pick another one 

This summer, my roommate Shivani and I watched a movie together every week. It was the kind of thing you do without thinking, and then miss for the rest of your life. 

She would pull out the projector and I would hang the sheet on the wall. We had spots on the couch and did not deviate—our butt creases were PERFECT by August.

We watched Midsommar and Hereditary in one weekend, then swore off Ari Aster. 

In all honesty we swore back on Ari Aster the next week. 4 minutes of one of his short films–4 minutes was all it took to make this separation final. I needed a lap around the block and like, a warm cookie. Immediately. I worry about that man actively.

We’d spend at least an hour after every film talking plot, finding hidden meaning, recounting gore–the severed necks. We’d have nightmares about cults, and break those down too. Then we’d pick another one. 

The summer went on like this. We watched Promising Young Woman, and talked about our experiences as all three. We watched both seasons of Barry, and started planning our big break: Noho Hank: the musical. She gave me a stage name, certain extremely specific musicals were my ticket out.

Noho Hank: the musical never got written, but man oh man did we talk about it. It was a prequel to Barry–the story of how he got involved with the Chechen mafia, fit with weird, angsty, punk music. It would have been hilarious, which is easy to say having written exactly none of it. Either way, dreaming about something with someone who is equally as excited as you are–that hits every time. 

She moved to a different city at the end of the summer–I knew it was coming but didn’t prepare. 

The kind of close that you get with someone when you live together, especially during a pandemic, is really something. She’s seen me with my acne cream on–she’s seen me cry. She’s seen me cry with my acne cream on and then have to reapply. Clearly she’s brave, and has impeccable taste. 

I miss her a lot. I am a sentimental bitch all the way through, and so I spend maybe too much time reminiscing.  I’m okay with that though, I’m okay with missing people.

I don’t know that there’s some profound point to this, dear reader. I think if I were to give it one, it’s that missing people is kind of dope–at least more dope than sad. I miss people–they miss me–we’ll see each other soon. 

Oh, and the shit you’ll miss happens without you noticing. That’s it, I think. That’s all. 

I love you.

Take care.