nanowrimo

Indigo Gems: Chapter 1

“Alright everyone for the last thirty minutes of class you can work on your group projects. I’ll be walking around answering questions if you need me and don’t forget your first draft is due next Friday !” Dr. Nafawitz is old as fuck. It’s all I think about every time he speaks. Like damn, that might actually be the last thing he ever says. He’s 87 but he looks 210 honestly. He teaches psychology here at the University of Goddard Williams where I’m earning my PhD. People hear that and tell me how smart I am or sometimes how sophisticated or noble it is but honestly I just keep enrolling in more school because I have no idea what to do with my life once it’s over. Be a psychologist you may say because after all I’ve been learning psychology for the past 7 years but my heart isn’t in it. I entered college in 2008 with an undecided major. The second year they told me I HAD to pick one so I did a little eenie meenie minnie mo between a handful of majors that required little human contact. I landed on psychology and just stuck with it because I’ve never been able to decide. So now here we are. In PSY 4310 listening to old ass Dr. Nafawitz cough out dust every time he speaks. 

“In the case study they said that people with schizophrenia have the lowest compliance rates and the highest rates of drug abuse.” Here goes Sarah with the facts. I only half listen when she or either of the other two speaks. If I listen too hard they’ll spark a brilliant idea, I’ll try to share it, they’ll ignore me and I’ll get disappointed and question what kind of God would let me be placed in a group such as this. In a life such as this really. 

“So then should we still pick that or should we make our own case for people on the bipolar spectrum ?” Emily has always has good questions. Horrible answers. 

“Well if we just wanted to go for easy we could just pick regular depression but we’re going for innovation.” Sarah is also a condescending bitch and every time she proves it I wonder how she’s gotten through life without getting punched in the mouth.

“I’m not suggesting we do something easier, Sarah.” Emily smiles but cuts her eyes. Purple people shit. Teal people like me tend to let you know without ambiguity when you have us totally fucked up. “I’m just saying there’s hardly any wiggle room when come up with a treatment plan for a group of people where 90% of them refuse treatment. We’d never be able to prove whether or not it works. 

Uh-oh there it goes again. The urge to give my two cents. Must. Resist. Sarah gets this dumb smug look on her face when she feels like someone is trying to out bitch her. It would make a great meme if I can just snap a perfect pic without her noticing. “How do you know we’d never be able to prove it ? Difficult to prove doesn’t mean impossible.” Fuck, here it goes. My brain says “don’t do it, bro. Just stfu,” but my mouth and voice box move way faster and I say. “Emily has a point. I mean we’re not even actually inventing anything. We’re just trying to get an A so why not go with an easier disease to treat.”

Silence. My hands and upper lip and spicy per usual and the three of them look at me like a French speaking three titty lumberjack. 7 seconds that feel like 7 years go by until Tamia breaks the tension, “Yeah I remember reading that fact about schizophrenia.” Bitch. I press my eyelids tight, tilt my head in a downward motion, set my elbow on the table and rub my third eye region. I start smoking an imaginary cigarette. Like were you buffering this whole time ? We’ve already moved on. What you said had nothing to do with what I just said. Still the three of them amongst themselves discuss how 90% of schizo’s be schizo’n. God I fucking hate my life. 

After class I decide to take advantage of Dr. Nafs office hours. I plan to beg for mercy as I often do when placed in group projects. Usually to no avail but you never know if you don’t ask right ? I linger in the hallway around the vending machines. I don’t want us to walk in at the same time or practically the same time or I’ll feel like a stalker. I get real self-conscious about little things like that. He walks in and I walk in right behind him, on his heels. “Fuck” I think to myself. I also have a habit of doing little things I really hate doing like that because I know they’ll make me self-conscious. My hands and forehead get spicy as fuck. He must’ve noticed because with his really old hands he gives me a Kleenex. An actual Kleenex, not just a facial tissue. Important distinction. 

“So hey Dr. Nafawitz I don’t wanna take up too much of your time I just was hoping, y’know, that maybe I could work on the project solo ? I mean I know you said that there’ no exceptions because this is a group project, I just-“ He cuts me off. He’s been rustling through papers since I’ve started talking as if he’s looking for something. “Could you pass me that stack of papers, dear would ya ?” 

“Yeah sure, so as I was saying. I know you said no exceptions-“

“I can’t find this damned article anywhere !”

“I just am having a really hard time-“

“This is why I told them I didn’t need an assistant. I’m my own organized. I can’t find anything now.”

