Dear Father Christmas,

     This year, I have been an overall good little boy. I have sometimes cheated, and I have often helped my parents with their taxes. And I always say thank you, which makes me polite, and so I deserve lots of presents this year!

     Please bring all this stuff for me and the people in my life: For my mommy, please bring free two-day shipping for all her Amazon shopping. For my daddy, please bring a liking for wearing more colorful clothing. For my little brother, please bring a lifetime subscription to Xbox live. For my bird, please bring non-surgical sterilization. Oh – and for my pest control man, please bring some work ethic.

     Now about me! Please bring me all of the Game of Thrones' action figures. I am not certain they exist, yet, but I am sure your elves can make them for me. I would also like front row tickets to Mayday Parade– plus backstage passes so I can get behind the scenes! Oh, and please don’t forget to bring my 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1 Fastback, But if you can’t, I understand; just remember that more than anything Santa, what I really really want is just $10,000,000 so I don't have to write you these dumb letters anymore.  

     Anyway, I hope you like the cognac I left out for you.

     Sincerely,

             Alex

     PS: Please say hello to Mrs. Claus and to Rudolph. Please ask him not to sue me since I have been using his name as my gamer's tag. 

     PPS: Oh yeah, and remember Melanie? She has been a really selfish cry-baby all year long and doesn’t deserve any Christmas presents. So please don’t forget to put homework in her stocking. Thanks!

When Love Arrives

I knew exactly what love looked like – in seventh grade.

Even though I hadn’t met love yet, if love had wandered into my homeroom,

I would’ve recognized him at first glance. Love wore a hemp necklace.

I would’ve recognized her at first glance, love wore a tight French braid.

Love played acoustic guitar and knew all my favorite Beatles songs.

Love wasn’t afraid to ride the bus with me.

And I knew, I just must be searching the wrong classrooms,

just must be checking the wrong hallways,

she was there, I was sure of it.

If only I could find him.

But when love finally showed up, she had a bow cut.

He wore the same clothes every day for a week.

Love hated the bus.

Love didn’t know anything about The Beatles.

Instead, every time I try to kiss love, our teeth got in the way.

Love became the reason I lied to my parents. I’m going to- Ben’s house.

Love had terrible rhythm on the dance floor, but made sure we never missed a slow song.

Love waited by the phone because she knew if her father picked up it would be:

“Hello? Hello? I guess they hung up.”

And love grew, stretched like a trampoline.

Love changed. Love disappeared,

Slowly, like baby teeth, losing parts of me I thought I needed.

Love vanished like an amateur magician, and everyone could see the trapdoor but me.

Like a flat tire, there were other places I planned on going, but my plans didn’t matter.

Love stayed away for years, and when love finally reappeared, I barely recognized him.

Love smelt different now, had darker eyes, a broader back,

love came with freckles I didn’t recognize.

New birthmarks, a softer voice.

Now there were new sleeping patterns, new favorite books.

Love had songs that reminded him of someone else,

songs love didn’t like to listen to. So did I.

But we found a park bench that fit us perfectly

We found jokes that make us laugh.

And now, love makes me fresh homemade chocolate chip cookies.

But love will probably finish most of them for a midnight snack.

Love looks great in lingerie but still likes to wear her retainer.

Love is a terrible driver, but a great navigator.

Love knows where she’s going, it just might take her two hours longer than she planned.

Love is messier now, not as simple.

Love uses the words “boobs” in front of my parents.

Love chews too loud.

Love leaves the cap off the toothpaste.

Love uses smiley faces in her text messages.

And turns out, love shits!

But love also cries.

And love will tell you you are beautiful and mean it, over and over again.

“You are beautiful.”

When you first wake up, “you are beautiful.”

When you’ve just been crying, “you are beautiful.”

When you don’t want to hear it, “you are beautiful.”

When you don’t believe it, “you are beautiful.”

When nobody else will tell you, “you are beautiful.”

Love still thinks you are beautiful.

But love is not perfect and will sometimes forget, when you need to hear it most,

you are beautiful, do not forget this.

Love is not who you were expecting, love is not who you can predict. 

Maybe love is in New York City, already asleep;

You are in California, Australia, wide awake.

Maybe love is always in the wrong time zone.

