Let Us Take a Trip Through Time


Let’s go back — far back (and I mean faaaar back, like a whole 4 years ago). Look into my crystal ball to see…

Teenage Cappy: writer, high school student and Strokes fan extraordinaire. She had long blonde hair, bangs, and was just learning how to do a cat eye (oh, so young with so much to learn about brow pencil and lipstick).

We’ll zoom in to April 2011, when Cappy was finishing her novella, Dark Blue, which showed promise to be one of the most forgotten works for young adults to date. Though…even I must admit, it was still a better love story than Twilight. Dark Blue told the story of a girl who found out her father had cheated on her mother with the mom of her crush. Confusing? Check. Bizarre and uncomfortable? Possibly. Unique storyline? Admittedly, yes. Maybe. I don’t know. Regardless, it featured some of the most contrived banter-dialogue known to man. See for yourself:

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Notice how frequently high-school-Cappy mentions and/or describes hairstyles in this particular excerpt. Classic. Believe me, there was a lot of “disheveled hair-flipping” and probably a few more brooding looks coming from Mack in that chapter, much less in the entire 116 page novella. The reader (whoever that is, unless the NSA hacked into my creative writing computer file) later finds that he was looking at her intently WITH HIS DARK BLUE EYES. OH LOOK, THERE’S THE TITLE.

Skip forward a bit to Bea and Mack realizing their parents had an affair 10 years prior. Slowly (really quickly within the span of about 15 pages) they fall in “love” even though Bea initially thought he was a stupid jock (he was just misunderstood!) and bond over their intense infatuation with The Strokes and other various indie/garage rock bands. Bea argues a lot with her dad (it’s weird to go back and see how much of my own life is reflected in this story) and Mack does something that makes Bea mad. Bea goes on some dates with a British exchange student who ends up only wanting her for sex (he is a total stock character if I ever wrote one) and Bea feels conflicted! OH GOD THE ANGST. Maggie’s character really only exists to serve as a stark contrast to Bea, and so fully embodies the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope that I’m surprised I didn’t actually know that trope existed until years after I wrote her character.

Dark Blue is fun to read over again, because it gives me a little glimpse of Cappy from 4 years ago. She just wanted to fall in love with a boy who liked music and played soccer and had dark hair, regardless of how FLAT HIS PERSONALITY WAS (oh my God it’s almost embarrassing how boring Mack is). It’s nice to see how far I’ve come (I now date jerky guys and pretty girls with long hair, so it’s kind of a step up).

Maybe I can salvage some plot points, rewrite some of the characters (literally every single character) and fix the dialogue (which may take the rest of my life, if we’re being realistic). I didn’t start this post with the intention of ripping apart the story I wrote when I was 17 years old, but it just happened. It’s so good to laugh at myself a little.

To be fair…it’s a damn good attempt. I wrote something with a beginning, middle, and end, and it was 116 pages long and took a year to write, and it made me feel accomplished. It’s better than some actual published books I’ve read (sorry E.L. James, but I still think I was a better writer than you when I was 17 and I didn’t even have to rely on bondage to make my plot at least somewhat interesting). I love going back and seeing where I was, because at least I can point to some new stuff I’ve written and say “I’ve come pretty freaking far.” It doesn’t discourage me from writing; in fact, it encourages me, because it shows me how much I can grow in a short time if I just keep writing.

Am I the first writer to give her own novella a bad review? Probably not. And anyway, I’ll just keep on keepin’ on.

xo

Oh…did I mention that I began each chapter with a song lyric that embodied that chapter? Because I did. The prologue describing Bea’s parents’ divorce started with a Tupac line. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.

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Snow Globe


I want to rummage through stacks of books with you.
Dirty, musty books
so when we rustle their pages we choke with joy.
I want to sit on the floor, legs crossed
and pile adventures in my lap.
You’ll stand on a stack of encyclopedias and reach for
that perfect copy of Don Quixote
while I flip through Robinson Crusoe
until you reach down and say, “I found this one for you.”
I want to be lost with you inside a fiction more beautiful than the
huge snow globe we inhabit
always shaken by someone else til we’re displaced
tiny flakes in a fish tank.
So I think if I have to get lost, I’d like to be holding your hand
when my dreams for this life
seem so broken
like this damned snow globe
because aren’t they supposed to make you smile
and turn the sky white?
The sky was grey today. This snow globe’s defective.
I want to be poor with you
but only with you
because poverty isn’t romantic
unless all the riches in the world exist in the gold flecks in your eyes.
I want to be anything with you
because you’ll be anything with me
and that could stop this snow globe shaking.

