You hit your twenties, you discover Belgian beer, you switch your life plan, you file a report with Metro Police, you fill a prescription, then you hop on a train to see what else you can shake up before downing a bottle of Framboise one wine glass at a time becomes your legal, regularly-scheduled weekend wind-down.
Sit back and watch the bed burn.
How one reads university preparedness emails from a waiting room:
“While you’re hooked up to that machine over there and there’s a scalpel hovering roundabout that spot, the floor might shake a bit and the surrounding area may flood. But, fret not: we’re working diligently to remove the crosses from atop Healy. We know this was your main concern.”
Pulling one of my uncle’s old coats out of storage for my younger brother to bring with him freshman year, mum fumbled in a particularly heavy pocket and withdrew an aged cell phone. I don’t know anymore if he’ll bring it with him - the silence we fell into as she cried was heavier than the snowfall he’s facing heading north and any warmth the coat promised.
“Hope you had a peasant day.”
Discussing the versatile nature of the granola bars.
DAVID: I can eat them on the plane.
KATIE: He can eat them on the train, he can eat them with a fox, he can eat them in a box.
The titles of our final draft submissions for Playwriting.
ZACARIAS: “A Taste of Violet and Electric Guitars,” “52,” “The Occasional Pigeon,” “Alcestis,” “First Dog”… and “My Play.”
