that there aren’t any points or scores or stats. It allows me to focus on living in the moment.

I’m proud of the person I am but I sometimes fantasize about how much better I would’ve turned out if I had access to Grand Theft Auto at a younger age. But let’s not dwell on the past.

I think I’m probably gonna beat GTA.

It might take a little longer since I’m still getting used to the controls, but I’d like to think that adds to my experience. I, like Franklin and Michael, am learning how to navigate a life full of twists and turns.

I literally feel so bad describing it that way but unfortunately it’s the truth– I am not here to lie to myself or to you– you know that.

First and foremost, I wanna make it clear: I love soup– mainly because I love to stew.

I love sharing a moment with each of my ingredients, washing and chopping or slicing or shredding or whatever they need to feel comfortable in the broth. I don’t mind how long it takes. I love taste-testing over and over again– adding new flavors even when it’s already perfect– soiling the flavor for the satisfaction of recorrecting it.

Sometimes I’ll even freeze my soup so I can forget it so I can revisit it months down the line when I’m in the mood to sip and ponder but I’m not quite energized enough to prepare a new batch.

I love trying new soups too (send recs if you have any) – I’ll give yours a try any day! I know preparation took a lot of time, effort, and heart, so thank you, lowkey, for presenting me with a pot. But oh my god please don’t just dump it on me unexpectedly.

I love when people confide in me. It is an honor to be trusted with someone’s heart. I have plenty of bowls and tupperware— just let me know and I’ll come ready. Gimme a heads up and I’ll even bring my thermos so we can take a little stroll. I can set aside a couple hours to process each spoonful the way it deserves.

There’s no better view into someone else’s experience than a little sample of hot soup (or cold if that’s how you like it). It’s nutritious and it’s comforting and it’s a little bit sacred. That’s why I try to protect myself from getting caught up in soups I have no business in. Sometimes I have a freezer full of my own and I just can’t handle any more.

I don’t wanna be stuck carrying a big ole pot of soup on the train, down the sidewalk, with arms full of my grocery bags and purse, with no room in the fridge.

[Please don’t be mad if I end up sharing some with my friends since it’s too much for me to manage on my own.]

That’s the thing about a big ole pot of soup– it’s tedious to prepare, too much for one person to handle all in one shot, and most importantly a beautiful beautiful thing. That’s why we can’t just sling it left and right without a heartfelt container and a nurturing environment.

Much love (however much you feel comfortable with) :-)

Melody

I think the most refreshing thing about math is its stability. I looooove to take swims in interpretation’s open oceans, but it becomes exhausting when there’s nowhere to plant my feet.

Sometimes I attempt to invent that safety where it doesn’t exist: I find myself writing equations into life where they shouldn’t be– calculating numberless predicaments and landing in pointless back and forths– balancing non-existent equations. Thinking myself into circles when there’s no geometry involved…

But *I GUESS* this isn’t about me. It’s about Sally. So let’s get into this apple situation…

Sally has a dinner party later this week that she’s not entirely sure she wants to attend.

She has no scheduling conflicts that day– she’s totally free. The guests won’t be her best friends but they also won’t be her worst enemies– she’d likely have a 7/10 experience. She loves the idea of mingling and diving into the deep end but she also loves the guaranteed comfort of staying in. She loves everything, so she’s unsure of everything. Above all, she loves apples, so she bought ten apples to bake a pie. Sally decided to leave the entire situation up to a strange game of chance:

If she has at least five apples left by Thursday night, she’ll attend the feast. If not, she’ll stay home.

She’d turn her brain off and focus on math and that would make it easier– right? No more indecision– she’ll be sure and hopefully you’ll be sure– solely based on the amount of apples remaining at the end of the week.

If it’s still unclear to you, this is a word problem:

If Sally had ten apples, how many does she have at the end of the week?

Remember– Sally loves apples. She knows them well and is verrrrrry picky about them. She bit into the first one and was immediately disappointed by the whole batch:

“Ew! Which farm did these come from?! Oh my GOD…”

She threw it in the trash can and one of the neighboring apples’ egos began to bruise. You can eat a bruised apple but it’s like, nowhere nearrrrrr as good. The more she complains, the more bruising appears– it’s entirely out of commission.

In her defense, I agree. They’re not the best apples in town– they’re pretty average, with some bites better than others. Ultimately, good apples and bad apples are subjective. That’s the thing about word problems– you shouldn’t get distracted by unnecessary details. Shame on you… The question wasn’t how many *good* apples would remain. It was how many of Sally’s apples would remain. And good or bad– each and every one of those ten apples are Sally’s. Whether she likes it or not.

Anyways, she takes the bruised apple and decides to chop it alongside two others. She heats the chunks over a stovetop and adds some sugar and cinnamon and whatever else you need to make apple jam. This isn’t a cooking class– I don’t know how to make apple jam. But Sally does and that’s what matters. She follows the remaining necessary steps just like her grandmother (or whoever) taught her.

She smiled and crossed her arms because wow! That was smart! That was a genius use of a bruised apple. I’m surprised she didn’t make more! If she had more room in her cupboard, she probably would’ve made a few more jars. I’m also guessing she wanted to save some apples for the pie.

PHEWWWWW. There is nothing more tiresome than Jam-making. Sally went straight to bed without putting away the apples on the counter.

She overslept and had to rushhhhh to work. She had no time to prepare and she neeeeeeeeeeded a pop of red– urgently. She was wearing all-black and thought a pop of color would take her outfit from a 9 to a 10. I totally get it.

The biggest, shiniest apple on the countertop caught her eye. She hurriedly cut two slices and fashioned them into earrings using some paperclips. She left the rest of it on the counter to rot. She rotted through her work day while her apple rotted away on the countertop. Rot rot ROT ROT.

The rot’s stench attracted 500 ants, which carried the sliced apple and two bonus apples out of her apartment. They had a dinner party of their own– a feast! I bet Sally wishes she were invited.

Wednesday night, Sally went to the store to buy two more apples, but her greed caused them to be even worse in quality.

On Thursday, she brought one to work, but it didn’t even last past 11am, when she threw it at her coworker’s head because they they made an off color comment about her earrings:

“Your earrings are off color,” they said, “Off color off shape off everything. What were you going fo-” then the apple hit them and they collapsed.

**

After work, she nibbles at a spoonful of jam and it brings her some warmth. She reflects on the week she had… disappointing, sad, full of possibility, restful, a little bit fun. Work. Would a dinner party make things any better? Or would it just be more of the same? She opens up her fridge and heaves a deep sigh…

How many apples does Sally have left?