With this, I revamp my current poetry series from one about my childhood to a poetry series about anything, because…why restrict myself? Poetry is freeing, and I need to be freed right now. Cheers. Let’s all work on making this snow globe a little better.

I Grew Up So Well


I may be up at 2 a.m. and it may be because I finished editing a short story I’ve been working on for a year and I may have just submitted it to my university’s literary journal so I may be having a mini heart attack but also may be feeling so accomplished that I can’t stop jittering. Y’all, I actually finished something. Conceptualized, drafted, wrote, edited, re-edited, ruminated, re-re-edited, and…submitted. This is real life.

And it got me thinking…I had the best childhood. (How’d this thought train happen? I wrote something! –> Reading as a child helped me write –> one time I wrote a crappy story about Cleopatra and my mom loved it –> My parents were so supportive –> My parents had such eclectic taste in everything –> I practically came out of the womb singing Neil Young.)

When I say “best childhood” I don’t mean “most innocent” or “happiest” necessarily. I mean I had a childhood that I look back on and appreciate, because I accidentally was a pretty insightful kid. And everything I did then, everything I was exposed to, has made me pretty awesome (if I do say so).

Want an explanation? I present you with a series of poems from my childhood, which you will receive every other day for as long as I can come up with them. They will all be first drafts and will probably be written in the middle of the night, so feel free (gently and lovingly) to offer criticisms and ideas.

We’ll begin with BLOCKS.

I drag Pops’ box blocks, dead like wooden bricks
across the oriental carpet (red spirals from somewhere I will dream of later)
and — thunk — drop rubber zoo animals from their cloth prison, only to box them in again
within the lifeless block-walls.
The harder they come the harder they fall
Jimmy Cliff sings, high and warm, as lions leap upon giraffes, teeth tearing through tendons and muscles, spurts of blood hitting onlookers.
Years later I will remember this carnage fondly
if only to laugh at my morbidity as a five-year-old
and to rent a copy of The Harder They Come
which was about drugs
according to Dad
and I didn’t know that meant violence, too, because drugs are always paired with violence
at least when desperation gets involved,
so we document it in movies that hurl knives against the TV screen.
Age 5 doesn’t allow for true understanding of desperation, but I must’ve seen it
because I replicated it
with lions
in my house.
Peace often followed, as the lions
sick with remorse and giraffe flesh
bathed in the sun, rolling in the red tide of a rug born somewhere I’d never heard of.
As all I couldn’t comprehend washed over me
heavy accents filled my ears
and mondegreen* stole my understanding, turning every sad lyric into something pleasant.
Them a loot them a shoot them a wail shanty town.

*mondegreen is the mishearing of a word, usually within a song.

I Should’ve Been British


I don’t remember the first time I ever heard a British accent, but I imitated it from then on. Some of you may remember that I had an imaginary friend — Annie — for quite a long time (some may say an inordinate amount of time, but I think it’s pretty normal for a girl living in the middle of nowhere to have an imaginary friend until the age of 12). Anyway, Annie and I spoke to each other in a British accent even though I was president of the United States…there was a complex storyline to my imaginary friend(s) and our daily mischief.

I might’ve first heard it from the BBC, either on the radio or television, because my parents kept Public Radio and Television on often as a source of news. Maybe it was first from a woman at our church who had an very strong accent despite having been in America for years and years. Maybe it was from Rumpole or Fawlty Towers. Either way, I heard the magical noise of Brits and there was no turning back. Since then, I become incredibly attached to British media — almost all my favorite books and television shows are from the UK, and I plan to study abroad in England or Ireland or Scotland (hey, it’s hard to pick, ok?) over the summer. And since my soul is patterned like a Union Flag (only called a Union Jack when it’s flown at sea, kids), I figure I’ll tell you about the lovely British things I have enjoyed throughout the years (the list is long, but you should at least watch the videos, as they’re fantastic):

1. Harry Potter: Obviously. The books are better than the movies (again, obviously), but not by much. J.K. Rowling is an inspiration to me as a writer, and generally as a kind human being who loves what she does. Plus, magic!

