In regard to your question from yesterday, I do believe it is time we start plotting our Old Home Days return. Do you think next year is too soon? Can we saunter in, you reeking of Yale and old boys’ clubs and me fresh off New York Fashion Week and whichever university my mother bribes to accept me? Or should we give it five years and let some anticipation build up?
I’m getting the eyeball from Williamson so I have to cut this short. Teachers are the worst. Why can’t they just let me ignore them in peace?
Love forever,
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And then the others.
Blue Gray, my moodiest of the moody,
Thanks for the save the other night. I don’t love football enough to sit through an entire game but I really don’t love it when everyone decides to get drunk and be idiots. I know that’s what high school is about, especially high school in small-town America, but I’ve already been an idiot. I’m over it. Thanks for taking me home and being over it with me, even if you were in one hell of a grumbly mood that night.
Someday we’ll hang out together and talk about all the fabulous things we’re doing. No small-town drama for us. We’ll meet somewhere in New York, of course, and tell stories about taking over the world. It will be perfect. We’ll be perfect.
All my drama-proofed love,
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The Bluest of Blue Grays,
Sometimes I wonder if my entire life is going to be a series of mistakes. One after another, and I don’t see any of them coming until they fly over my head. I feel like everyone else has a built-in sensor to know when they’re on the verge of fucking it all up and I just have to find out what happens when I fuck it up because I don’t have that mechanism.
Promise me you’ll stop me before I fuck everything up. You’re my only hope.
Love eternal,
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BG—
Thanks for the coffee this morning. It reminded me of home. Or something vaguely familiar as vague familiarity is my only threshold for considering something home.
I know I sound like a spoiled brat when I say I miss European coffee—but I miss European coffee. You made my day.
Lovingly caffeinated,
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Blue Gray of the misty morning,
You bring up a great point and my answer is a simple one: I have no idea what happens next year. College is a vast, aqueous mystery. I’ll probably get legacy-admission’ed into Boston College but I don’t care. I don’t have the first clue what I’ll do there and I’ll probably waste a few years figuring it out. As long as I don’t embarrass my mother, it doesn’t much matter.
I wish I loved something enough to know I wanted to spend my life doing it but loving stuff is scary. It’s a goddamn danger to my health. These things that people love, they often turn around and destroy them. Just look at Picasso and the ear. Really! I don’t think I want the risk of loving anything that could ruin my life in the process.
Love and mysteries,
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BG,
I hope you didn’t get in trouble. I’m sorry I kept you out late last night. I didn’t realize we were so far past your curfew. I don’t want to make things difficult for you at home. I really am sorry. Please blame me. Everyone already thinks I’m a problem child. Just tell them it was me and get yourself out of this mess.
Also: thank you for listening. I don’t know why I was so upset. My mother hardly ever remembers my birthday. I should’ve expected this. I know better than to get my hopes up with her.
Thanks for letting me cry it out all over your shoulder. I needed that.
And for the love of god, throw me under the bus for this.