But sadly I thought they were funny, and a giggle is a powerful lil thing. I couldn’t bring myself to delete them, so here you go…The Bad Poetry Series:

That Bicycle Over There

Sitting at the park, hmmmmmm,

On a bench, I sigh,

I move too quickly through life— just like that bicycle over there,

I lose myself in my work— rusting and dusting, like the bicycle over there is starting to do,

I move. Fast. For miles and miles. Like that bicycle (over there),

She takes the bicycle over there off the tree, hops on, and peddles away,

She doesn't lock it because she's overly trusting of the world-- as free as her bicycle over there,

There she goes, into the distance. On her bicycle. Over there

Bye, Sybil!

Bicycle

A Good Morning

Air, conditioned; the room gets walked into by me,

Door, framed; I open it with my manicured hand, Frenchly tipped,

Ears ringed; eyes, glassesed; pack, backed; I say hello,

I repeated to them: good morning, morningly, and goodly

Brenda

[I wrote this in high school— for a poetry class, actually. I did not get a very good grade. I guess you’ll see why]

Four years,

I’ve held doors open,

Carried his books,

Helped him study,

Wiped his tears,

Filled his void of a life.

But still nothing.

Nothing more than a sideways glance.

“Go away.”

So I gave him his space:

“Maybe you need to go home and think.”

“What home?” he asked.

That's what killed me.

I could be his home!

He said he liked blueberries.

I brought him a pie.

That cracked a smile into his stone face.

But, still,

So much nothing!

I couldn’t take it anymore.

Laced with tears:

“I can’t take this anymore! Please forgive me!"

With frustration:

“You're a murderer, Brenda. You've murdered people.”

Fair enough.

3 Dental Flosses

Dental floss. To floss away the dread,

There are three dental floss picks left,

Only three,

But that is okay. Three is all I need,

The first pick represents my confidence, with every floss I swoosh the doubt around in my mouth and spit it into the sink. The sink is infinite— like my capabilities,

The second pick represents my grit. It slices the grit in between my teeth, grittily,

Just as I slice my way through…my woes,

The third pick?

The THIRD pick?!

That one represents joy. The booming glow of each incisor, canine, and molar, glistening their way through my day. Pride. Power.

So no, I’m not worried. These three picks are all I need,

Every day I’ll maneuver,

Every night I’ll floss, dentally,

I think the bicycle one had a lot of potential— a few more passes and it might’ve been something worth something. But I didn’t wanna take any more passes— I wanted it to stay bad. I had a good time and hopefully you had a good time and hopefully that’s what matters.

One night, my friends and I were giggling around the table, happy, when I begged them to uproot our(happy)selves in pursuit of that specific hotdog from that specific bar like an hour away. Eventually, they agreed.

I ate three hotdogs and honestly, I was so entranced, I don’t even remember if anybody else had any. Then I got sick and had to go home— urgently.

So there they were: my beautiful friends, stranded at some bar with some hotdogs that meant nothing to them, while I laid awake at night, sick, sweating, defeated.

That is what happens when you neglect the night…

Oftentimes, nights out aren’t fun. Sometimes it’s because of vibeless music or tasteless food or careless people but most of the time I think it’s something else. Like, 90% of the time I think it’s something else…

hmmm…

I have a certain philosophy that I apply to festivities and I know it sounds boring, but if you hear me out, the function actually might become more…fun.

Now, let’s hear me out— My funnest nights all had one thing in common: teamwork. So that’s what I’m gonna talk about today:

Empathy. Teamwork. Togetherness. And their crucial roles in a good night out.

I’ve seen far too many people turn partying into an individual battle: Have I checked certain boxes? Am I feeling free? Am I having fun?

(or in that one case— did I get my hotdog?)

We want to shed our stress and be stars. We want to dance through the night sky free of worry, and we can do that– trust. But that’s the thing: there are 1000000000000 stars in the sky and they all work together to illustrate a beautiful night.

We are a FAMILY! The night is a baby! Let’s get into it.

Treat the night like a Webkinz/Animal Crossing/whatever you kids are playing with. Every night out is a living entity and we, as a group, need to nourish it. You gotta feed it compromise and respect in order to see it blossom. And when it does, you’ll all rejoice in the vibes you’ve grown together.

Be responsible parents. Ask each other: what do we want this night to look like? How do we want it to grow up? What’s our style? What’s best for it? Agree (or compromise). Trust each other. We don’t want our innocent baby swarmed by conflict. Keep the night’s best interest at heart.

You’re a parent AND A PERSON.

You’re a person! Take care of yourself. Don’t let the night deprive you of that. I’m not asking you to take the I out of nIghts out (lol that was bad). People can strive for personal records in team sports, but they’re still a team. I get that you’re having fun, but have you asked yourself: are WE having a good time tonight?

There might be surprises and there might be road bumps but you absolutely positively cannot force a night to be something it isn’t.

Don’t have fun AT people. Create experiences with them. A true host executes their guests

Lol. That is not what I meant. I stepped away to go to the bathroom and came back to that tragic half sentence. It was so crazy I couldn’t bring myself to delete it. A true host does not execute their guests. What I meant to say was:
A true host executes the guests’ vision by anticipating their interests. A party isn’t an opportunity to impose your wildest dreams on an audience, it’s a canvas to create a collectively good time.

If the people don’t want hotdogs, respect it. Maybe the sacrifice is worth it for a night everyone can enjoy.

The night craves compassion.

People are not props for a personal adventure. Respect doesn’t die on a night out: Show gratitude to people who chose to share a good time with you. Like omg. Respect guests, respect peers, respect strangers. Fun does not mean independent and invincible.

And fun still takes a little bit of work. Ask yourself: How we make this night fun for all of us? What energy am I bringing to the team? Am I remembering to take care of myself? What role am I playing in nurturing the night?

I haven’t kept a journal in agesssss. I’ve tried to pick it up several times, leaving behind countless semi-filled books which eventually turned to shopping or To-Do lists:

1. Second Grade— All scribbles. Fell off.

2. Third Grade— Each day I’d write one real entry and one “imaginary entry” where I’d talk about missions I didn’t actually go on, a farm I didn’t actually own, and brawls I’d never actually partaken in. Got bored— fell off.

3. High School— Mostly angry rants, graduated, fell off.

4. College— Started, “got too busy,” fell off.

5. Six months ago— Two days in, fell off.

And I’m sure I’ll try again and fall off again.

Something about journaling has always thrown me off. And I can’t tell if the problem is with me or with journaling– or with how people define journaling. It’s probably some odd mixture of all of it. But I’m going to take 90% of the blame. I think I’m the problem here.

Woooo! William caught the ball. That is a big deal in baseball.

For a while, it was a vulnerability thing– I found it challenging to navigate my deep, profound, otherworldly, riveting inner dialogue in such rounded, bubbly handwriting.