2. The Hobbit: I’m pretty sure I made my dad read it to me at least 5 times as a kid. I love it I love it I love it. And I even love the movie, even though it adds dumb things and everything is CGI and it’s not as great as the original LOTR movies were. I still love it because HOBBITS.

3. Fawlty Towers: Don’t mention the war! I discovered John Cleese through this show, as it was constantly on marathon during pledge drives on my local PBS station. There should be more people named Basil and Sybil, braying laughing and bumbling about with concussions. And even though Manuel’s character is probably insensitive/offensive to Hispanic people everywhere, he’s so lovely and stupid that I can’t help but laugh when he yells “MANAHERRR.” Come back to me, lovely British imbeciles. “I’m tho thorry I’ve made a mithtake!”

4. The Confessions of Georgia Nicolson: This book series shaped my adolescence in so many ways it’s kind of disgusting. I don’t act like normal Americans because I’ve gotten too used to saying “twit” and doing the “viking hornpipe dance” which I only break out on special occasions. Louise Rennison is my comedy soul animal and I love her, partially because she has a huge nose and I used to think I did (I think my head grew into my nose a few years ago…), but partially because she has no filter and doesn’t mind acting like a loon. I accidentally say things like “why in the name of Gandalf’s burning bra” and other nonsense, and people think I’m crazy but really…well, yeah, I’m crazy. But also awesome?

5. The IT Crowd: There is so much to say and so little space to say it in. Basically, this is one of the most brilliantly written, hilarious shows on all of television. Remember Officer Rhodes from Bridesmaids? Chris O’Dowd? Yeah, I had a crush on him before you did. He. Is. Mine. I watched him be all greasy and weird in a basement as an IT guy for years before he got all…yummy and whatnot. So I feel it is my right to claim ownership of him and tell you to back off. Besides, Richard Ayoade is the most hilariously dry comedian ever, and he’s got a side part in his fro. What’s not to love?

6. All the British (and Irish) standup: Dara O’Briain, Russell Howard, Sarah Millican, Chris Addison, Ed Byrne, David Mitchell, Michael McIntyre. Russell Brand. Look them up. I love them all so very much. So very very much. Also, there’s almost no one funnier on Twitter than Dara O’Briain, that saucy Irishman.

7. All the British panel shows: Mock The Week (favorite ever). Big Fat Quiz of the Year. Never Mind the Buzzcocks. 8 Out of 10 Cats. QI. Just look them up! Your life will be enriched, even if maybe you will never be productive again.

8. MI-5: If you don’t love Zaf we can’t be friends. Also, it’s just brilliant and makes me want to become a spy. But not really at all because…guns. It’s just nice that it seems a little more realistic than most American shows about cops and the CIA and whatnot. Also, Lucas North (gorgeous spy, gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous) is played by the actor who plays Thorin in The Hobbit. It was a bit disconcerting at first, but I loved it very quickly.

9. Rumpole of the Bailey: There’s nothing better than a sassy barrister who quotes Wordsworth, smokes cheroots, drinks cheap wine, and calls his wife “She Who Must Not Be Named” (behind her back, of course).

10. Music: Rizzle Kicks, Kate Bush, Lily Allen, Kate Nash, example, Lady Sovereign, Jessie J. Plus The Beatles (GEORGE), The Rolling Stones, The Moody Blues… just assume that if they’re British and good that I love them. See below for a combination of several of my favorite things (Lily Allen, Russell Brand, Big Fat Quiz, and a touch of Noel Fielding). See below below for another combo (Noel Fielding pretending to be Kate Bush).

Hooray!

There are probably more (SKINS!), but dang that’s a lot. Anyway, enjoy all the lovely things I love. And if you happen to have any suggestions, please comment below! Cheers!

I Would Ship You All


I might secretly want to write fan fiction. Like, really badly, if only to make it so absurdly ridiculous that I’ll get some sort of cult following of 14 year old girls who love me and make me rich and famous. Kind of like that doof who wrote 50 Shades of Grey, only…a million times better at writing and not British. And I don’t have children who will be mortified to find out that I’m the one writing kinky Twilight fan fiction. Someone should call child protective services on EL James. ASAP.

Anyway, I wanna write fan fiction about everything. And I will ship everyone. For those of you who don’t know, shipping is when you take two characters you’d like to see together and write a fan fiction piece about it. So let’s get started.

