All is well in Florence, Italy. Right now, I’m sitting in an internet cafe. Here in Europe, I’ve seen so many things that I once only knew from textbooks. Pretty sweet. Sometimes I wish my mom wouldn’t fawn over me so much. Eh, I know she means well. Santa Bear is enjoying himself on his own tour of Europe. I received an e-mail from him last night. It was nice of him to check in. All is well on his end. The last I heard, he was in London. Go Santa Bear.
Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, Santa Bear has fled the country on a whim. When I woke up in the morning, I discovered a letter lying in his usual sitting spot. The following is an excerpt from Santa Bear’s letter, which spans 12 pages:
In short, I’m sick of being cooped up in this house. When you were younger, KZ, you used to take me on long car trips. But ever since you got too old to be seen with me in public, you’ve confined me within the same boring walls for years. Well, it’s time for me to break free. Don’t worry, I’m coming back. I just need time to do some of the things that I’ve always wanted to do. You can understand that, right?
He took two of my credit cards, a lunchbox to serve as his suitcase, his passport, and one of the family cameras. I presently learned that, while I was asleep, Santa Bear took the initiative and updated the GSBPS [one of my defunct websites as of 2007] all on his own. Also, I was surprised that morning to discover that he had repositioned the web cam to focus on Merton, my stuffed turtle. “Don’t get me wrong,” Santa Bear writes, “it’s not as if I don’t like being in the spotlight; but sometimes I feel more like an exhibit on display instead of an individual with a will of my own.” I suppose Santa Bear merely wanted to share the spotlight with somebody else—at least while he’s gone.
To respect my bear’s wishes, I will leave Merton in front of the web cam throughout the duration of Santa Bear’s vacation. Please bear with me until I can straighten everything out. Santa Bear, take care of yourself out there, and please come home soon.
Last night I dreamed I was out with my friends in some club. I drank, I danced, and as far as I can tell, I didn’t make an ass of myself. Drinking and dancing is a fun event, but that was kind of a boring dream. Where were the monsters, scantily clad women, muppets, talking statues, midgets, and the scores of special forces agents trying to take me down? Maybe I need more excitement in my life. I should go out clubbing more often.
The funny thing about unrequited love is that it never seems to quit. I guess that’s another reason to call it “unrequited” love. Yes yes, it’s just a pun. I know my line of reasoning relies solely on word play. Life is funny though, huh?
Here I am, wondering if I’ll ever stop caring for her, and she’s still entangled in thoughts of another guy. Her first love, she says. There’s a selfish part of me that wishes I were the one in her thoughts. If only I could swoop down and cut her free from that coarse web of bittersweet memories…but that’s only the selfishness talking. It’s not as though my feelings for her consume me like a ravenous obsession. It’s more of a subtle thirst, the kind that endures regardless of how many sips you take from other glasses.
Maybe what I need is a good fling to knock some sense into me. Any takers?
Summer, how I’ve longed all school year to be back in your restful embrace, your warm, gentle winds easing my thoughts and caressing my callous skin. I finally have an opportunity to invest my time in something that I actually enjoy: reading a book without having to write a damn analytical essay afterwards. My book of choice for the moment is The Time Machine by H.G. Wells. I’m only on the second chapter, but I already see why it’s so highly acclaimed. Maybe I’ll tell you about it later. But when I do, don’t expect me to lay things out in the MLA format. Frickin’ school. Thank God I’m done for now.
So then I said to her, “that’s not my foot!” And we laughed and laughed…
Is it so wrong to eat an apricot without peeling it’s fuzzy skin? What about a peach? Ah, that’s the kind of question that I love asking: questions of the summer season. For God’s sake, it’s so close. Why can’t my paper write itself?
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