My image of journaling is pretty stereotypical: a marble composition book with stickers on it or a Moleskine with a sentimental pen attached to it or a Y2K-lock-and-key classic.

I thought about it as something to do every single night. Each entry must be at least one page long. I must write in the exact same spot in the exact same pose with the exact same colored pen. There was something so rigid about it. Like, there’s “writing” and then there’s journaling…

“I don’t like journaling,” I would say, secretly resenting my 5 failed attempts to start journaling.

Journaling is objectively amazing. Taking a few minutes to reflect each day is powerful. The ability revisit each and every mundane memory is priceless.

S-so…why can’t I seem to do it?

It’s getting kind of windy so I’m going to switch spots. Lol. This is exhausting.

I realized, mid-baseball game, that:

1— William is doing a great job.

2— I’m not bad at journaling because of my inability to journal. I’m bad at journaling because of how I’m choosing to define journaling.

It’s nice looking at old to-do lists– applauding myself for reorganizing my closet three years ago. Even if today was difficult, it’s comforting to reminisce about getting all of the correct grocery items last May. Isn’t that enough?

Why can’t a shopping list count as a journal entry? If it were discovered 300 years from now, would it not be kept in a museum? Why can’t I cherish my 15 second voice memo from three months ago? It’s certainly better than nothing.

Are the players confused? Are they thinking to themselves: “EW. Why is she writing in her notebook? Instead of focusing on the game?”

There doesn’t need to be an agenda for you to pick up a pen and you don’t always need to pick up a pen to journal.

If I have a spam Twitter and a spam Instagram and a private Snapchat message with myself, then maybe I am journaling. Sort of. If at the end of every shift, I’d jot in the same yellow scratchpad about what I ate for lunch in my “Work Diary,” maybe I was journaling. Maybe if my camera roll is 564,745,744 pictures long, I am journaling.

Maybe I never stopped journaling. Maybe it just presented itself in different ways throughout my life. Maybe journaling doesn’t always have to look the same.

I have a friend who logs into Minecraft and digs her e-diary out of an e-chest buried in a super secret digital hole. “I have to go, Melody,” she’ll say at the end of calls, “I have to write in my Minecraft diary,” and vanish.

And that’s a beautiful thing.

[My “Work Diary,” the end of a shift at my student job]

Journaling can be flexible!

I’m allowed to get bored and drop my pencil midway through. I’m allowed to doodle little pictures. I’m allowed to interject fleeting thoughts.

Ugh. The wind keeps crumpling up the pages.

Because journaling is about ME. I need to write in my language and my format, with no invisible audience in mind.

[My Twitter, @PartyTimeMelody]

Journaling is about reflecting and reflecting is vulnerable. It can look however you want it to look, as long as it allows you to be real.

Okay– the game just ended.

I’D SUGGEST READING THEM SIDE-BY-SIDE (or one after the other)

But do what you want. As long as you have fun/stay safe. But yeah, let me know what ya think. This was a lil experimental.

I’d describe our dynamic as a tow-truck situation where I was the one being towed. I was supported without needing to put in any work. It was kind of nice…until after a while, the support felt like more of a drag because I was, quite literally, being dragged through life by my tow truck brother, Tobias.

Sandwich-making is what fuels him.

It’s his diesel. Sorry— that was corny. But so is Tobias.

But yeah, Tobias used to force me to make sandwiches.

As soon as I learned how to walk, I learned the gravity of sandwich-making from my older brother. Alongside Dora The Explorer, I watched Tobias in the kitchen, sweat on his forehead, laser-focused, stacking ingredients with robotic efficiency and frenzied eyes.

Naturally, I assumed that sandwich-making was a necessity. The first time he asked me to pass him the mustard, I did it with so much fervor, it thrusted me into a life of ingredient-stacking. Tobias assumed that I shared his obsession.

Sandwich-making is supposed to be an art, but I wouldn’t describe Tobias’ situation as an art or even a craft. It was the air he breathed. It was a fact of life. Our parents never minded— as long as he packed them a lunch.

Meatball subs were his signature.

And I must say, they were pretty good. Good enough to where I wanted them to be my livelihood. I think I was just happy to be spending time with one of the strongest guiding forces in the world (Tobias), and eating some of the best food known to humanity (Tobias’ sandwiches).

I made sandwiches instead of choices. Tobias relieved the pain that came with making decisions and I loved it. I eventually realized that with that, he’d numbed the beauty of free will.

Occasionally, in the shop, I’d turn to him for advice: “Bro, I-”

And he’d interrupt: “You need more condiments?! Great!” and he’d hand me a new container of mustard.

“Have a good night, bro,” he’d say. And I’d go home, exhausted.

And I’d lay awake at night wondering:

Why must we constantly make sandwiches?! Why is Tobias so obsessed with sandwiches?! Why am I, like a robust leaf of arugula, muffled between two pieces of bread— sandwiched?!!!!

The city loved our subs. But I wanted more.

Tobias named our shop Brotherhood Sandwiches, and painted the entire restaurant red. I think it was his rage for sandwiches leaping out onto the walls (and ceilings, and floors).

It drained me. I didn’t know what I wanted. I just knew that I didn’t want sandwiches. I wasn’t picky— I just wanted to know I could act on my own volition. Something needed to change.

Tobias didn’t care about me, so I took up knitting.

He’d come to work every day and prepare sandwich after sandwich, blasting his corny music. I’d raise my hand to make a suggestion and he’d bark: “just flip the sign, bro!” and do a bad moonwalk. Every single day. Without conversation.

I decided to watch tutorials after work— about anything— in hopes that something would stick. After stumbling upon a gentle millennial’s YouTube channel, I knew immediately where I belonged: a knitting circle.

A few weeks into lessons, I’d concocted a brand new red sweater. Sure, it had faults, but it was my first one! It was only the beginning.

I snapped. Maybe it was the beginning of the end.

I was folding some turkey at the shop, when a kid walked up to the counter and said:

“That sweater makes you blend right in with the walls. Like there’s nothing to you. You’re just a floating face,” the kid laughed so hard, tears streamed down his face. His dad stood there, chuckling. Eventually, they noticed I wasn’t laughing.

I threw a meatball at the kid.

I know I crossed a line– but honestly, I’d do it again if given the chance. Thankfully Tobias talked them out of pressing any charges. He offered them free meatball subs for the rest of the year. And that was enough. Everybody in the city loved Brotherhood Sandwiches (everybody but the brothers themselves).

It was official: Something in my life needed to change.

I apologized to Tobias about the meatball thing and he didn’t even respond. I don’t think he cared— as long as he could make sandwiches.

I hated him as much as I envied him. I’d give anything for a passion so strong, it nourished me with joy every day (and dulled the stress of potential lawsuits).

