I am the kind of person who isn’t very good at keeping in touch. I have three cell phones, two of which are in use, a computer that is connected to the internet, perfectly functioning hands, and enough brain to be able to write out a good old fashioned letter if technology decided to turn its back against humanity. With that said, one can only imagine the lengths to which I have to explain certain bursts of silence. Don’t get me wrong … I do think about my friends and family and I  love them dearly but somehow, the cute little  e-card I meant to send, you know, the one that reads “Thinking of you…” remains just  a thought in my head. It is like a busy worker at his/her office desk, going through paper work and shifting documents from his/her inbox to the outbox. The only difference here is that the boxes are in my head.

I have gotten a little better over the years although I can’t help but remember the numerous times a distant often older relative told me that I don’t like people. They said it with such a condescending tone of voice that somewhere in me, I began to believe it.  In fact, it wasn’t until much later on in life that I came to an understanding of what sentiments I carried towards people in general. That’s probably another post for another time.

Last night a friend of mine had as her msn phrase; “I live for the nights I’ll barely remember, and the friends I’ll never forget”. Before she had told me that this little saying was coined with me in mind, it had already struck the expected reactions in me. I liked the way those words followed each other flowing perfect sense, perhaps a sense that she herself had not seen. I know that she really barely remembers some of our most fun memories (it happened to me not too long ago, to wake up and find everyone else talking about events that left me wondering where I was for the better half of the night).

Jumping on another train of thought, I remember the days when waking up to get to school were such torment, when we’d plan a whole scene to be re-enacted in the early morning hours of the next day to convince mama that we were indeed sick and that it would be irresponsible of her to let us go (apparently little kids are the best at laying out guilt trips for adults that care about them). I even remember considering the option of putting an onion under my armpit until I caught a fever because my friend Stefan said it would definitely work. Mind you, I never bothered to ask if he had tried it out himself. Then there was that time before my IGCSEs when I sat over my math textbook staring blankly at it contemplating  Ali’s assurance that smoking some weed before studying helped to retain the information (in this case formulae).

Memories of nights that started off with bored channel flicking only to end up at Trocadero in a friend’s apartment sipping on Rose and baking chocolate cakes with strawberries and nutella to taste. Barbeques in the French suburbs (the opposite of American suburbs) sipping on Baileys or Manzanita or Rose while zouk played for hours and people argued which of the hosts danced better to the stimulating sounds.

Endless hours spent in cafes talking about absolutely nothing, sometimes drifting into a comfortable silence but all the while prepared to conceal your face with a well positioned menu just as the professor whose class you were skipping passed by the long glass windows by your table  (why we never chose better situated seats in the corners beats me).

Spontaneous shopping escapades that led to that fabulous corner store you’d never noticed although you’d passed that street a million times before. Long walks around the city of lights by yourself or with a girlfriend or with a handsome man who didn’t know yet that he was just company and nothing more. Or with an arrogant upcoming artist you thought was the real deal only to find out his music was far removed from his actual present self.

Posing for pictures to no end in one small apartment with the same two people alternating backdrops and photo partners every couple of flashes. Revealing the narcissist in you, allowing yourself to be vain for an entire night and jumping in front of any flashing lights including the strobe lights in the club later that night.  Heels that you wore and danced in to heavy crunk music five nights out of seven, music that you despised in the beginning, music you now miss.

Memories that you look back at and wonder whether you’ve become something dead now that there’s all the time to think about the beautiful past. Questions surrounding you, asking if you are a bad person for not picking up that call, instead pressing the silence button on the upper right hand corner of your phone with such ease you could do it blindfolded. Leaving messages unanswered, calls unreturned, e-mails unreplied simply because you have nothing to say. The thoughts have run through your head so much that you are too tired to come up with an elaborate response.

Is it just me or am I morphing into an old, senile, sometimes irritable woman at such a tender age?

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