Lessons From the Kissing Booth

1.) When Brad and I would drive around, during the road trip years, one of our favorite things to do was write suicide notes together. I don't think either one of us, at the time, expected to live more than perhaps a couple of years; the odds were heavily stacked against us in favor of drug overdoses in strip clubs, fiery car wrecks, or handguns clenched in the trembling fingertips of drug-addled stepfathers. We were well acquainted with the fuzzy end of the lollipop. So we would motor in endless loops around town and joke about ending it all ourselves. (This was also around the time that I covered the mirror in my makeup compact with black construction paper and wrote on it in silver pen, "I'm in my own eyes now," so clearly I was a complete idiot. I wouldn't be fifteen again if you paid me.) "Dear everyone, I can't believe I ate the whole thing. Love, me." "Dear everyone, Well, what does happen if I try to curl my hair while showering? Here's to shortcuts! Love, me."

We made light of the things that scared us because the only other option was to let ourselves be afraid.

2.) When you think of me, find a copy of Raymond Carver's "Hummingbird." I'll be waiting somewhere between the fifth and sixth lines with a bag of candy and a be-ribboned bottle of Boones. If you make it by dusk I will stand on your feet while we slow dance in the kitchen, veins effervescent as though filled with ginger ale.
After dusk, I'll be gone.