This is my night: Red vinyl sofa and dim bulbs lighting yellowed walls. Slumped with uncharacteristically bad posture, eyes on the checkerboard floor, words thrown into a notebook. Maybe a little small talk with K., perhaps a letter to Trevor, and if I'm feeling especially daring, a photobooth picture. I like to take them not only when feeling happy, but when feeling glum; if your scrapbooks are filled with only happy memories, it's too easy to romanticize the past. In the future I will look back and remember things purely, with a mixture of nostalgia and gratitude. At least, that's the plan.
For the past month or so, my roommate Karinsa and I have been enjoying her eight-bit Nintendo system. For the most part, we just play Super Mario Brothers 3 for hours on end. Last night, as we ate mushroom and cheese sandwiches, I finally reached King Koopa's palace. "Ooh, he's so cute," we squealed. "See how he's trying to look menacing? Aww." As we laughed, I handily beat that mofo and saved the princess. Then we were stricken with a great existential crisis: what will we do now that there's no more video game to beat? Does this mean I have to start being social again?
For the past month or so, my roommate Karinsa and I have been enjoying her eight-bit Nintendo system. For the most part, we just play Super Mario Brothers 3 for hours on end. Last night, as we ate mushroom and cheese sandwiches, I finally reached King Koopa's palace. "Ooh, he's so cute," we squealed. "See how he's trying to look menacing? Aww." As we laughed, I handily beat that mofo and saved the princess. Then we were stricken with a great existential crisis: what will we do now that there's no more video game to beat? Does this mean I have to start being social again?
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