“Connecting with the girls in my group and it’s aff-“

“Jacob get in here ! I can’t find my damned article !”

“Okay you know what, maybe it’s not a great time so I’ll ju-“

“JACOB !”

A boy who looks exactly like a Jacob comes running in, sweaty, face flushed. Odd. “My name is Cassen,” he sort of whispers. The expression on his face reveals a redundancy I can only imagine to be torturous. Not my clown though, not my circus. Or however the saying goes. It’s none of my concern so I waltz my ass out of there before I become designated paper pile passer. I feel like every day has been going like this and it’s getting to me. I’m exhausted. I don’t feel heard anywhere. Is it that what I have to say isn’t important ? Am I not important ? Are my thoughts not as noteworthy as I think they are ? Like what’s my problem ? I wish I could figure out what was wrong with me.

I get home around 6pm. After leaving the Dr. Naf’s office I decide to go to the library and knock out homework. Walking down the hallway to my apartment door I can already smell what Sasha is cooking up. Sasha went to school for culinary art. Unlike me, she knew exactly what she wanted to do for a living upon exiting high school. She’s had a passion for cooking since was 3 her mom says. She did more than just play store or play house. She set up restaurants and cooked for audiences right from the beginning. Now she’s personal chef for both the rich and famous and for me, her very picky but otherwise perfect girlfriend. As I unlock the front door it sounds like she’s in some heated discussion. “Pero, no ! Escuchame por favor ! Pero, mama !” Of course. Arguing with her mom. I make my way to the kitchen to find her back towards me as she faces the stove, neck rolling, ponytail slinging, arms flailing. My day wasn’t especially rough but it’s part of the snowball that has me feeling rough and I just want a nice calm, loving night so badly. I walk around the island and wrap my arms around her waist, laying my chin on shoulders and give her earlobe a kiss, trying to de-escalate her. She mutes the phone briefly, “hey dinner will be done soon, talking to my mom”. She unmutes it and back to yelling she goes. 

So much for a peaceful night. I go to the bedroom and text Kerf. We’ve been best friends ever since he and I shared a cot in preschool. I often, as an adult, wonder why the hell they had us sharing those tiny fucking cots but I’m glad it was a thing. I can usually rely on him to give a pep talk that motivates me to, at the very least, keep on existing on days like this where I wish I didn’t exist. “Hey, super shitty day. Whatcha got for me McNinnerton ?” I call him by his last name when I’m in distress so he knows I mean it. I flip my phone over on the bed so that I don’t watch the clock while I wait for the desperately needed reply. I get undressed and pick up some randomly shit we have laying around, a pack of bobby pins from the floor, a crumbled receipt from the vanity, two mismatched socks from the corner. I get the itch and check my phone, no reply. I flip it back over and decide to hop in the shower and bathe in existentialism. I also say the shower is the best place to cry because people can’t tell your tears from the water but honestly no-one is looking at you in shower anyway…hopefully. So it really doesn’t matter. I cry my heart out, step out and dry off. Half an hour later I check my phone again. No reply. I don’t feel like eating anymore. I don’t feel like ANYTHING anymore.

Should I write More ? Let Me Know !

NaNoWriMo Days 6 to 10

Journal Entry:

I’m constantly trying to make sense of everything but I never feel like I’m getting any closer. And I can’t tell if anything about the dreams is helping or hurting. I mean there is no real concrete evidence that our dreams tell us anything at all, right ? Not that things without tangible proof aren’t real. I know things are real that we simply can’t see like the wind or God. But we can see the effect of them right ? At least what we believe to be the effects. We see tornados. We see miracles. If we recognize them. Maybe I don’t even know what I’m talking about at all. Well here’s how last nights dream went:

I was sitting at a table in what seemed to be the middle of the forest. There aren’t any forests around me in real life so I’m not entirely sure where in the world I was in the dream. I had a feeling of confusion deep inside me but everyone else was pretty relaxed so I didn’t want to make a scene. Everything was cottage core. I had on a floral pink, yellow and white dress. The flowers looked like daisies and sunflowers both. I didn’t particularly like the pattern. It had a frilly collar and frills at the edges of the sleeves. The sleeves came to my elbow. The bottom hem came just below my knees. A respectable length and appropriate for the weather. It was pretty uncomfortable. I had on frilly white socks and black kitten heels. This is something I never would have picked out for myself in real life in a thousand years. That’s how I know for sure it’s a dream.