Maybe love is not ready for you.

Maybe you are not ready for love.

Maybe love just isn’t the marrying type.

Maybe the next time you see love is twenty years after the divorce,

love is older now, but just as beautiful as you remembered.

Maybe love is only there for a month.

Maybe love is there for every firework, every birthday party,

every hospital visit.

Maybe love stays- maybe love can’t.

Maybe love shouldn’t.

Love arrives exactly when love is supposed to,

And love leaves exactly when love must.

When love arrives, say, “Welcome. Make yourself comfortable.”

If love leaves, ask her to leave the door open behind her.

Turn off the music, listen to the quiet, whisper,

“Thank you for stopping by.”

By Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye

Day 5 "Favorite cover"

Melancholy never sounded so beautiful. 

Day 4 "A Song That Has Made You Sad"

Let's just say that this one made me cry like a little bitch the first time I heard it. 

"I find a field, I tear it up

Til' all the pain's a cloud of dust;

Yeah, sometimes I drive your truck."

Day 3 "A Song That You Wish You Could Sing."

     I remember when I first heard this song on the radio. It became one of the first 5 songs I had in my MP3 player. Jared's voice on this one is just so powerful!!! I always wanted to be able to sing this song at one of my old school's events. Gladly, younger me knew about dignity and shame, and never did so. I would have just embarrassed myself.

   

"Everyone's looking at me.

I'm running around in circles, Baby. 

A quiet desperation's building higher;

I've got to remember this is just a game." 

Day 2 "A Song With Wonderful Lyrics"

     Today's song is one of my favorite and the first one I played when I first purchased my keyboard with the little money I had saved, just three days after leaving my home country. As a matter of fact, when at the music store, this was my "test song." The piano in which this song sounded the best would be the one I would take home with me.

"Now, most of the time we'd have too much to drink

And we'd laugh at the stars and we'd share everything.

Too young to notice, and too dumb to care.

Love was a story that couldn't compare."

      I am sure there are many other songs I have listened to that I can't remember right now, many of which are probably better lyrics-wise than this one, but since it reminds me of my first days in this country, it will always be number one.

Song Challenge: Day 1 "A Song That Reminds You Of Your Childhood."

     Ok, So I was asked to participate in a pretty simple challenge. For ten days, I should post a song and a little description of why I picked it and cite my favorite part or a sentence that holds meaning to me. As for the first day, I will be posting a song that reminds me of my childhood, and this is it:

 

"Aserejé já dejé, dejébe tu de jebere seibiunouva majavi an de bugui an dé güididípi"

      This song is now 13 years old, but it definitely reminds me of my old school events. The dance and lyrics were so catchy that I would be lying if I said my 8-year-old self did not danced along to it at least once. I also remember how people used to modify the lyrics into funnier ones. I think I still remember a few. Back then, It was such a massive hit that not being able to sing it was a sin punishable with social segregation. Ok, no. I am exaggerating, but still, it was a pretty big deal. 

O'Brien's - Good Form

     It's time to be blunt.
     I'm forty-three years old, true, and I'm a writer now, and a long time
ago I walked through Quang Ngai Province as a foot soldier.
     Almost everything else is invented.
     But it's not a game. It's a form. Right here, now, as I invent myself, I'm
thinking of all I want to tell you about why this book is written as it is.
For instance, I want to tell you this: twenty years ago I watched a man
die on a trail near the village of My Khe. I did not kill him. But I was
present, you see, and my presence was guilt enough. I remember his face,
which was not a pretty face, because his jaw was in his throat, and I
remember feeling the burden of responsibility and grief. I blamed myself.
And rightly so, because I was present.
     But listen. Even that story is made up.
     I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to know why story-truth is
truer sometimes than happening-truth.
     Here is the happening-truth. I was once a soldier. There were many
bodies, real bodies with real faces, but I was young then and I was afraid
to look. And now, twenty years later, I'm left with faceless responsibility
and faceless grief.
     Here is the story-truth. He was a slim, dead, almost dainty young man
of about twenty. He lay in the center of a red clay trail near the village of
My Khe. His jaw was in his throat. His one eye was shut, the other eye
was a star-shaped hole. I killed him.
     What stories can do, I guess, is make things present.
     I can look at things I never looked at. I can attach faces to grief and
love and pity and God. I can be brave. I can make myself feel again.
     "Daddy, tell the truth," Kathleen can say, "did you ever kill anybody?"
And I can say, honestly, "Of course not."
     Or I can say, honestly, "Yes."

