so I found this on my computer. I still feel it.

from Oct. 13 journal:

and better than wine
if love has a hangover, that’s ages away
I’ve been collecting perfect moments each day

make sure you know
no matter how this will grow

sober, in the sunlight

I fell
who can I tell?
tell the world
tell them all
yes, I did fall

and do I care?
and really
it’s not where
you’re from
that matters so much
as where you’re going

don’t give a fuck
how you grew up

something set this
it’s too perfect for chance
it’s a story to tell

I’m in love
I’m love
you’re love
my love
oh
love

new topic!

I fell in love.

This is how we met: the first night of frosh week, they had pizza (and beer) parties at frosh leaders’ houses, for mingling, a couple of groups to a house. Our groups were at the same party, and we both sort of noticed each other while we were mingling. Cut to a few nights later, it’s Retro Night at the Wardy (campus pub) and we danced together a bit. I would’ve danced with him more, but while walking my roomie back to our room, since she didn’t have her keys, we saw a girl being loaded into an ambulance, and that was pretty much a total buzzkill for me, so I went to bed soon after. Cut to the day before lectures and such begin, I think “maybe he’ll be in my tutorial… no, that never happens.” Cut to the next day, he is in my tutorial. That night it’s Maritime Night at the Wardy, there’s live music, I know a million folk songs and fit right in, I don’t know “Barrett’s Privateers” yet, but I pick that up fast. I’m there with my friend (this initial thing is a problem, so many people have the first initial E.), let’s call her Rosie since she had a bandanna that night and did many a Rosie the Riveter impression. And she gets me up to dance, but he offers his arm so off I go with him. And after the song Rosie asks me “what the fuck was that?” and I say something like “he’s in my tutorial, and oh my god he’s totally my type, and he’s wearing brown corduroy pants.” Let it be known that I have a deep love of corduroy pants. But that’s not really the point. Rosie, who by now has had plenty of beer plus a shot of tequila, decides that we must dance together again. She basically physically shoves us together. And we dance, and we go outside for some air, and we get to talking, and we go to his room, and neither of us gets much sleep that night. And the next day he asks me out for coffee after tutorial, and so far I’m getting my happy ending…

I can write more, if you want to know more.

(I do not like how that’s all one block of text. May edit later.)

conversation

should’ve

A kiss.

We both thought about it.

We both almost did.

And now we’re . . . 2,682 miles apart, I think. (Will be 882 in the fall.)

But we think we might try it.