I have a habit of trying to remind myself while dreaming that it’s definitely a dream that I’m experiencing. Blame it on the movie Inception.

I move my eyes from what I have on to the table in front of me. There were several of what appeared to be maidservants scrambling around. They were setting up for what appeared to be a feast. I looked around for signage. My first thought was that it was a birthday party. I had no idea whose birthday it could have been. But the dishes being placed on the table reminded me of Thanksgiving. I saw stuffing, a whole turkey, pineapple glazed ham, smashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, greens, greens beans and buttered rolls so far. The most peculiar thing is that I couldn’t smell any of it. I didn’t feel sick at all. I think the food just had no smell. Then I noticed it had no color. Then I looked down at my outfit again and noticed it had no color either. I began to panic.

Just then, a small child ran up to me. This little girl seemed to be wearing the exact thing that I was. We even had our hair styled the same. I noticed that I didn’t pay attention to my hair until this moment. But from the top of her head to the bottom of her heels we were dressed exactly the same. Part of me knew that she was supposed to be a younger version of me. Yes, definitely a dream. Because in real life, we don’t meet younger versions of ourselves in the flesh. Anyway, she starts calling me Katara. “Katara, Katara ! They’re waiting for you inside !”

Before I can process what exactly is going on I notice that my body has a mind of its own and my legs are up from the chair that I was in and marching through the woods. Following this little girl who seems to be me. And I guess our name is Katara. And I have the thought that I’m not sure why I even trust her. Because what if she’s not me and this was all a trick. And just then it starts to gradually get darker around us and more cold. And there is color now but only hues of blue and purple. And each variation of the colors feels more menacing. And I’m able to see my breath now because it’s so cold. I wish I’d brought my sweater.

“How much farther is it ?” I ask little maybe me. “Not much !” I yell back. I don’t trust it. I think about going back to where we were. I notice I’m hungry. Starving even. “I know yous hungry,” she said right on cue, “but we can’t go back. All of that food was poison. See, we tried to be careful but they found out. And they don’t take kindly to killin’ kids so they gots to create an accident instead. They poisoned the food and theys was gonna say you had a allergy nobody knewed about.” Then I thought to ask…”What year is it ? Where are we exactly ?”

At this, the little me turned around angrily and grew and grew and grew until she was towering over me. She didn’t look like me anymore. She looked like my mother. And she smelled like my mother. The smell of burning cardboard, cigarettes and miscellaneous chemicals. I got scared. Before she could speak, I turned around and ran. I ran as fast as I could. Little me, although I was still skeptical, was worth trying to trust. But my mother was an addict. There wasn’t a single realm, or dream or reality that I would ever trust her in. I heard her behind me, calling me Katara and telling me to come back. A reminder that this is a dream. That’s not my name so this is definitely a dream.

I make my way back to where I first sat and they were setting up for the feast. By this time, guests were filling into the seats and almost all of the food had been placed. I also see all of the plates, cutlery and cups. I see huge jugs of wine as well. Something told me it was not going to be a great experience. But I convinced myself that it had to be better than whatever my monster of a maybe mom was attempting to lead me too. As I looked for a seat a few people exchanged pleasantries with me. A few every held their arms out to hug me. It’s clear that they remember much more than I do. That, or they’re just friendlier.

That’s when I notice that there are name tags that have appeared since I was over here initially. I’m guessing I should look for the name Katara. I look carefully, trying to ignore people’s niceness while I focus. A few people ask if I need help looking for my name and I respectfully decline. Something is telling me that my name isn’t actually on any of these and if that’s right, I want to find out alone. If that’s right, it also would feel like proof that no one is trying to poison me like mom said. How could they expect to poison me if they didn’t even expect me to eat ?

The table felt like it was at least one mile long. It sat about 110 people. No one was at the very end. So there seemed to be no leader or matriarch or patriarch. Which had me wondering again what exactly this was all for. And why it was outside. And in the middle of the forest. I have to keep reminding myself that this is definitely a dream so that I don’t panic.

Why is it that dreams feel so damn real sometimes ? On the bright side, I woke up in the safest space possible. In my own home, which I keep wildly secure and with my best friend, who is also wildly secure. We never made it to the room and fell asleep in the living room. Right on the couch and in front of the tv. Dusty was still sleep. I was starting to forget the rest of my dream. Maybe it wasn’t worth writing down anyway. Maybe I crave adventure because I don’t have much of a life so I just make my dreams more than they really are.