O'Brien - The Man I Killed

     His jaw was in his throat, his upper lip and teeth were gone, his one

eye was shut, his other eye was a star-shaped hole, his eyebrows were

thin and arched like a woman's, his nose was undamaged, there was a

slight tear at the lobe of one ear, his clean black hair was swept upward

into a cowlick at the rear of the skull, his forehead was lightly freckled,

his fingernails were clean, the skin at his left cheek was peeled back in

three ragged strips, his right cheek was smooth and hairless, there was a

butterfly on his chin, his neck was open to the spinal cord and the blood

there was thick and shiny and it was this wound that had killed him. He

lay face-up in the center of the trail, a slim, dead, almost dainty young

man. He had bony legs, a narrow waist, long shapely fingers. His chest

was sunken and poorly muscled—a scholar, maybe. His wrists were the

wrists of a child. He wore a black shirt, black pajama pants, a gray

ammunition belt, a gold ring on the third finger of his right hand. His

rubber sandals had been blown off. One lay beside him, the other a few

meters up the trail. He had been born, maybe, in 1946 in the village of

My Khe near the central coastline of Quang Ngai Province, where his

parents farmed, and where his family had lived for several centuries, and

where, during the time of the French, his father and two uncles and

many neighbors had joined in the struggle for independence. He was not

a Communist. He was a citizen and a soldier. In the village of My Khe, as

in all of Quang Ngai, patriotic resistance had the force of tradition, which

was partly the force of legend, and from his earliest boyhood the man I 

killed would have listened to stories about the heroic Trung sisters and

Tran Hung Dao's famous rout of the Mongols and Le Loi's final victory

against the Chinese at Tot Dong. He would have been taught that to

defend the land was a man's highest duty and highest privilege. He had

accepted this. It was never open to question. Secretly, though, it also

frightened him. He was not a fighter. His health was poor, his body small

and frail. He liked books. He wanted someday to be a teacher of

mathematics. At night, lying on his mat, he could not picture himself

doing the brave things his father had done, or his uncles, or the heroes of

the stories. He hoped in his heart that he would never be tested. He

hoped the Americans would go away. Soon, he hoped. He kept hoping

and hoping, always, even when he was asleep.

     "Oh, man, you fuckin' trashed the fucker," Azar said. "You scrambled

his sorry self, look at that, you did, you laid him out like Shredded fuckin'

Wheat."

Let's Face It

Let's face it. English is a crazy language.

    There is no Egg in Eggplant, nor Ham in Hamburger; neither Apple nor Pine in Pineapple. English Muffins were not invented in England, nor French Fries in France. Sweetmeats are candies, while Sweetbreads, which aren't sweet, are meat. Quicksand can work Slowly, Boxing Rings are Square, and a Guinea Pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a Pig.

    If the plural of Tooth is Teeth, why isn't it the plural of Booth Beeth? One Goose, two Geese, so one Moose, 2 Meese? one Index, two Indices? Is then Cheese the plural of Choose?

    And why is that Writers Write but Fingers don't Fing, Grocers don't Groce and Hammers don't Ham? Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make Amends, but not one Amend? If Teachers Taught, why did not Preachers Praught? If a Vegetarian eats Vegetables, what does a Humanitarian eat?

     In what other language do people Recite at a Play and Play at a Recital? We Ship by Truck, but Send Cargo by Ship. We have Noses that Run, and Feet that Smell. We Park in a Driveway, and Drive in a Parkway. And how can  a Slim Chance and a Fat Chance be the same, while a Wise Man and a Wise Guy are opposites?

     You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can Burn Up as it Burns Down, in which you Fill In a form by Filling It Out, and in which an alarm Goes Off by Going On. When Stars are Out, they are visible, but when the Lights are Out, they are invisible. Why, when I Wind Up my watch, I Start it, but when I Wind Up an essay, I End it? And, in closing, if father is Pop, how come Mother is not Mop?

