Here’s a photo of breakfast in bed

That day, I woke up miserable. Even though the night before, I had said that I would make a omelet.

Out of tomatoes? I asked. Then I suggested, Jalapeños? Bell pepper? Maybe potatoes

As I went to sleep, I dreamed of all the combinations. I wouldn’t eat the omelet of course, because I hate the yolk and white mixed together into a mush. But the creativity was a nice way to fall asleep.

Then I woke up, unwell. And I said that I was hungry and couldn’t move…and could he, would he make me breakfast. When I turned over an hour later, there was a plate ready and willing.

Breakfast in Bed

Reading about relationships

In college, I always had a story about a boy.

Upon meeting someone new, I would test the waters—do they like hearing my stories of a boy? or do they hold blank stares as I ran into nothingness?

I always imagine that many people’s eyes glazed over as I recounted the many incidents of:

  • the boy that I met in the middle of night after a prank phone call
  • the boy who lamely invited me over for DDR
  • the boy from the M-states
  • the boy from southern california
  • the boy that didn’t know how to make phone calls
  • the boy who worked at J. Crew and had no other ambition in life
  • And so on…

    When I was 21, I wrote a pseudo-autobiography. At the time, I thought it was the greatest achievement ever. But now looking back (and someone else who generously and reluctantly read it), it was full of the boys. The way a boy insulted me. The way a boy made me happy. The way a boy made me angry…angsty…irritated…furious…etc.

    And in some way, I do find it boring. My 21 year old self would disagree, but when reading memoirs, I am curious more about why people make certain choices in life than who they met. I am not that interested in the awkwardness and rejection of relationships. It’s the problem-solving moments that capture my attention.

    There was a short story about the way I dealt with the Heathers. The girls who made fun of me when I was 11 and 12 and how I fought back with my sister’s help. Then there’s another short story about my grandfather’s second wife. And the story about me figuring out to speak…