Tobias didn’t think. He didn’t even communicate. He simply…created. When Tobias wanted to make sandwiches, he made sandwiches.

It was time for me to do the same.

I took my first step in the right direction.

I needed some artistry in my day-to-day.

I added lacquer to the mustard and the ketchup and God, even the mayonnaise. I didn’t care anymore. I added lacquer to the hot sauce too. They all became nail polishes and I became…an artist. And the people loved me.

And first, they were scared…

“Grab and Go Sandwiches…AND MANICURES??” they asked, but eventually, they learned.

When the very first guest sat down for a manicure after finishing his meatball sub, he started a movement. The other guests followed. The whole city followed. Sandwiches…AND manicures? Why not?!

And I agreed. Why not? Why couldn’t Tobias and I both live our dreams, together? It was a perfect world.

Tobias did not seem content.

And I was too excited to care.

I’d danced too close to the burning fire of acetone to go back to rolling meatballs. I’d enchanted the world with too many French tips to go back to chopping lettuce.

I noticed Tobias’ nose crinkle every time someone sat down for mustard acrylics– maybe it was the pungent scent of garlic and nail polish remover.

Something changed. Our silence grew…silenter. And I grew upset. Why couldn’t my own brother root for me? I couldn’t help but wonder: was it really about sandwiches? Or was it about control?

The second I learned something outside of sandwich-making, he lost his control over me. And he didn’t even have the courage to talk about it.

I decided to keep going.

I “assumed” that everything was okay between us— the same way he “assumed” everything was okay with me. For years.

And I’ve found peace that way. The same way he got lost in his sandwiches, I could get lost in my manicures. In my own little universe.

Tobias’ silence weighed on him heavier by the day. Eventually, he was driven to madness, and would periodically launch meatballs at customers receiving manicures, demanding: “FOCUS ON THE SANDWICHES!!!!”

I fought even harder: I switched his playlist to something more ethereal— cosmic sounds beyond comprehension. On Fridays I’d shut off our lights and orchestrate a laser show— an intergalactic experience for our customers to enjoy.

I’m taking steps towards everything I’ve ever wanted.

It’s too dark for me to see Tobias’ facial expression, but it’s probably tense. I guess I’ll never know how he feels—unless he also as a secret Reddit thread. LOL.

(It’d probably be full of LIES.)

I’m beyond caring. I’m not stressing anymore— I’m just creating. And I’m not going to let Tobias get in the way.

Someday, I’m sure he’ll have the courage to confront me. We’ll dispute beyond comprehension, unleashing years of bottled up rage.

But until then, this sandwich shop is my art gallery…

I’D SUGGEST READING THEM SIDE-BY-SIDE (or one after the other)

I wrote this one first, but do what you want. Just please, be safe.

I thought the best types of attachments were the magnetic ones. Mainly because I didn’t have to put in any work. Just an effortless click. That’s how things were with my brother, Gerald. Except Gerald and I had no magnetic charge. We were neutral.

The magnet, pulling us together, was sandwich-making.

Sandwiches are what held us together. They SANDWICHED us together haha. Just kidding— we weren’t corny.

But yeah, Gerald and I used to sell sandwiches.

During summers, we’d set up a stand by the side of the road. During the schoolyear, we’d sell them in the cafeteria. Christmas, we’d leave them on doorsteps. Halloween, we’d give them to children. All year round, Gerald and I prepared and distributed sandwiches. And we loved it.

Meatball subs were our signature.

The meatballs were made fresh, daily. They were served with a spicy marinara sauce and tucked into a plush roll, sprinkled with freshly grated parmesan and a lil arugula. Mwah. We were raised in a quiet house where the ingredients did the talking. There was no need for any other chit-chat.

No need at all. Every so often, Gerald would say: “Bro, I-”

And he didn’t even need to finish because I knew where he was going: he needed more ingredients. Then I’d hurry to the stock room and grab refills, and we’d go back to sandwich making.

“Have a good night, bro,” I’d say. And we’d part ways. Then, go to bed. Then, wake up. Then, more sandwiches.

And I know Gerald did the same. Sandwiches were life for us. Eventually, we bought a storefront, and got serious about things. Brotherhood Sandwiches: Grab and Go! And believe me: people grabbed and went.

The city loved our subs. But I loved them more.

I insisted we paint everything red— to symbolize the deep rage I had for sandwiches. The unstoppable burn for meatball subs. The chairs were red and the tables were red and the counters were always clean. The floors were red too. And the walls.

Gerald felt the same I think.

We established something of a routine: Get up earrrrly in the morning and prepare the meatballs. I’d tell Gerald, “flip the sign, bro!” and he’d turn it to Open. Then, I’d blast our favorite upbeat jive playlist— bumping upbeat sandwich-loving energy all through the establishment. I’d smile to myself, because the loving hum for sandwiches always playing in my heart would be shared with the world for another beautiful shift.

I’m not sure what happened, but something changed overtime.

Something beyond measure. Maybe you can help? I’d really appreciate if you were discrete about it– thanks. There’s still a lot that I’m working through. This is where things took a turn…

Gerald threw a meatball at a kid.

It was ugly. The kid said something about Gerald’s sweater clashing with the wall colors. He snapped. Thankfully, the kid’s parents didn’t press any charges. But it still raised quite a few red flags. I was too scared to confront him because, well– I didn’t want any meatballs thrown at me… you know?

I shrugged it off.

I figured that the monotony of sandwich making would nudge us back in sync. I figured it’d blow by and Gerald and I would be good as new because we were always on the same page— that moment, he just took a little reading break.

Gerald suddenly stopped coming to work on time (early). When he did show up, his eyes would be red and baggy. I’d be all by myself, rolling ten thousand meatballs per day. All. By. Myself.

Things got even worse.

I tasted the mustard one day, and something felt off: “Is something off? With the mustard?” I asked him. And he told me he’d added lacquer to it. And that he’d added lacquer to the ketchup as well. And the mayonnaise. And that from there, going forward, he’d offer condiment manicures to any customer who asked. He set aside two tables and covered them with a tablecloth and stocked them with nail supplies.

“Grab and Go sandwiches…and manicures???” I had my doubts.

Somehow, the shop became pretty popular: “A sandwich/nails shop?!” people would say. And they’d come. For sandwiches and manicures. We amassed quite the following.

But I wasn’t happy. Brotherhood Sandwiches was supposed to be about sandwiches.

I wanted to say something to him, but I’m too shy.

He added a projection screen to the bathroom, and cut the lights. He played PinkPantheress, and projected stars across the tile, claiming he wanted to create
”a galactic experience.”

Time went on and we gained customers but our sandwiches became less and less of a priority and I got more and more bored.

Gerald was slowly soiling our dreams.

