It's not a love song

I would like to share something with you. This is something simple and if you have any close relation to me then you probably appreciate this same thing. It is: people who are blunt. That's not very specific, but if you are slow to understanding what type of person I really mean, then let me refer you to Jerry Hsu, Robert Pattinson and comedians in general. These people never use more words than necessary to convey the exact point that they wish. In interviews they say things like, "people started telling me that I should take some time off. So I took some time off." Simple. What's not to enjoy?

My appreciation of such a characteristic is probably closely tied to my self-indulgent behavior of always talking and writing about the thoughts that I have. But in my defense, I really am working on that.

Since I talked about something that I like very much, I feel compelled to vent about something that I dislike greatly--airports. Largely, I tend to resent airports for their intense air conditioning when I travel to warm locations. ie my current wait situation coming out of Las Vegas wearing shorts, because there's no real fucking way to get to the airport in anything but shorts in Las Vegas. Also, there is their proneness to layovers. ie my current wait situation between flights that has been extended an additional hour and a half because a pilot was late to work today. Most frustrating of all, the real killer of airports, is the carpeting. ie the current carpet under my feet that was clearly a pattern from the 1990's. I don't feel that I need to show a picture of this carpet for your understanding because I can promise your home airport has the same bizarre distribution of abstract shapes in foul colors all over the floor.

Somewhere among having to say goodbye to Aaron for potentially over five weeks, landing a layover, and having a mother who refuses to pick me up from the airport, I have found myself in a bitter mood.

The fact that I adore you is just one of my truths

The beginning of summer seems to be the longest beginning of any set time. Sasquatch, finals, packing, and goodbyes all followed by hellos, unpacking, job searches, and the feeling of impending weeks ahead to fill before what we've anticipated so dearly is over. This year, unlike any summer before, I experienced the "coming home" phenomenon. Surely you've heard of it before. It's written about in books, talked about in movies, and anticipated by any mildly sophisticated and sincere group of friends. The way I always understood it was that we, as products of our parents and the 21st century, leave home after high school and sooner or later we must return, at which time an emotional avalanche rushes over us. I assumed that my avalanche would involve a feeling of emptiness and disappointment as all that I associated with the idea of "home" would be changed or gone. I wasn't right, but I wasn't wrong. My first week living in Eugene and missing home, I realized that "home" to me had nothing to do with my parents' house. It wasn't my bed or my couch, nor my candles or CD collection. "Home" was Portland. It is Portland. It is the lines leading to street carts along city-size sidewalks. It is the white lights glistening behind trees' branches along 23rd after dark. It is the Pearl room of Powell's where I sift through books after spending my last bit of cash at Jackpot on used albums out of dusty racks. It is Moses two rows in front of me on TriMet, wearing the only suit I've known him to own in the last three years. And it's always been bowls of ice cream in Kristin's basement with Taylor and Super Mario Bro's 3. Proudly, I can say that my home remains as I left it.

Yesterday I experienced another first. After spending the weekend in Portland with the boy that I adore, I had to kiss him goodbye at the airport. The whole time knowing that the five days until I see him again are going to drag, and drag, and drag on with missing him, feeling more like a month than a week.