a few words when I turn 23.

St. Charles, IL 2006. Auburndale gas station, 2004. Pirate parties--god, I hate that stuff, but I did it in a Santa hat. Alcohol used to be the Holy Grail. DC on constant repeat. Is there a punchline to this? Rivulets of Sprite through a cracked plastic cup on New Year's Eve. I wasn't even there for that--Poetic Fucking License. I've shouted so many songs to my car stereo these last years even in the old Accord. I'm not used to having an entire life, just half of one, or 3/4. 23 is nothing.

remembering.

A Planet Hollywood jukebox and a February where I played badminton. The first girl I ever liked--consciously--was perpetually injured. I played 1-on-2 every game of the bracket. They played the radio over the speakers--Elton John and Kiki Dee, "Don't Go Breakin' My Heart." I remember. They all went on the CD I made that winter. Those songs. Doesn't matter. My first crush was my first heartache, song or no. I played every game and won them. Was I good at badminton once? I used to be athletic. Weights and field hockey and tennis and rugby. Can you believe it? My hair used to freeze after water polo while I looked above and watched. But anyway. I remember it vividly. I dropped that CD on my basement floor. Cracks spiderwebbed out. I've never done that since, but the angle was just right....

"Amy Holbrook is...."

I keep discovering poems, songs, phrases overheard and otherwise that I want to appropriate for Facebook statuses, LJ posts, text messages, any of the hundred microcommunications I use to feed my addiction to being connected to something, because I used to have nothing, so I made this flowchart, just in Paint, I think, of what to do when I didn't know what to do, but it wasn't very helpful either, so there wasn't really anything at all. Anyway. I was looking for these words. I think you know this, because I'm always looking for words and suddenly I see on the page the thing I wanted to find six months ago. But I don't need them anymore.