Crime and Punishment, where Raskolnikov actually falls in love with Alyona Ivanovna and decides not to kill her with an axe. Instead, he shacks up with her and Lizaveta and becomes landlord to his former neighbors, becoming rich and grumpy in the process. But, no matter how surly he is, he always has his beloved Alyona, and they live happily ever after amongst their gold coins and furrowed brows. It’s amazing what Cupid’s arrow can do.

The Great Gatsby. After that fateful night when Daisy ran over Myrtle, Gatsby decides to go on a little vacation with Nick. Just to get away, to clear his head. Soon, the two friends become more, so much more, and run away together into the sunset. Daisy doesn’t matter. East Egg and West Egg don’t matter. Nothing matters but Gatsby’s eyes, Nick’s smile, their love.

The Office. Meredith and Creed have sat so close all these years, yet their hearts have been so far apart. Finally, after Meredith has to shave her head due to that unfortunate lice incident, Creed realizes that they’re similar in so many ways (hairstyles now being one of them). He walks to Meredith’s desk, places a joint on her desk, and waits. She smiles knowingly. This is love. This was meant to be. How had she never seen it before? She invites him to her minivan and they talk for hours, completely forgetting the joint they’d planned to smoke. Talking is all they need. Unfortunately, someone sees the joint, calls the police, and they’re both arrested for possession of illegal substances. Due to prior offenses, both are sent to prison and separated forever. It’s tragic, but rather fitting.

The News Hour with Jim Lehrer on PBS. Gwen Ifill and Ray Suarez, having worked together for so long, finally realize they’ll never find anyone else who works the crazy hours that they do. Longing glances across the anchor desk turn to whispers in dressing rooms and soon, Gwen is receiving flowers daily. Coworkers are confused at first, but finally realize yes, this was always meant to be. Gwen and Ray are America’s Will and Kate, and they reign over the nightly news with dignity and class never before seen, especially not on FOX news.

So there you have it. I’m amazing. Feel free to send me fan mail.

Let Me Tell You About My Dream


I had a dream a few months ago that The Hunger Games were mixed with Jeopardy.

Yeah.

The competitors had to survive in the wilderness, of course, but they also had to know a lot of random information about rivers in Europe and Chopin’s favorite food and how many toes Marie Antoinette’s cat had.

Alex Trebek was the first to go, obviously, because he’s a massive twit and kept correcting one of the competitors’ pronunciation of French words. “It’s leviOHsa, not levioSAH.” After that he got a bit of a stab in the jugular, and the games continued.

I don’t really know what happened next, because I never remember much after Alex Trebek dies in my dreams (it happens a lot, people). I just wanted you all to know that this is a thing that could happen. We could mix Jeopardy and The Hunger Games and it would probably be rather fantastic. Though I do wonder what would happen after we slaughtered some of the more intelligent people in the country.

Maybe we should just leave it as a dream. The world doesn’t need this.

My Whole Body Aches


I went on a long bike ride today, and whenever I ride I have a lot of time to think. About the meaning of life, about new blog posts I could write, about what I wanna do with myself in the future…about how much my butt hurts… Today, I thought about all those things, in between riding past creeks and llamas (I’m not kidding), and I was really excited to write about it all when I got home. But. Y’all, I hurt. In the best way, of course, like when all your muscles feel like lead but it’s okay because it means you didn’t die halfway into the ride. Nope, here you are, aching like all hell, but knowing you finished that ride like a champ.

Anyway, I was gonna write about all that. But now I’m not. Because my brain fell out along the ride and I have to go get it in the morning. So instead, I thought I’d give you a list of books I’ve read recently and just say, “These are great, read them, take my word for it, read them.”

1. The Yard: So good! About Victorian London after the Jack the Ripper murders. This book was perfect for me because I’m super into serial killers (not to date, obviously…to psychoanalyze because I’m a psych major, duh!) and super into London, and it was so gripping and full of depth. The next book comes out tomorrow, and I can just about guarantee I will read the whole thing in two days.

2. A Midsummer Tights Dream: Okay, so this one is for 15 year old girls. But the author, Louise Rennison, wrote my favorite series (The Confessions of Georgia Nicolson) and it is absolutely hilarious. This one is the second in a new series about a girl named Tallulah who goes to Scotland to attend a crazy performing arts school and gets up to all sorts of antics (most involving her knees and owls). It’s a quick, light read for anyone with the sense of humor of a 16 year old girl trapped in a 62 year old’s body.