Most of my dreams include one of my parents and one of my grandparents at least. Maybe dreams are really just a way to process the things we try to avoid while we’re awake. Maybe it’s our higher selves being willing to do the dirty work for us while we’re not lucid enough to contest it. I don’t know. I’m not really an expert in anything. Now that I hear Dusty waking up, I guess I’ll pick back up on this train of thought another time.

“Hey, you.” Dusty says groggily as he lifts his head with his eyes closed. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you didn’t watch any of that movie at all. You fell asleep on me almost immediately. And now look at you, awake before me and writing your own move.” He gestured towards my journal which I realized I hadn’t closed yet. I wonder how good his vision is and just hope he didn’t have the kind that allowed him to have read even a single word on this page. That would be so embarrassing. And the thing is, he knows me well enough to know I would think that was very embarrassing so he wouldn’t even tell me that he read it. It would be his own secret within my secret.

“Happy good morning loser ! Of course you’ll never forget. You’re the best grudge holder I’ve ever known.” He flashes me a smile. “Teeth, face, run, breakfast ?” he asks.

“Let’s skip the run.”

“Let’s do the run first.”

“You know I don’t want to go outside.”

“Which is exactly why I’m trying to get you outside. I just want whatever is best for you.”

“What if I told you that what’s best for me is me skipping the run but that I’ll be here with breakfast ready when you get back ?”

“You know what…deal. You cook. I’ll run. Then I’ll eat while you run.” He laughs and playfully pushes my shoulder then heads to the back room to change into his running gear. I guess I am making breakfast today !

NaNoWriMo Day 5

Whenever Dusty and I hang out we have little – traditions, I guess. One of them is that whenever we ride home from work together we ask each other what’s been the highlight of our last 7 days. We used to say “of the week so far,” but on Monday’s that didn’t make much sense.

“So what’s been the highlight of your last 7 days, Terri ?” he asks with a smile as wide as the state of Tennessee.

“Man I know I’m the one that came up with this game but I feel like I never have a good answer.”

“You always have a good answer.” He put extra emphasis on the word always. I know he believes what he’s saying so I won’t call him a liar. We’ll just have to agree to disagree and get on with it. “Soooooo,” his eyebrow is raised in anticipation of my answer.

“Well I saw a pretty good documentary a couple nights ago. I had a bottle of red wine and a pizza to myself while I watched it. That was nice.”

“See ! Always a good answer.”

“A pretty boring answer.”

“Boring can still be good.” He’s still smiling. He’s always smiling. He’s so optimistic, cheery and just overall positive. Maybe I envy that a little. I guess they say opposites attract for a reason. All the reasons I’m attracted to him – in a magnet way, not a romance way – are all the reasons that he should probably stay away from me.

“Whatever, what was your highlight Dustaroo ?”

“The highlight of my last 7 days is when you had your documentary, wine and pizza.” Now he’s laughing and I’m trying not to laugh. Faking rage is another thing I like to do. One of our unofficial traditions. In these games, if he laughs first, I pretend to be annoyed or enraged and then he tries to make me laugh too. So he reaches over and tickles me. I keep nerves of steel for all of 3 seconds before I’m laughing and yelling for him to stop. I keep thinking to myself that this is nice. We’re still the same two dopey kids we were when we were 5, despite what life’s been doing to us lately. Mostly to me. “Really though,” he starts back, “the highlight of my last 7 days was probably Thursday when I got my bonus. I went ahead and put some money away because I’m thinking of doing a backpacking trip. I haven’t decided if it’ll be a solo trip or a group thing but I’m pretty excited.”

“A backpacking trip ? Where ? When ? When were you going to tell me ?”

“Well it’s very much in the idea phase so there wasn’t a reason to really mention it yet.”

“Oh so best friends need reasons to tell each other things now ?”

“Shut up, you know what I mean.”

“It was serious enough for you to put away part of your precious bonus for it.”

“I was going to save some money either way. Just wasn’t sure for what.”

“Where are you thinking of going ?”

“That… I’m not sure yet.” By this time, we’re pulling up to my apartment. 111 Oneston Street.

“Wanna come in for a bit ?” I knew he’d say yes. He always does. As a matter of fact, he was getting out of the car already. “I don’t really have anything to do but,” I let my voice trail off. He’s been here a million times but I still get nervous every single time he comes over. It honestly has more to do with the fact that I’m just an anxious person than anything he’s doing.

