dear x: think of you

dear x,

one of my biggest fears is fading into middle age, mediocre and useless. i am terrified of the day when i will walk through a room unnoticed. they will find suitable replacements for my skills, and i will no longer be relevant.

i worry that i passed my prime. those years with you were the best; but, as fun and memorable as they were, what if that's as good as it gets for me? and worse, what if you have chosen to disown the shared experiences that shaped me-- forfeit any association with our past, our lovely little garden of travels and sunsets and handmade birthday cards and content routines?

because even more heartbreaking than being forgotten is to be acknowledged and then dismissed.

i am writing you this love letter, x, because it is time to confront my fears and appeal to your memory for the strength to mitigate my own chaos. you were always so good at sensing my impending storms and then forging blue skies and waterless rainbows for me-- you reacted so seamlessly that i didnt know i needed your barometer and a raincoat. i lived for so many years without lightning cracks or hurricane swells-- but what if being apart from you, x, for the rest of my life, means fading into gray-washed cloudless, breezeless mundaneness?

someday all they will hear is the sound of my shoes instead of turning their heads to see the tears in my eyes at the realization that the best is hard to forget.

love,
a.

just to put your mind at ease

you don't owe me anything

you paid me well in memories

dear x: sparks fly

dear x,

writing about you has allowed me to live in two separate worlds this month: the past and the present. i lived this once, love; and now, by smashing memories into typed characters i live again.

there are some experiences i would live over and over if i could. the problem lately is that i am distracted by your ghost in this room, therefore i fail to be present wholly anywhere, and i cheat myself of enjoying simplicity or complexity-- always wishing that you could be here too. so now my experiences are sort of halved, cheapened, incomplete.

i am writing you this love letter, x, to share these gigantic suitcases of memories that i lug with me, up stairs, in the rain, across states, outside your workplace, down the abyss that occupies so many of my solitary moments. wont you please take some baggage and unzip compartments and sort with me?

here, that shirt is from the first time i spent the night with you at your new house. we split a bottle of white zin, listened to music through your television, and actually said goodnight in person. you kissed my shoulder and whispered, "youre so cute" as i fell asleep and dreamed about fish.

oh look, i wore those earrings the night you told me you we could never just be friends. "you have bows in your ears," you said, as you played with my hair.

that, that is the perfume i bought a few days before you stayed at my place for a few weeks. spray it a bit; smelling it reminds me of sitting around my coffee table in the evenings watching archer and you said, "i usually cant be around people for very long, but i dont know. i like being with you." and then we talked about movies and i liked how your forearm felt under mine.

and then theres the empty suitcase. you found that. i bring that with me wherever i go, just in case you decide to come back. i can fill it with new memories. its silly, i knew youd think so. but its here, always, so that i can be ready.

im still here.

love,
a.

lead me up the staircase

won't you whisper soft and slow

i'm captivated by you, baby,

like a fireworks show

(absolutely love this cover of one of my swifty favorites)

dear x: animal

dear x,

so many of these stories take place in a bar or in a dark bedroom. this one begins in between.

i am writing you this love letter, x, because not many boys would walk miles with me, aimlessly strolling the sprinkler-flooded, unevenly patched streets of boise on an unusually warm may night. but you did, laughing at my awkward self-deprecating jabs and mild aversion to encountering midnight wildlife in your neighbor's garbage.

when i agreed to keep walking, you said, "but it's really far." as if my feet submitted to a curfew, a contrived limit, a sense of finality. i suppose, x, you didnt know that our stroll odometer measured arm brushes, how many times i could smell you in the evening air, and no yawns-- and not in kilometers or how many hours left until my alarm interrupted your embrace.

love,
a.

i'm not asleep

i'm up for the fight

into the magic

i don't want the concrete
i am alive comes with the tragic

dear x: the boy who blocked his own shot

dear x,

sometimes i wonder if you saw the sunset. maybe you watched the clouds around the sun fade from brilliant gold to murky lemonade to dark.

sometimes i wonder if your shoe caught on the edge too, where carpet meets linoleum in the airport terminal after the security checkpoint.

do you still eat taco bell at midnight? do you prefer mountain dew to dr. pepper? do you indulge in a few chocolate covered raisins, or have you deemed twix your favorite candy?

sometimes i wonder if you need me and then don't.

sometimes i wonder if you fill your hours distracting yourself from wanting to share little moments with me-- like we used to. i am terrified, x, of quietly losing small things to my memory. i will probably remember all the big milestones; but what about those collective fragments of time that just slip away, like shedding a strand of hair at the supermarket.

sometimes i think i smell you in the middle of the night. i am writing you this love letter, x, to let your shadow of love lost know this: i am often consumed by the details and my inability to share with you the simultaneously mundane and brilliant. i fear the day when i wont remember how your skin smells after a shower.

love,
a.

so get a grip

or call it quits

said you wanted a solution

you just wanted to be missed

dear x: come on get higher

dear x,

when people are in love, they celebrate their firsts: first date, first kiss, first house, first baby. when people like me lose people like you, they mourn their lasts:

the last time i heard you laugh, your cell phone rang and interrupted your piano playing (a rather melodramatic piece from the "lord of the rings" soundtrack). i heard you ask hello, followed by a brief silence, and then you erupted into a loud, resonating laughter. i am so glad, x, that that last hearty laugh was filled with your sincere happiness.

