And if you play defender I could be your hyper space...

I said that to Scott once, and he said something to the extent of "don't tell me these things if you're too young to remember them" (my paraphrase).

I keep myself busy with tasks and projects than cultivating meaningful relationships. I am socially awkward, and have a low tolerance for small talk, chit-chat, or anything that can generate the superficial topics of "what do you do?" "what music do you like?" or "have you seen / heard (this movie / this song)?" because it doesn't mean anything. Because of this combined with my solitary nature, there are only a few people who mean the world to me. Scott is one of those people.

Boy, do I miss him.I reflect on this past spring/summer too much, like when he drank wine and I drank ice tea--he was my lifeline more than on any high-ratings game show. I wish I could go back in time, walk with him in the park, and erase certain people and events from that day. While I rolled up my pant legs and waded in the fountain (even though it was barely warm enough), he tried to put the mysterious, evasive pieces of my life together, like Johnny Staccato, while smoking a cigarette. I believe I curled up in the fetal position, on a stone bridge over a creek, and broke down. For some strange reason, that day meant a lot to me, despite the self-willed pain, unwise and masochistic, it hurt. It didn't hurt less because he was there, but his presence makes reflecting on the past more beautiful. (If he knew this, he'd probably still only get himself off while thinking of mayonnaise lathered on female robots with leather fetishes.)

Once, he serenaded me with the theme of Planet Unicorn when we were in my car. Then we drank moderately, and I watched him flirt mercilessly with other girls, and it amused me, delighted me, and while they were captivating his attention, I felt a bit of avarice, a bit of sadness, and a lot of tequila. He is quite charming, that one.

There was a time, when I was self-righteous and wrong, and I told him my opinion. He got mad, and we didn't speak for awhile. He yelled at me in a restaurant. Thankfully, Zach was there to mediate and console. I cried, out of shock, embarrassment, hurt, and the fact that he was mostly right. I had never seen him so upset, so frustrated, or ever really, raise his voice, other than to say "zappy doodles," so it was quite disconcerting. Things were awkward until the mojitos kicked in, concurrently with supplication and penitence, and we had a beautiful time.

There are some moments that cannot be defined by verbosity.

I hope for more in Boston.