As I’m settling in, Dusty walks into the kitchen and starts opening cupboards. “I can never remember where the glasses are.” He finally finds them before I can respond and just that fast he’s pouring us two glasses of wine.

I plop on the couch and turn on the tv. “Wanna find another documentary ?” I ask. It’s what we do almost every time he comes over so the question was mostly rhetorical. Of course, we’re going to watch a documentary. Now, this is the highlight of my last 7 days. I always forget that I actually do enjoy human interaction. Sometimes. And mostly just from him. Still. This is nice. As I flip through I start to read the titles and give some commentary.

“Wait, go back up,” he says urgently. I didn’t catch the title but some cover art caught my eye. It looked a little spooky and I think that’s what I’m in the mood for.”

“A spooky documentary is what you’re in the mood for or you wish we would watch a scary movie instead of a documentary for once ?”

“Honesty zone ?”

“Honest zone.”

“Why not both ? I’d watch a spooky documentary or a scary movie this fine evening with my soon to be tipsy best friend.” He loves it when I drink. He says when I’m tipsy it’s more of the real me. Who he thinks I’d be if it wasn’t for all of the anxiety. I haven’t decided how I feel about that assessment yet. No rush to really unpack that either.

“You know what Dustaroo… let’s watch a scary movie this time.” I smile and he smiles. Then we clink our glasses and chug our wine as he finds a scary movie.

Since I genuinely do not want to see this shit (I am strictly a documentary girlie) I let the wine wash over me and take my mind elsewhere. The lights are low. We have a candle lit. I’m in my favorite oversized sweatshirt and I have my fluffiest throw blanket. All I’m really missing is a pillow but if I really need something, his arm or leg will do. Maybe I’ll just fall asleep. I honestly can almost never tell. Before I completely drift off I remember hearing him ask me if I was tired. “Of course I’m tired. I’m always tired, best friend.”

NaNoWriMo Day 4

I see Dusty most when we’re at work. I work there full time and he just picks up shifts here and there as needed on weekends. It’s a customer service call center called Schwifty’s. Our main client right now is a company that provides all of the uniforms for the Air Force base in our region and a few close by.

I started working here during my senior year of high school. I thought it was going to just be a thing that I do while I support myself through college. I was just working part time then. I didn’t plan to retire here or anything crazy but I knew I’d want to eat more than just noodles. I wasn’t sure if that was a myth about college but I wasn’t willing to find out the hard way. So I did stay here all throughout college. I picked up extra hours during winter, spring and summer breaks from school. I worked holidays, opened, closed, weekends and even on my birthday. Because of this, after I got my degree they decided to offer me a full time position. And much to my surprise, I accepted. So I’m still here.

Dusty just started working here last year. We had a few people walk out at once and I asked if my friend could maybe just fill in. Apparently, that’s illegal. But they did put him through the hiring process and pretty much told him that they’ll accept him working whenever he has time until they figure something else out. They never figured out anything else and he just picks up shifts when he has a thing he wants to buy.

Today is one of the days that we get to work together. He’s already there when I walk in. I greet him with a shy smile, per usual. I hate drawing attention to myself even though everyone already knows that we’re best friends and that I’m the one that got him here. I already know it doesn’t make much sense but I just can’t help it. I’m grateful that he doesn’t mind.

We don’t have assigned seats. There are endless rows and columns of cubicles. Each with one desk, one chair, one phone, one computer and one box of tissues. I choose the seat across from his, sitting where we’re able to face each other, in case I feel like talking. I never feel like talking while at work. But I know he’ll want to talk to me and I enjoy making him feel valued, I suppose.

“You look like shit,” he so lovingly points out.

“Gee, thanks. What would I do without you ?”

“You’d be a lot more lame. I can guarantee that.”

Right as I was about to reply, he got a call. Perfect. I actually didn’t know what to say. I really would be a lot more lame without him. I’m okay with the fact that I’m still lame with him too. I’ve always been pretty lame and he’s always been pretty cool. Sometimes that just tricks people into thinking I must be cool too. In a way that’s a secret. A way that they could never discern themselves. So they just trust the proximity of our friendship.

I start settling into my temporary office suite for the day and let my mind wander. I use the term “let” very loosely here. I start wondering if my dad ever worked at a call center. I wonder if he ever had a job at all. Maybe my mom met him at work and they were a normal teenage couple at first and then things just got out of hand. Who knows. Besides them. And maybe my grandma. My grandma. I miss her so much. The dreams I have about her always feel so real. Death is a crazy experience. To witness it in someone else. Maybe there’s a better way to word that. I just can’t get my thoughts completely straight when I start to get anxious. I’m anxious a lot. My words are never right.

