A Series Of Things I Can’t Remember Anymore
Oh, god, you used to do a face—I vaguely remember you doing such a specific expression that it should be: “you used to do That Face”—at certain things I’d say. And I’d say those things on purpose, just so I could get that reaction out of you. That Face. I can’t even describe it anymore because I don’t talk to you. I think I hate you now.
Your apartment had a very distinct smell that I remember almost crying over during our last day sitting around on that super shitty couch (remember how the back of the couch was broken?) and you were taking post-its off the wall and I felt like my head was blowing up like a balloon because of how hard I was keeping it all together. It wasn’t a bad smell (although your apartment was disgusting and I loved it more than my own), it was just your apartment’s smell.
What the fuck is my Gmail password?
Who came up with your nickname? Was it me or her? Sometimes I forget your real name because we use that nickname so fluidly—since before our ages had even hit double digits.
We sat around the pool and talked about really dark things. It was beautiful outside and the water was so warm and you had to leave for work in half an hour, so you were sitting on the first step with your legs kicking, and I was trying to feel clean and calm and forcing myself to experience relaxation, so I was swimming around in the deep end. Even though I’m 22, I still think about getting caught in the pool drain when I’m in the deep end. I do not remember what it was like when we didn’t have to talk about these things or even have to think about these things.
Are you allergic to peanuts? Someone I know is allergic to peanuts.
I would never tell you, but I forgot the name of our street in London and had to look it up. I used to think I’d be able to walk around that city blindfolded but now I can’t even remember the name of our street.
Beer before liquor is fine? Or liquor before beer? What if you’re alternating?
For my 18th birthday, you showed up to my house unannounced and in khaki shorts because you were on your way to work. I think that’s the summer you were trying to deliver food for that horrible restaurant and they yelled at you and you got lost all the time on the backroads up by your old house. Hilarious. Anyway, you gave me a scrapbook, which was a much nicer gift than anything I’ve ever given you, and I think about that fact every time your birthday comes around. It sits on the small side table next to the armchair in my childhood bedroom and I go through it when I want to wallow in nostalgia (almost every time I’m home). I wish I remembered the explanations and reasoning behind a lot of the jokes. I laugh at them anyway.
I used to have your phone number memorized because the iMessage on my laptop just shows me the phone numbers, rather than the contact name. I used to get butterflies when I’d see your number flash across the upper right-hand corner of my screen. Stupid. I deleted your number and no longer remember what it looks like, but I do remember the area code.
I only use three passwords, I don’t understand why I can’t remember the one for my Gmail account.