Last week, he suggested removing the arugula from our meatball subs. I thought I couldn’t possibly be more upset— until later that day, he suggested we take our meatball subs off of the menu entirely:

But he kept the meatballs. “This is a quality business!” he’d shout, and he’d threw meatballs at anybody who disagreed with him. I’d prep thousands of meatballs and he’d throw ‘em at anybody who looked at him sideways…

This isn’t the heartfelt sandwich shop we spent so long working for.

I’m scared that customers are coming— not for the sandwiches, but for my brother’s spectacle. And that’s not who we are. I’m concerned: for the future of sandwiches, for the shop’s future, for my future, and for Gerald’s future.

Unsure of what next steps to take…

Maybe hit the mall later? Grab some pizza, but don’t tell Devin because he wasn’t invited? Make a joint playlist, but clown Mark for allll of his additions, then wonder why he’s being awkwardly quiet? POSE!

Ignore Bee’s texts because she should know better than to invite herself to the group outing? POSE. Matching outfits? Arrive at the function fashionably late? Who knows? The possibilities are endless in the sturdy embrace of a Friend Group!

As much as I love the Bratz and the Avengers and the Backyardigans and the Disney Princesses and the Transformers and whatnot, I’ve come to realize that happiness is not catchy lunchbox art.

I’ll admit: there’s charm in a group of aesthetically compatible main characters who eat lunch together every day and FaceTime every night. But something feels off.

It’s taken a minute for me to articulate why “Friend Group” doesn’t sit right with me. Now, I’m close enough— so bear with me while I try cough up my explanation:

*AUGH AUGH* (excuse me)

The Friend Group model needs to be retired and the Friend Group mindset needs to be outgrown. This is my formal proposal to say no to Friend Groups and yes to Friend Ecosystems.

Here is my reasoning (if you’re even interested)…

Friend Groups fence us in.

Why force friendship to come in circles when it can come in gardens?

Maybe April and I shop together, but Maria and I cook together, Maybe I only see TJ twice a year, and that’s okay because his energy overwhelms me a bit anyways.

Maybe Mary isn’t joining us on the Miami trip because she’s focused on her job search. I’ll probably sit out on the next trip to save money. Instead, I’ll head to a basketball game with friends from work. Or better yet— I’ll stay home and watch a show and leave cute comments on everybody’s vacation pics.

There’s movement in a Friend Ecosystem. There’s freedom to approach friendship however you see fit:

Doesn’t have to look the same for everybody. Doesn’t have to look the same every day.

The only obligation is respect for the environment and all living in it.

The freedom to connect with the world at large comes with a much more colorful social life. Friend Groups are bubbles, but Friend Ecosystems are the entire seaaaaa.

Friend-clusters will form anyway.

I have lots of opinions, but fear not— I will never be anti-Bestie!

Some creatures linger in herds. Neighborhoods form– clusters are natural! It’s perfectly normal for people who find safety in each other to stay together. Together— but not trapped. Natural clusters are different from Friend Groups.

Friend Groups occur with force— a beehive is different from a box.

It can be difficult to feel the distinction. To help, here are some questions you can ask yourself to clear things up:

• Can I comfortably set boundaries?

• Do I actually enjoy the people in my company?

• Am I thinking as myself?

Ever since I said goodbye to Friend Groups, exclusion became less scary:

There are clusters I’m grateful to say hi and bye to— to see once-a-year, and no more than that. It’s a beautiful, unspoken, but agreed-upon dynamic where we find comfort in limited proximity.

It’s natural (REAL).

I noticed that too much stress came from questioning my standing in the Friend Group rather than questioning how I was connecting with the individuals who comprised it.

You know that one person in a Friend Group who everybody can’t stand, but can’t cut off?

You know the feeling of squashing your underlying grievances and putting on a brave face for a group photo?

I find more fulfillment in friendship when I devote energy to nourishing the individual relationships in my life vs. fighting to keep the group together, Parent Trap (1998)* style.

*Never seen Parent Trap (1998) — this is me guessing.

I’d rather embrace a realm full of interconnected friendships: No mandatory invites or exclusive group chats or competing for lead singer of the band. People can explore their relationships as individuals rather than feel obligated to prioritize the group.

Focus on navigating.

Everyone is the leader. The Friend Ecosystem embraces individuality, independence, space. It’s easier to confront solitude as a squirrel in a forest of opportunity than as a wanderer navigating a world of fences.

You can move as an individual to support The Ecosystem— rather than be tethered to your ~crew~ in every decision you make.

On bad days, you can stroll through The Ecosystem and ponder— take pictures and sip coffee from your thermos. In fact, you might run into others doing the same.

If you take long, pondering walks in the Friend Group, you’ll only go in goofy circles.

They’ll ask:

“What are you doing?!”

“Are you okay?!!!!!!!!!!”

“You look lonely!!”

Give yourself space to think.

I understand Friend Groups. It’s easier to simplify friendship to cliques because it lessens the intentionality and vulnerability required to learn an individual. It’s wayyyy easier to camp out in a fenced-in area than to grit your teeth and bear the wilderness first-hand. But also… that’s living (and learning)!

(coming from somebody who can’t stannnnnnnd camping)

It might take extensive effort to break free of the Friend Group cycle, but once you do, I guarantee you you’ll feel a million times freer. 

Or not— then, you can argue with me.

Vibes exist— for sure. But is it safe to rely on a term that’s so intentionally intangible to justify wrongdoing? Can you do that without being problematic?

Probably not.

I wronged somebody based on vibes and I still think about it to this day. Actually I wronged like, 28 people because of their collectively bad vibe— all the more unethical.

It’s been a decade and I’ve changed, but I’m still going to tell you what happened because it’s important to be transparent about this sort of thing– you know? I want to document my history accurately. Whether I like it or not.

One decade ago, I experienced a frustration so grating, I withered away into dust– losing myself to the rage. I was taking Geometry, in eighth grade, and nothing was holding me back.

Math was never my strongest subject, but there was something about those shapes…man.

I was beyond competent. I was stellar. Tubular even. Spherical—cubical even. Lol. I liked the shapes! There was something more relatable about them– like I could sit down with a shape– grab tacos with it. I could invite a shape to my birthday party. If I were a math, I think I’d be geometry. I don’t think I would be a math though.

My classmates didn’t respect them the way I went about things. They didn’t respect the shapes or the graphs or the proofs or our sweet lil innocent teacher.

Every week, they’d swipe the answer key off the dark web, and use it to- to…CHEAT. Not just one or two kids, but THE ENTIRE CLASS— centered around betrayal. But that’s not even the part that bothered me...