Before I know it, Dusty is asking me if I want a ride home. What fucking time is it ? I look at the clock and it’s 5:03 pm. Wow. How does this always happen ?

NaNoWriMo Days 1 and 2

I open my eyes and look at the clock again. Well, not a clock. What is this, 1980 ? I picked my phone up from underneath my pillow and unlocked the screen. 3:33am. Wow. It’s been an entire 12 minutes since I checked my phone last. I guess it’s just wishful thinking to hope that blink was really a good night’s sleep. I try to count my blessings on nights like this though. At least I was in my favorite pajamas. My birthday suit. Yes, I am naked. Bliss. I have my rose gold satin sheets on the bed and the fluffiest chocolate colored blanket you’ve ever seen in your life.

I’ve had this habit – I guess we can call it a habit – since I was a kid. The habit of not falling asleep at a decent time. What is considered a time decent or indecent anyway ? If I did happen to fall asleep, my chances of staying asleep were wildly low. The doctors call it insomnia. I’ve been eating an apple a day since I was 4 years old and for what ? I basically live at Good Samaritan Medical Center. Not like that’s the only lie I live.

So this is when I decide whether or not I will continue to struggle with my sleep or wake up fully and start my day. Or the secret and not so sexy third option – scroll social media. Some people call it doom scrolling or panic scrolling. However, feeling terrible and feeling panic or doom aren’t the same to me. So maybe it’s okay. But what do I know ?

Social media it is ! That’s the conclusion I came to after about 13 milliseconds. When it comes to social media I use it the same way I live my life, in the background. I don’t post much and I don’t have a ton of friends or followers. I prefer to get on and observe. And if we’re being honest… to judge. I like to judge people. Maybe we can talk more about that later. There isn’t much else to do with my mind and it’s a fairly harmless distraction from my real issues.

I open Twitter first. This is my favorite late-night platform. During normal people hours, I prefer Facebook. Tiktok I save for long commutes. Everything else is shit. When I click the app, the first thing I see is a tweet from Dusty, my sort of best friend.

If you ask him, he’d say we are definitely best friends. We’ve known each other since we were maybe 3 years old. His family lived next door to my grandma’s house in Shreveport. I’ve always been shy so I didn’t have much to say seeing him playing in the yard or the greenspace with the other kids. Until one day he just ran over and pushed me down. Flat on my face. And that somehow made us friends. We’ve been inseparable. Well, slightly separable. He, like other normal people, likes to go out and do things. I prefer to stay at home, in the background.

Fortunately for me, that was the only time he ever assaulted me and he’s been a sweetheart ever since. Still at this ripe age of 26, he’s very much a sweetheart. This tweet of his was 9 hours ago, “I can’t wait to have a woman to buy flowers for every day. Buying them for myself isn’t as exciting.” If you didn’t know him personally and weren’t attracted him, you’d probably think he was pandering. But that’s just really how he is. Very much a Pisces. Anyway, I keep scrolling:

“So imma be honest idek how y’all face an entire J by yourself…” says @asiagraye

“nonblack people are so disgusting in this way lol” says @gbennylola

“11-1 11 everything changed” says @Wale

Alright, enough of this. That’s the thing about being restless. Nothing sounds like a good idea necessarily but everything feels like it has potential to be a good idea possibly. If I don’t scroll though, what else can I fill my time with ? I decide to text Dusty, “you awake ?” I wait for 3 minutes before deciding to just turn my phone back off and slide it under my pillow. I get as comfortable as I can. I’m laying on my stomach with my arms folded under my cheek, beneath my other pillow.

I find myself thinking about how my grandma always told me not to sleep with my phone. Also not to place my phone in my bra. Also not to use microwaves or the wifi at restaurants. She said that all of these things would give me cancer. “Are you listening to me Katara ? Goddammit, you kids and these new fangled machines I can’t even get your attention anymore.”

I feel a hint of confusion but also gratitude. My grandma is beautiful. She’s always been beautiful. She even won Miss America in 1962 and 1967. She could have been a super model if she wanted to. She just never wanted to. I noticed I’m still looking down on my phone as I’m thinking this. I feel the sun beating down on my forehead and I’m so thirsty. Grandma hands me a water.