the last drink we shared together, you poured me a healthy glass of grape vodka over ice while you sipped on some gin. we sat on the old blue comforter from your bed and watched "little miss sunshine." the fan overhead rustled the living room curtains, and my cheeks flushed from the room heat and alcohol.

the last words you said to me directly were, "i am going home in a few days. but when i get back, don't be here." you banished me from our hallway, never again to watch your shadows dart under the door as you walked by in the morning. you didn't care where i slept at night, as long as our toothbrushes weren't stored together and i took my coffee table with me.

the last time we were in the same room, i attended a poetry reading at a wine shop after i graduated. you introduced the readers, speaking slowly and nervously into a microphone. your words sounded rehearsed as i feigned interest in a nebulous object slightly above your head. i resisted the urge to wonder when you had purchased the blue button down dress shirt that you wore that evening.

the last email you sent me was a department meeting announcement. i was just another cc, another itemized address on your list, another person you reached out to only to receive fewer replies than questions. reading your name at the bottom of a carefully worded form letter made me realize how foreign you were about to become-- we would exist separately, each like a chapter in different books on unrelated subjects resting on library shelves three thousand miles apart.

the last time that i will tell you that i loved you is here in this love letter, x. i loved you, i am certain. and i miss you-- so much that it hurts-- but you moved on and it's time for me to do the same. i wish you a lifetime of  encapsulated poetry, that each new first is an enchanting and inspiring moment for you.

because loving you was my last.

love,
a.

and i ache to remember

all the violent

sweet

perfect

words that you said

dear x: holy ground

dear x,

you took me out dancing downtown. i wore a purple dress, and i watched you attach your cuff links while glancing back and forth between our reflections in your bathroom mirror.

i'll never forget how i felt when you smiled at me with your hand on my back and the occasional brush of our hips. i am a terrible dancer; you didn't seem to care, so i hardly recognized the giddiness in my own laugh. we ran into a few people that you knew, and you introduced me as "pretty andrea." i try to look pretty; i rarely feel pretty but that night was an exception. i kissed you hard on a red lips couch in the basement at grainey's and sincerely wished everyone in the city could bear witness to my excitement.

summer has a way of resetting my life. perhaps the longer days, dewy skin, shorter hemlines, and penchant for mojitos renew my faith in love-- because that june night with you still makes me blush and even writing you this love letter inspires me to spin around the room, reliving one of my happiest memories.

love,
a.

i guess we fell apart in the usual way

and the story's got dust on every page

but sometimes i wonder how you think about it now

i see your face in every crowd

(i cannot find any good youtube videos for this song and it makes me sad)

dear x: titanium

dear x,

at some point last spring, you saved me. maybe it was drinking all of my mini rum bottles that i bought in oregon after my grandmother's funeral and swaying on the sidewalks downtown. maybe it was taco night and tamarind margaritas at the matador. maybe it was the open invitation to crawl into your bed after dodging your apartment's particularly aggressive sprinklers so i wouldn't have to think about him-- or the lack of him.

i woke up once and you were reading a book about running. it was probably like 5 am and there you were chillin shirtless in bed and focused on the words in front of you. in spite of my sleepiness, i observed and appreciated the calm beauty there that morning with you before closing my eyes again.

we shared lots of smirks, jelly beans, stories of our exes, mountain dews, idle threats about jumping off bridges, and walks across campus in the dark. the nights spent sprawled on your couch or your roommate's bean bag chair (was it really necessary to curl up against you in a squishy chair in order to watch british "top gear"?) are welcome breaks from the silence, even though i still can't determine why i lack relationship-level feelings for you. i don't expect you to understand why, but i'm writing you this love letter to say i appreciate you.

and your warm bed.

love,
a.

ghost town and haunted love

dear x: lotus flower

dear x,

if he is the reason why i will never love another, then you are the reason why I will never love.

i have this recurring dream that is actually a memory from years ago. my body sat on the edge of your twin bed, but my mind swirled in past and possibility. you jerked me back to reality with a simple statement: "you look sad."

"i am sad," i whispered, to you and to me.

i am writing you this love letter, x, to tell you that you are not alone. when you enclose into the elliptical caress of your emotionless psyche, please know i too exist somewhere likely sucking my own metaphorical wounds. our monkeyrope is your attachment to my pain; you knew there were only so many times you could fuck me (over) and return to her the next morning, as if your guilt was worth more than my foolish hope. you knew there were only so many times, x, you could deny (knowing) me, as if your attractiveness depends on your dark solitude and not on my pathetic belief that you'll change. you knew there were only so many times you could wipe off my kiss before your own lips started to blur (partial) lies from (slanted) truth. you can tell them whatever you want; you're the one who doesn't sleep at night.

no, x, you are not alone. please know that you're not the only one who may be comfortable but not in love. because you have made it this way.