[Cheating isn’t great. Obviously. It’s cutting corners in a way that’s only self serving, and unfair to all other parties involved. But listen– school isn’t fair either, which makes cheating (albeit dangerous and ultimately unrewarding), fall into more of a gray area.]

What bothered me was the BRAGGING.

“EWWWW, Melody. How’d you get a B? WE HAD THE ANSWER KEY.”

They’d come to class every day and talk about lacrosse and Fetty Wap. They’d whip and nae nae and fidget spin and whatnot. Then, they’d talk about lacrosse some more. They’d do YouTube and Call of Duty Black Ops and whatnot. All of that is beautiful, but like… what about me? Stop dabbing while I am trying to focus on my shapes.

I decided to type up an ominous document:

Dear Sweet Lil Innocent Teacher,

I’m sorry to inform you that your Geometry class is cheating on every single assignment. Students are entering the dark web, heisting the answer keys, and distributing them. And even worse: they’re bragging about it. It’s uneducational and downright reckless.

~Anonymous

I rolled it into a makeshift-scroll, tied it with a ribbon I left it in our sweet lil innocent teacher’s mailbox for her to find the next morning. Then, I skittered back to class as if nothing happened. All of the students giggled about lacrosse, discussed memorable Vines, held hands, and sang Dangerous Woman. This time I laughed and smiled and nodded.

The next day, our teacher yelled at us and swore “she’d make the rest of the year a living hell,” which she did. No more water bottle flips. Rarely could we hit the Quan. Class ran late. Tests were tougher. Life was harder. And I shook my head and complained with everybody else— as if I had no clue what happened.

The bragging got a wholeeeee lot quieter. I would slather on my Bath & Body works hand cream and schmear on my EOS lipbalm and exit with poise. As if I had no clue what happened.

Middle school ended, and people would reminisce:

“Oh my god— remember when we got snitched on in Geometry? And our sweet lil innocent teacher made the rest of the year a living hell for us?”

And I’d say: “Yeah. That was crazyyyyyyyy.”

As if I had no clue what happened.

I felt proud for a while. I felt like I was better than everyone else because I kind of was a little bit but not really.

Now, I just don’t know how I feel about it.

I feel like Megamind. Doofensmirtzian…Grinchly even… needlessly spiteful (but maybe a little bit funny)— wasting energy to make life worse for everyone involved (except for me maybe).

Who knows how much more American Horror Story/21 Pilots/Migos could’ve been discussed had I not been so cruel? Who knows how many more jujus there could’ve been on that beat? I’ve seen more of the world now and I know that putting my peers through a living hell wasn’t making it a better place. It was just mean. And kind of weird.

I think everybody’s doing okay– hopefully.

I’m sure they’re focused on folding their laundry. Or mopping their floors. Or updating their resumes. Or making travel plans. Or immersing themselves in their hobbies. Or seeking therapy. But sometimes I feel like a secret convoluted snowball effect means that their current plights were all sparked by my 8th grade pettiness.

It’s been so long and I’ve come so far and I still lay awake at night– full of guilt, snitchful and stitchless, unsure of where to go next. I wonder if they lay awake at night, cracking their knuckles, ready to “kick my butt” or whatever. Middle school is done, but I hope they know that class is still a living hell for me.

Smart people don’t care about clothes. They care about stocks.

***

The talk of the town. The belle of the ball:

Bob Senior’s, 50-cent chilicheesemegadog was the crowned jewel of fast food. That year, Senior’s unveiled their Valentine’s Day special, the “Love a Man, Hug a Dog Deep Fried Combo.” A game changer.

It only had one competitor… Bob Junior’s, a blossoming up-and-comer. But with the legendary Valentine’s Day promo, I wasn’t too concerned about the competition…

The people at the stock exchange shot me dirty looks because I was smirking because I was excited— imagining the chilicheese soaked dollars piling up in my pockets. The stock exchange was my runway. Those people didn’t bother me.

***

I was daydreaming about Senior’s Chili Cheese Valentine’s day special when my hand brushed against something abrasive. I looked down to see a wallet just as tan and just as unflattering as mine. I looked up to see the man attached to it. He wore green pants and a blue button up so muted and so forgettable that it was the most memorable thing I’d ever seen.

“Sorry, ma’am.” He looked at me and I looked at him. We looked at each other. At the stock exchange. He walked away, patting his pocket.

He wasn’t thinking about me. He was thinking about stocks. And that made him even more enchanting. I caught a glimpse of his license while he shuffled through his wallet, “Pat Pocketson.”

***

I found him on Twitter later. Turned out he was a legitimate influencer. 10 billion followers.

They called him @PatPredicts. And he had some really interesting thoughts:

“I love nature so much,” he wrote, “I love the birds and the flowers and the stock market.”

He was so profound. I needed to hear more. 

If only there were a way to speak to him more privately…

I replied publicly to one of his Tweets: “Wanna go to Panera Bread to talk about uh… the market?”

“Yeah,” he replied. Publicly— so the whole world knew. 

***

He wore gray jeans and a grayer t-shirt but somehow, he still glowed. Maybe it was just the Panera Bread lighting. 

It was awkward at first, but eventually we opened up. He’d been trading stocks since he was 8 years old. By the age of 15, he mastered his craft. He dropped out of school and bought his own apartment because his childhood home had too many decorations and he wanted to focus on what really mattered— his stocks. 

He also said that he didn’t want any kids, that the economy was his baby. 

“That’s a bit too far,” I told him. Because it was. I had to be honest with him. Communication is important in a relationship.

He paused, then he laughed. 

“It’s been nice talking to you. I really don’t get out much,” he said to me.

I paused, then I laughed.

“Me neither.”

He asked about my hobbies, which was a bit off topic, but I went along.

We both loved whittling and we both loved oatmeal. When I showed him our matching wallets, his eyes light up. We had so much in common. 

“Can I get your thoughts?” He took a sip of his water– since that was the only drink he liked. 

I nodded– trying to contain my excitement. 

“I just bought a quarter of the shares for a major hot dog chain.”

“No way! Senior’s?” I couldn’t believe it! The two of us together would own half of the Senior’s?! How…romantic.

“No!” he scoffed, “I mean Bob JUNIOR’s.”

My heart sank, “But what about the Valentine’s Day Special?”

“You didn’t hear? Bob Junior’s just announced the same one… at half of the price.”

For the first time in my life, I made a mistake at the stock exchange. We were two people: each with significant shares of competing national hotdog chains. On Valentine's Day Eve. 

With tears in our eyes, we parted ways quietly. 

***

On Valentine’s Day, I woke up to a Twitter notification from @PatPredicts:

“Bob Junior’s uses moldy sponges in their hotdogs.”

From one of the most reliable accounts on Twitter?!

The rising star of the fast food industry… SLANDERED?! A nationwide ick…right before the Valentine's Day Promo?!