3. The Bhagavad Gita: This is the holy text of Hinduism, basically. Not exactly a light read, as I get through about 5 pages every time I sit down. But the reason for that isn’t that it’s boring, it’s that it is possibly the most thought provoking thing I’ve ever read. As of now, about 30 pages in, I’ve contemplated my existence and my soul and questioned about 40% of everything I knew to be true. I’d say that’s pretty good. I suggest the translation by Stephen Mitchell, as it’s really easy to read and is rated really well through Barnes and Noble as one of the truest translations.

4. The Name of the Star: This one’s by Maureen Johnson and I’m only 15 pages in but I’m already totally hooked. Surprise surprise, it’s also about the Jack the Ripper murders, but this time about a copycat murderer that only one girl can see. I have no idea what the hell is happening yet, but I love everything Maureen Johnson has written so I assume I’ll love this too. (Try Devilish – it’s a great read.)

Ok…I’m about to die, and honestly can’t think of any other books I’ve read recently at the moment anyway. I’ve got The Psychopath Test and The Skull Mantra on my bookshelf waiting for me, so I’ll let you know about those soon.

Love you, my muffins. Sleep tight :)

P.S. We should start a book club…anyone in?

Write.


Giving birth…or getting a tattoo. Both, probably.

I haven’t written in so long…I’m sorry! …No, that’s not an apology to you, it’s one to myself. How dare I let myself stop writing after I got a tattoo that says “write.” How. Dare. I.

You heard right, kids! Caps got tatted… The inside of my left wrist now says “write” in typewriter font. I got the tattoo almost 2 months ago, and have been meaning to blog about it ever since, but I’m kind of ridiculous and forgot/didn’t have time…

I think I ought to start out by saying that I am terrified of needles. Like, so scared that for a long time, whenever they drew my blood, they had to use a baby needle to make me feel better. Mind you, baby needles are barely smaller than adult needles, but somehow it made me feel that tiny bit better. Tiny bit.

So, obviously, in the span of one year, I’ve gotten my nose pierced and gotten a tattoo. Because I’m a masochist like that. “Hello, I would like a tattoo. Yes, stab me with a needle 50-3,000 times per minute. Yay!”

I’m pretty sure I almost threw up while Philadelphia Phil (yes, that is what he called himself. My tattoo artist is so much cooler than yours) worked on the tattoo. It felt like a million cat scratches over and over, and I’m a big wimp, and OH MY GOD NEEDLE. So that’s how that went down. My friend Kate was there with me and I’m surprised I didn’t squeeze her hand off. But I’m so glad I went through it all, because it meant a lot to me.

Writing is awesome and hey, why not, I’ve always wanted a tattoo. I purposefully got it on my left wrist so I could hide it with a watch if I have a grumpy boss who doesn’t like tattoos. Thinkin’ one step ahead, like a carpenter who makes stairs.

But actually, there’s quite the story behind my tattoo. I’ve explained my anxiety in a previous post, but basically, I have panic attacks and am almost constantly anxious, which is why if you’ve met me you’ll notice that I’m super fidgety. Anyway, I had a lot of problems with that about a year ago and was pretty useless; I couldn’t leave my room, barely got anything done, and definitely didn’t write. But writing had always been how I combated my anxiety before, and after reaching the lowest point of my life, my mom suggested that I start keeping a journal specifically related to my anxiety. It sounds strange, but it really helped. So now, I’m permanently reminded to let go of my anxiety by writing (I’m doing it right now, actually. I’ve been a tweaky mess all day).

It’s hard to explain it to people, so I usually just say, “I love to write,” which sounds kinda lame. I guess that’s true, too. But for real? The for real answer? I was screwed up, and writing saved me, as it always had and always will.

One more reason that I love all of you, dearest readers. You’ve rarely known it, but you’re like my therapy group. And I love you so much.

