Twenty Eight

As I’m sitting at home typing this up, New York City is prepping for a snowstorm of supposedly epic proportions on my birthday. It’s kind of funny, my nickname at home, colloquially translated, means “Little Winter” because according to my parents, when I was born in the wee early hours of January 26th, it was the first time that it snowed that year. I’m going to be 28 years old. It’s funny, when you’re over 21, you keep rationalizing ages to yourself. Before you’re 25, you rationalize that you’re closer to 20 than you are 30. Before you’re 28, you can rationalize that you’re closer to 25 than 30, but when you turn 28, the specter of 30 looms ever closer.

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The Complexities of Having a Little Sister

I remember at home when we were little, there would a corner in our TV room with a pile of random Barbies. My sister hated Barbies, and when people didn’t know what to get girls, they would always default to a Barbie. My sister would always just end up throwing those useless things into that corner, and then she would come and play with the toys that our parents got us. We used to build cities with Hot Wheels sets, LEGO complexes that would cover our entire family room, and enact epic battles with action figures. In short, my sister was my partner-in-crime. I can count on one hand the number of times where we’ve actually fought and been mad at each other.

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Reasons To Be Pretty

I remember the first time that I had my breath taken away. She walked in and it seemed as though seconds became minutes. It wasn’t just me either, it was as if the whole room was drawn to her. She didn’t walk, she glided toward the center of the room, and the room stared as if there was a spotlight on her. Literally breathtaking, not figuratively, literally. When I finally closed my slightly agape jaw, I tried to shake that brunette visage of perfection from my mind, but she just stayed there, and I absentmindedly glanced back a few times without realizing it until it was too late.

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Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

The song only has about a dozen lines, but it’s hauntingly sad. There’s something incredibly melancholy about the cover that Amy Winehouse sings and it hits me on so many levels.

It’s a really simple question really; ‘Will you still love me tomorrow?’. I lie, you lie, we all lie. We lie to each other, but most importantly, we lie to ourselves. I think the internal dialogue in our head when we’re with someone we want to be with, we want to believe that everything they say is the truth. You linger on every word, every smile seems like an eternity, and that’s because you want so badly for what you’re feeling to be real. Lying takes two people, someone to tell the lie, and someone to believe it. That’s why it’s so easy when you’re on the outside of things to give advice, but when you’re inside, it’s as if your mind is on fire.

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