Did Pat sabotage his own investment? It couldn’t be…

…

…

. . .

There was a knock at my door.

It was Pat— looking dusty as ever– with a tray full of hotdogs. We looked into each other's dusty eyes. Then, I knew. 

“Don’t worry, I sold first,” he said, “I just couldn’t let you lose. Not on Valentine’s Day.”

“Hehe,” I giggled dustily.

Then, we ate hot dogs together.

We ate hot dogs together for the rest of our lives.

Even YOU probably know and you’re just a bystander lol. Anyways…

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It’s warm and sunny. It smells like fresh lavender and there’s charcuterie and tea and laughter in the air, but now Janna’s lies have been thrown into the mix and I’m not having a good time anymore.

Three minutes. THREE MINUTES ago, I sat here and watched Janna share a dainty TikTok of our picnic to her massive following. With the location included. Any halfway decent social media detective could find our addresses with ease. And now Janna’s saying “she’ll never find us.” Ugh.

“You’re a liar, Janna,” says Joy, beating me to it, “You knew that Bernie was going to see that post. You did that on purpose! You always do this, I’m DONE,” she grabs her purse and hurries away– sending stacks of salami tumbling onto the grass.

Janna’s tearing up and I can’t help but feel a little bit bad for her.

“It’s okay. You’re trying,” I console her through grit teeth. We worked for MONTHS to escape Bernie’s antics. M O N T H S. Joy has been planning for years to leave East Street.

But East Street was everything. It was hommmme. We were FAMILY: me, Joy, Janna, and…Bernie.

We used to kick our feet on the swing set, saying “let’s all be neighbors when we grow up. And work at the same jobs and all of our kids can get married so we can be family.”

Bernie has been in our lives so long, reality without her seems unrealistic…

“You ever wonder how Bernie is?” I schmear a lil jelly onto my ham.

“I think she and that guy broke up,” says Janna, as tears trickled down her face.

Some people never wipe the past away and Janna is one of those people. She stays attached to everyone she crosses paths with, ill intened, or not. Bernie taught us some hard lessons— maybe a little too hard for Janna to understand just yet.

I’m a little bit grateful. As hard as I worked to sever the ties, I’m still attached to Bernie by a string or two. As evil as she was, my mind wanders into Bernieville every so often. I wish I were more like Joy.

Bernie was… our fourth. A FORCE. She was strong. She was tenacious. Janna was our whimsy. I was our glue. Joy grounded us. The four of us were solid. Now, something is missing.

But Vermont is BEAUTIFUL. All day, we eat maple sandwiches and salami. The fir trees are bright and plump. Once a week, we gather by the river to watch the bear families play in the water n nibble on salmon. I ski to work. It’s absolute paradise.

Janna invites me inside as we’re cleaning up and I say “absolutely not.”

I’ll never set foot in her house. It’s huge, and beautifully decorated, but I have no clue what material it’s made of. Honestly, I don’t want to know. It’s mysterious, yellow, and paper-thin. You can feel every single whisper of wind on the inside. You can also see through the translucent walls. The structure tilts and sways each time a door is opened… it’s an architectural question-mark at the very least. No rigidity. No boundaries. Not safe.

I go home instead.

Joy is in the distance, smoking on the fancy brick porch of her pretty brick house, shaking her brainy brick head.

STUBBORN. But she has the right to be. She spent years, finding a hidden lot of land in the hills for the three of us to settle down. She built that house all by herself. Brick by brick. It toppled over a few times, but she always got right back up and kept at it. She nurtured it until it was strong enough to protect her. Now, it’s her fortress. She’s always been a guarded person. Since Bernie let her down, she’s become impenetrable.

I wish she’d let up. I wish she’d let Janna and I frolic and play the way all four of us used to before people got hurt. But I guess that’s just Joy.

“Do you think Bernie is gonna find us?” says Janna.

There’s a subconscious excitement to her tone. She’s excited to have pried our closed-door open, “accidentally” leaving just enough room for Bernie to sneak her way back into our lives.

And believe me, she will. Bernie jumps and ducks every obstacle in her path. She does everything in her power to hunt you down and keep you close to her. She chases you. She races you. She starts as a friend, but morphs in to an all-absorbing competitor. It’s tough realizing that about a friend.

Jealousy is difficult because, like, I get it. Joy and Janna are easy people to be jealous of. I think we all feel jealous sometimes. But that’s no excuse to seduce your best friends ex…and killed their family pet.

^^^that’s a link, by the way. There was a part one. Not sure if you caught on yet.

After that, it was clear that we shouldn’t be friends. Janna, Joy, and I made a new group chat, “3 Little Friends,” and built new lives.

There’s something in the air. Not even the warming hues of my log-cabin walls can lull me. It’s like, 3am. I cannot sleep I cannot sleep I CANNOT sleep. I don’t think Janna can either. Her silhouette paces back and forth behind her see-through walls.

The second my eyelids start to flutter shut, a set of headlights pry them open, with the shadows of car-eyelashes. Car-eyelashes that could only belong to one person. At 3 am?! It can’t be…

But it is. there’s the huff and puff of a massive car blasting through the streets. Immediately, it’s clear that she’s here. But not for me.

Janna skips out of her house and into the car. It slowly leaves our safe-haven— out of sight, but certainly not out of mind. Did I mention that it’s 3am? All I can do is pray for Janna’s safety.

Gonna have a chat with Bernie, she texts the “3 Little Friends” group chat.  

Just please…be safe, I respond. Nothing from Joy. 

I’m a little worried for Janna…hopping into a car…at 3am? With someone as volatile as Bernie? I wanna check on her, but I don’t wanna get hurt. I wanna see if she’s okay, but I don’t wanna involve myself in whatever chaos Janna is concocting. I NEED TO CHOOSE PEACE.

I decide to spend all night peering through the window– awaiting their return.

***

The sun rises and the huffing and puffing makes its way back up the block.

She has returned. With Janna. 

The gigantic, turquoise Bernmobile pulls right past Janna’s driveway, and right into...mine? Nononononoonononono. No.

They slowly get out of their cars, sipping iced lattes. Probably with whole milk in spite of their lactose intolerance. Bernie she has on her usual cardigan. She seems more subdued than normal. Janna’s fiddling with her fingers like she usually does before she asks for something completely unreasonable. 

They ring my doorbell and I open the door because that’s what you do when somebody rings your doorbell of course.

“Bernie…” I start.

“Jenny,” she cuts me off, “I’m like so, so so, so sorry for how I behaved.” She sounds sincere. She’s making her classic apology face— with pouty lips and crinkled eyebrows. She did that all the time growing up. I miss it.

“I…I would be open to talking about it.”