love,
a.

just to see what if

just to see what is

the truth is i never really left you.

oh, harro.

the chill mornings and waning sunlight tell me summer's end is near. fall is my favorite time of year, stirring some remnants of sentimentality together with hardened expectations for the impending colder (see: isolated) months ahead. dear reader, i have (re)learned many things these last few months; i hope you have also delved into thought, experience, people-- life.

so here's how i spent my summer...

deciding what to do with my bangs and expanding my accessories collection.









rediscovering my past in the recesses of my old bedroom at my parents' house.



my first sunglasses purchased at express!









confirming my problems are not diagnosable by a lab.





my first commercial aired. (3 more in the works.)




immersing myself in new worlds and drama.

like gossip girl

and nat geo documentaries

and glee

and-- big applause, please-- modern family

descending further into domestic life-- and conceding it's really not that terrible.















rediscovering past favorites that fit the present perfectly.

defending my patio from terrorists.

logging miles on a different set of tires.

getting away for a while.

















































for more pictures, see amy's blog too.






never reaching an answer but i'm really ok with that.

and life continues.

the goods: fast food

since my diet started last june, I can count on one hand the number of times I've eaten fast food. considering I used to dine on potato wedges at least once a week, I think I have improved greatly.

today I decided to walk to lunch-- looking around, I had an array of choices, but ultimately decided on Wendy's. I remember when the Wendy's in Eagle opened and getting a small frosty (chocolate was the only flavor then) was like a plastic cup of heaven. anyway, today I strolled into Wendy's (sadly, not the one in Eagle), inhaled the aroma of sizzling grease and batter and heart attacks waiting to happen, and ordered my delicious meal.





well, the vitamin water was mine.

omfg I love French fries. I was totally the creeper nearly moaning in the corner with pleasure.

the goods: hitting "play all"

lately, i've been watching "house, m.d."  my obsession started a few years ago, when i was couch-ridden, doubled-over with stomach cramps, and eating plain noodles by the metric ton because it was all i could eat without wanting to yark all over my jammies.  oh, and otter pops.

i love the old cast.

but the day 13 joined the cast, i just about changed my "preferences" on facebook... i mean, seriously.

there are many things that draw me to medical shows... i like the mystery, the drama, etc.  i appreciate house's 2 rules about people: everyone lies, and people don't change.  i think wilson's character receives some of the best lines of the whole show; often, his character acts as a reasoning buffer to house's dark side.  and i find comfort in the idea that even the strangest, most unusual cases in medical history have their roots in sound and explainable science-- people, illnesses, and scenarios are not random, after all.

and olivia wilde is just freakin' gorgeous.

the goods: French press coffee

the first time I drank coffee from a French press was at a small restaurant in Beverly Hills, outdoors and relaxing. to this day, I have never tasted coffee so good.

I slept terribly last night-- I woke up several times, cried a little, and dreamed disturbing things. so today, I made an effort to appreciate the little things.

first on my list, delicious coffee.

for christmas, a pharmacist I miss dearly gave me a starbucks giftcard. I waited to use it towards an item instead of squandering it away on $4 drinks. a few days ago, I purchased a French press kit with my giftcard-- complete with a scoop, measuing cup, bamboo stir stick, timer, and cleaning spatula. I used my new kit for the first time this morning.

life goes on, readers.

the goods: A to Z

i got this idea from an english girl i follow on tumblr.  here's a favorite item starting with each letter of the alphabet. maybe you'll learn something new about me. maybe you'll think about what your list would look like. maybe we have favorites together and can share.

a is for applesauce

especially my mom's.

b is for basenji

these little critters can't bark.

c is for curly hair

maybe my 20's were good for something.

d is for dancing alone

doesn't rihanna look gorgeous?

e is for eric northman

exchanging bodily fluids never sounded so good.

f is for fabric

my collection grows.

g is for gossip girl

call me cheesy, but i love chuck bass.

he understands her.

h is for hello kitty

i wouldn't be a good asian if i didn't love her.

i is for indian food

the mix of flavors, scents, and textures is amazing.

j is for jelly beans

starburst jb's are tops.

k is for kitty

how can you resist a snuggle?

l is for late night happy hours

discounted apps and drinks with friends.

m is for mirrors

paris hilton taught me to never pass one up.

n is for nail polish

it's like makeup for your nails.

o is for owls

wise and flighty.

p is for pilot precise v5 rolling ball pens

can't write effectively without one.

q is for quincy

little green lizard from foxtrot is so stinkin' cute.

r is for fresh rain on pavement

shiny, smelly, and makes me want to dance.

s is for soup

i would eat it every day for the rest of my life.

t is for taylor trifecta

swift, momsen, and lautner. sigh.

u is for undies

especially pretty ones like gilly hicks.

v is for venus razors

over a decade of shaving with minimal (albiet, traumatic at times) knicks.

w is for watermelon gum

"candy" fix and stress reliever in one.

x is for xylitol

ok, a bit of a stretch, but it does taste pretty natural.

y is for yimmys yayo

because he's the man.

z is for zebra prints

black, white, simple, and visually exciting.