…girls were like poems: weird, incomprehensible and boring, but those “in the know
The second hardest part about growing up is trying to figure out who you are. The hardest part comes after you’ve figured it out and the rest of the world wants to pull you in a different direction.
I guess this means we’re uck-fayed, don’t it Mikee?
Why is it so hard? It’s hard because it matters, I think.
I fall in love with Paraíso. It’s like a giant playground where I’m never scolded for running around recklessly, where I’m almost overwhelmed with the amount of attention and love I receive from Mami’s family. In New York, I’m invisible.
I look out into the water and up deep into the stars. I beg the sparkling lanterns of light to cure me of myself – my past and the kaleidoscope of mistakes, failures and wrong turns that have stacked unbearable regret upon my shoulders.
He would say things like, “But you are my wife!
If I had an .MP3 of your heartbeat… I might actually get some sleep.
They think I’m not entirely ‘grounded in reality’, they say. They want me to go to some live-in nerdy activity ranch thing for troubled Canadian youth, that one out in Ontario where you come back programmed like some robot, dressed in a tye-dyed shirt and eating tuna sandwiches,
Not long after my mom died, my dad pretty much kicked me out of the house. He never said, “Get out of my house,