Janna’s eyes brighten and Bernie gestures towards her car, “maybe we can grab muffins or something?”

I put on my jacket, and walk quietly with her and Janna to Bernie’s car. It’s nice seeing Bernie at peace… content with herself. I wonder if there’s ever a way we can become friends again…now that she’s found her footing.

“We went for a drive last night, Jenny,” Janna whispers to me, “Ander broke up with her…she’s working on healing now.”

As step into the car, I see the curtains drawing shut in Joy’s little brick safe haven. I understand— she’s fair to have apprehension. But a life without room for forgiveness is a certainly a tense one.

“I’m happy you’re here, Bernie,” I fold, “I want to see you happy and healing.”

She smiles: “Do you think Joy will ever forgive me?”

I shake my head. Janna sighs.

“Thank you for giving me the chance to explain myself. You two are like…my best friends. I’m so grateful to have you both in my life.”

“Us too,” I say. 

“Really?” she says, voice wavering.

“Yes.”

Wait a second—why is her voice wavering?

“Then why did you leave?” she slowly turns her head and the doors lock, “why didn’t you talk to me? Huh?! Why’d you leave me? All alone?! In that depressing little town?!”

Bernie has a lot of issues, but driving isn’t one of them. I watched her pass her driver’s test in half of the time and and effort it took the rest of us. She left her car without breaking a sweat. Parallel parking in TWO easy strokes.

Same amount of strokes it took her to mow both of our houses down— a swift one for Janna’s and a swift one for mine. Straw and sticks all over the place.

I text Joy and ask if she can give us a ride home, but I think she’s blocked my number. Bernie ever so graciously offered to give us a lift. Back to that same little town…

Because there’s nowhere else to go. We pack what’s salvageable and set back to East Street, leaving behind the scraps of the beautiful life we’d created, and a small brick house growing smaller and smaller and smaller in the distance. 

Are you lying?! 

Or are you creative?

Is the group chat wild?! 

Or is it adventurous– engaging in groundbreaking discourse? 

Did you create a burner account with fake posts and a fake bio and a fake profile picture to leave shady comments and stalk?! 

Or did you roleplay?

Is it a scathing rant?! 

Or is it prose? 

Is it an untrained dissection of somebody’s psyche– grasping for reasons why they are the way they are?! 

Or is it critical thinking?

Are you unsending a text?! 

Or are you a disciplined writer who knows when to scrap the first draft?

Is it a heated confrontation?! 

Or is it stating your cause of action?

Are you mocking them?! 

Or are you embracing the art of caricature?

Did you stalk their Instagram which took you to their Linkedin which took you to their Venmo which took you to their high school records which took you to their home address which took you to their birth certificate?! And do the same for all of their friends?! 

Or did you conduct thorough research using first-hand sources?

Are you rehashing the same incident over and over and over again?! 

Or are you rereading to catch the details? 

Is it a rash assumption?! 

Or is it a hypothesis?

Did you fake a personality to get through an awkward conversation?! 

Or did you improv? 

Are you a gossip?! 

Or are you simply the local paper– protecting and informing your community?

Ask yourself.

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(I need you to be patient with me because this is one of those ones where it seems like it doesn’t make sense in the beginning, but eventually you catch on. Probably.)

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I get to ground level, set the ball out in front of me, and give it a kindhearted shove. As long as I push with equal force from both arms, the ball goes straightish. It usually takes care of 5-6 pins. Here— I drew a picture for you: 

I have a secondary form too, which involves a squat and a hip thrust. It’s pretty self explanatory, but I included a visual anyway because it was fun to sketch: 

I was twelve when I came up with these…methods. I thought they were the next big thing. I was a PRETEEN. I was shedding my fear of the world, embracing rebellion.

Except I wasn’t very cool or *with it*, so my rebellion took the form of alternative bowling methods. 

Do they work? Are the methods effective? Absolutely. FOR ME. I have spaghetti arms and a notoriously uncoordinated upper body. These unique approaches GENUINELY help me bowl sharper…stronger.

I don’t bowl very often, but when I’m at the alley, I- I- I…transform.

It happened to me this past weekend. That musty tweenage spirit reawakened within me. Only this time…I didn’t feel so cute. I didn’t feel empowered the way I once did… I felt… fake deep.

FAKE DEEP = A person/place/thing/concept/whatever that means to be profound, but is actually quite surface level (and a little bit embarrassing because of it).

And that’s the thing about bowling… the alley is a stage. And everyyyyyyybody in the building can see you perform…the arcade…the snack bar… everyone. And you never get used to it because you don’t bowl very often because bowling SUCKS.

IT WAS EMBARRASSING.

I’ll reiterate: Yes– my processes do help me... but after my first bowl of adulthood, I realized that my unusual bowling strategies were not rare quirks bestowed upon me by the gods or innate muscular urges from my subconsciously genius mind. They were a cry for help. For ATTENTION.

And now, I’m a fully grown adult and I bowl the way that I bowl because preteen-me decided to be edgy in a way she could never outgrow. 

And like…thankfully it paid off. Thankfully I can bowl a fifty+ point game now (no need to Google whether or not that’s a good score). But the whole thing made me question the role of fake depth in life.

I’m so quick to slap a “FAKE DEEP” label on anything that second-hand-embarrasses me. After seeing my own reflection in that glistening bowling alley floor, I couldn’t help but ask myself:

Is it bad to be “fake deep?” Or is it just part of the process?

I realized that If I were so scared of being fake deep, I’d never dig at all. I never would’ve arrived at my methods if hadn’t been plagued by my preteenage yearn for distinction. Maybe it was a crude form of creativity.

Maybe by calling something fake deep, we’re focusing on the embarrassment that comes with trying, rather than on the importance of the trying itself.

Yes, it is immature and cringey to bowl the way that I bowl. But ultimately, I can’t be mad. It’s enabled me to grow.

me…now ^^^

When it comes to bowling, you can’t overthink things. You can’t search the rules. You can’t take classes. You can’t practice. You can’t ask a friend. You can’t even look at the lane next to you. Nope. Can’t do any of those things. Absolutely not. 

It’s bowling. It should not be that serious. At the end of the day, ya just gotta bowl. If there’s spectacle involved, so what? It just has to work. The more time I spend questioning myself, the less time I have to destroyyyyyy those pins. 

I might look “fake deep,” crouched over the lane, loud and unsure, but as far as I’m concerned: I bowled hard enough to knock down a few pins and deep enough to cook up a three minute read– or however long this took you.

There is no “fake deep” way to bowl. Bowling is bowling because actions are actions. The depth comes from the DIGGING. Not just from the earth. The depth comes from the synthesis. NOT just from the action. If you give anything a chance, it can be kinda deepish— even if not in the way you intended.