Lessons From the Kissing Booth

I read the other day that it takes about a decade for the molecules in each breath to disperse around the world, and that most of them don't disappear. They just keep moving.

I don't remember feeling like this as a kid. Feeling like pretending to be a monster or running as fast as I can or declaring that everything is an adventure. Mostly, I remember feeling scared and nervous about letting people down, about breaking things without even realizing I was touching them. But now, even with mean reds and delicately blues having a picnic and playing pinochle in the corner of my head, I'm sometimes sure I might explode with the feeling of it all. Which is silly, and frequently makes me also feel a little foolish, but is a lot more fun than the alternative.

I've been thinking a lot about molecules lately, and I think you've got some of mine over there. I think I've got some of mine too, from ten years ago, and maybe my molecules are having a lot better time now than they were back then. I think I've got a little bit of yours, too, and a little bit of Fay Wray's. Maybe some of Homer's or the magical jazz man's.