Justin & Jill's Drunk History

For anyone who has not yet had the chance to watch this video, I highly recommend it. It's one of the most entertaining videos I have seen in weeks. Check it out.

It Is with Words as It Is with People

It is with words as it is with people: Actual beauty is rare.

We call things beautiful, not as such, but because of what they mean.

Because we commonly attribute beauty to whatever does us a favor,

We are reduced to puzzled despair whenever actual beauty says no.

Indeed, our calling a thing beautiful almost means it is not.

For how can we know it is beautiful until it betrays us?

A sage once said "The trouble with these great philosophers

Is their only way of doing honor to an idea is to say the idea is true."

It is the same with words as it is with people: Actual beauty is rare.

Humiliated, we are no longer willing to call the beautiful beautiful . . .

Madrid is reading his poetry to a roomful of unearthed cultural relics.

He compares the white hair on their heads | to the flag that signals surrender.

 - Anthony Madrid.

Neil Hilborn - OCD

The first time I saw her...
Everything in my head went quiet.
All the tics, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.
When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.
Even in bed, I’m thinking:
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was 
the hairpin curve of her lips..
Or the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek.
I knew I had to talk to her.
I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.
She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, 
so I had to keep going.
On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color 
than I did eating it, or fucking talking to her...
But she loved it.
She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or 

twenty-four times if it was Wednesday.
She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.
When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely locked the door 

eighteen times.
I’d always watch her mouth when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked
when she talked;
when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.
At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.. 

And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.
Some mornings I’d start kissing her goodbye but she’d just leave cause I was
just making her late for work...
When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking...
When she said she loved me her mouth was a straight line.
She told me that I was taking up too much of her time.
Last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.
She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; 
that this whole thing was a mistake, but...
How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touched her?
Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.
I can’t – I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.
Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.
I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars...
And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.
I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel..
How she turns shower knobs like she's opening a safe.
How she blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out…
Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.
I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once — he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!
I want her back so bad...
I leave the door unlocked.
I leave the lights on.

What You Don't Learn at School

"I've been making a list of the things they don't teach you at school.
They don't teach you how to love somebody.
They don't teach you how to be famous.
They don't teach you how to be rich or how to be poor.
They don't teach you how to walk away from someone you don't love any longer.
They don't teach you how to know what's going on in someone else's mind.
They don't teach you what to say to someone who's dying.
In other words, they don't teach you anything worth knowing.”

Listen to your heart. 

Run like you're in like and take it slow. 

Run like you're in lust and go as fast as you can. 

Run like you're flirting.

Run like you're teasing. 

Run like you're falling, madly, deeply, passionately, head over heels in sweat. 

Run like the completely vulnerable, hopeless romantic you are and stop to smell the endorphins. 

Run like you just got a phone number. 

Run like you just got a date. 

Run like you just got a kiss. 

Run like you just got lucky. 

Run like it's Valentine's Day, and you don't know where this is going, 

or how it's going to end, but it sure feels good 

and it's better to have loved and run

than to have never run at all.

Run.

"That's right, but it can be better than before."

Sorry; can't let that happen.

Tim O'Brien - How to Tell a True War Story

     This is true.

     I had a buddy in Vietnam. His name was Bob Kiley but everybody called him Rat.
     A friend of his gets killed, so about a week later Rat sits down and writes a letter to the guy’s sister. Rat tells her what a great brother she had, how strack the guy was, a number one pal and comrade. A real soldier’s soldier, Rat says. Then he tells a few stories to make the point, how her brother would always volunteer for stuff nobody else would volunteer for in a million years, dangerous stuff, like doing recon or going out on these really badass night patrols. Stainless steel balls, Rat tells her. The guy was a little crazy, for sure, but crazy in a good way, a real daredevil, because he liked the challenge of it, he liked testing himself, just man against gook. A great, great guy, Rat says.

     Anyway, it’s a terrific letter, very personal and touching. Rat almost bawls writing it. He gets all teary telling about the good times they had together, how her brother made the war seem almost fun, always raising hell and lighting up villes and bringing smoke to bear every which way. A great sense of humor, too. Like the time at this river when he went fishing with a whole damn crate of hand grenades. Probably the funniest thing in world history, Rat says, all that gore, about twenty zillion dead gook fish. Her brother, he had the right attitude. He knew how to have a good time. On Halloween, this real hot spooky night, the dude paints up his body all different colors and puts on this weird mask and goes out on ambush almost stark naked, just boots and balls and an M-16. A tremendous human being, Rat says. Pretty nutso sometimes, but you could trust him with your life.

