Lessons From the Kissing Booth

The thing is that not all rectangles are squares, you know?

And I wonder sometimes what happened to all the late nights talking dirty to the potted plants, to the little girl that would leave plastic bags and plates and bowls full of baked goods on doorsteps, ringing doorbells and running away. I find that most days now I can resist those urges that encourage me to bite my friends on their arms and shoulders, to put m&m's in my belly button, to put my hands over my eyes and insist until I cry or you give in that you can't see me.

I have erased many, many things from my dance card. And there's a whole stack of stories that I can't figure out, all the ones that haven't ever left the present tense.

I would love nothing more than to be able to stop talking to you for days or weeks. But these sentences get stuck inside my head like song lyrics and I find that I can't stop pacing around my apartment until I get them out. Somehow the rattle of the typewriter isn't the noise that I need to drown out all of those words ricocheting inside my skull and all I can do to make myself rest is to give them to you. And there are mornings when I wake up and know that what would be best would be to move to Nebraska and start a dairy farm and never read another book again.

The thing to remember about the relationship between me and spring is that it never delivers on its promise, either.