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I’m Nine Again


I was that kid who literally shoved her nose in a book and didn’t take it out until she’d flipped cover to cover. Most of my childhood memories are centered around lying on my couch, feet up, reading a book. On sick days, I’d make blanket forts in the living room and hide away, reading Zoo Books or Ranger Rick magazines.
I think we all lose a little of that as we grow up. Our day demands more studying and working, and allows for less free time. We get caught up in ourselves and our relationships, good or bad, and we forget that what really made us happy was that time alone, practically upside down on the sofa, reading Harriet the Spy, Tom Sawyer, Harry Potter.

And then this weird thing happens. We somehow come back around to those simpler times and remember how full our life was with them. Books fill that void, stop that gushing sorrow we feel in our heart, as a cork would stop a leaking rowboat in some terrible cartoon.
I accidentally found that 9 year old inside of me today. It took the end of a year-long relationship and a trip to the ocean to coax her out, but it’s been a long time coming, really.

That little girl is my personal Jesus. Because where some pray frequently, as I have occasionally, to find comfort and calm, I reach for stories and memoirs to pull me into their world and out of mine. But the escapism I get from books doesn’t lead inevitably to a denial of my problems, but more to a solution. Somehow, by forgetting them for a few hours, I work them out in the back of my mind. It feels good, lately, to let that happen.

As a child, I rode the bus 20 minutes home from school, then walked 3/4 of a mile to my house. I would read a book on the bus and, not wanting to put it away for even ten minutes, continue reading as I walked down my street. I lived out in the country, and rarely had to worry about cars driving past, so I could walk without incident. I have to admit, though, my walk would take twice as long when I had a book in hand. I barely noticed and definitely never cared.

I hadn’t done that in at least ten years until today. We’re staying at a house by the ocean, about a 15 minute walk from the beach. We had a beach house in the Puget Sound until I was about 10, and coming back here is so wonderfully nostalgic. The air smells briny, so much better than in California or Hawaii, and the water is too cold to enter but I always do anyway, like I’m still that little kid who didn’t care.  My mom, sister and I went wore our swimsuits and brought towels and books down to the water this afternoon, but I got cold after about an hour and decided to walk back to the house. It was nice to have some time with my thoughts, but after a while I really wanted to keep reading my book. So I did. And it felt wonderful. As if that little girl, so impatient to find out what happened next, just jumped out of me.

I don’t ever want that girl to go away. She’ll hide, maybe for years, but I’d like to think she’s here to stay.

I’m So Smooth


The one time I met a famous author, I got my arm stuck in a vending machine.

Rewind.

I was in 7th grade. Let’s also remember that I was fantastically awkward, had braces, and probably a horrible haircut. I also LOVED books. That part hasn’t changed, though I like to think the awkwardness and bad haircut parts have.

I hadn’t even read this guy’s book, and really, I barely remember him because before I wrote this post I had to ask a friend what his name was, but I was really excited because he was coming to our school to speak about writing, the environment (it pertained to his latest novel) and books etc. The first time I heard about Fyodor Dostoevsky was when this author held up a copy of Crime and Punishment in my little middle school gym. I feel like that’s kinda significant.

The librarian asked me to go buy Mr. Author a bottle of water from the vending machine so I could give it to him when he arrived. I was, in the words of Rebecca Black, so excited. I inserted the money, as one is supposed to do when buying water from a vending machine, and stood back to watch the machine do its work. Okay, I probably totally didn’t pay attention, because really, who would, but I’m trying to do a nice job of describing the scene for you… Anyway, point is, the bottle of water ended up getting stuck behind the little flap it was supposed to come out from.

I knelt on the ground, put my arm into the machine, and tried to pry the bottle loose. I didn’t. Instead, I managed to get my arm completely stuck inside the vending machine right as Mr. Author walked up.

He looked at me with distain and said, “Who the hell are you and where the hell is my water, you stupid cow?” I began to cry as he told me I was obviously incompetent and would never become an author if I couldn’t even pull a bottle from a vending machine. Oh, and he also kicked me.

Just kidding! He was probably really nice about it and laughed goodnaturedly or something as I finally pried myself and the water out of the machine. I honestly barely remember meeting him, just that I handed the water over and blushed a whole bunch. It’s funny, because you’d think I’d be excited to meet someone pretty famous, given that he was an author and I was obsessed with books. But it’s so much easier to remember the bad parts of situations sometimes. It’s sad how much bad stuff we remember. There probably ends up not being room for the good stuff in our memories, since all we do is remember when our arms got stuck in vending machines.

Maybe I’ll count that as a good memory instead.