      And then the letter gets very sad and serious. Rat pours his heart out. He says he loved the guy. He says the guy was his best friend in the world. They were like soul mates, he says, like twins or something, they had a whole lot in common. He tells the guy’s sister he’ll look her up when the war’s over.
     So what happens? Rat mails the letter. He waits two months. The dumb cooze never writes back.

     A true war story is never moral. It does not instruct, nor encourage virtue, nor suggest models of proper human behavior, nor restrain men from doing the things they have always done. If a story seems moral, do not believe it. If at the end of a war story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no rectitude whatsoever. There is no virtue. As a first rule of thumb, therefore, you can tell a true war story by its absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil. Listen to Rat Kiley. Cooze, he says. He does not say bitch. He certainly does not say woman, or girl, He says cooze. Then he spits and stares. He’s nineteen years old—it’s too much for him—so he looks at you with those big gentle, killer eyes and says cooze, because his friend is dead, and because it’s so incredibly sad and true: she never wrote back.

     You can tell a true war story if it embarrasses you. If you don’t care for obscenity, you don’t care for the truth; if you don’t care for the truth, watch how you vote. Send guys to war, they come home talking dirty.
      Listen to Rat: “Jesus Christ, man, I write this beautiful fucking letter, I slave over it, and what happens? The dumb cooze never writes back.”

Six Rules:

1. If you like something because you think other people are going to like it, it's a sure bet no one will. 

2. Most doors in the world are closed, so if you find one you want to get into: you damn well better have an interesting knock. 

3. Everything you think is important, isn't. And everything you think is unimportant, is. 

4. Don't shit where you eat (Metaphorically speaking). 

5. Lean into it: the outcome doesn't matter. What matters is that you're there for it. Whatever it is, good or bad; kind of like right now.

6. Never sleep with someone who has more problems than you do. 

7. Always assume mom is listening. 

8. Know your math.

Cervantes Mocking the Great Chain of Being

                              

At this point they came in sight of thirty forty windmills that there are on plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them he said to his squire, “Fortune is arranging matters for us better than we could have shaped our desires ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza, where thirty or more monstrous giants present themselves, all of whom I mean to engage in battle and slay, and with whose spoils we shall begin to make our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and it is God’s good service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of the earth.”

    “What giants?” said Sancho Panza.

    “Those thou seest there,” answered his master, “with the long arms, and some have them nearly two leagues long.”

    “Look, your worship,” said Sancho; “what we see there are not giants but windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the sails that turned by the wind make the millstone go.”

     “It is easy to see,” replied Don Quixote, “that thou art not used to this business of adventures; those are giants; and if thou art afraid, away with thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer while I engage them in fierce and unequal combat.”

      So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless of the cries his squire Sancho sent after him, warning him that most certainly they were windmills and not giants he was going to attack. He, however, was so positive they were giants that he neither heard the cries of Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, what they were, but made at them shouting, “Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for a single knight attacks you.”

      A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails began to move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed, “Though ye flourish more arms than the giant Briareus, ye have to reckon with me.”

A conversation With Myself.

      If I, one day, had the chance to go back in time and meet little me, say 13 or 14 years old, there are a few things I would like me to know and be aware of. 

      I would probably find me sitting next to my brother, attentively looking at whatever he is doing on the computer. I always seemed to enjoy watching him play his games, and sometimes still do. It was then one of the greatest feelings ever, getting home, turn the PC on, and watch the hours go by as I'd just sit there. 

    And that is possibly what I would start with, if I get the chance to talk to him, privately. I might even ask him to come with me to San Carlos and get us something to eat. There are matters in life that ought not to be discussed while the mind is wondering. But would he come with me? He always feared strangers; Am I one? 

     If I decided to introduce myself, he would say,

   "Though I have never seen you, I have to be honest, and say, you awfully look a lot like me. You almost look familiar.”

    "I will take that as a compliment, if you don't mind," I'd reply and smile. He'd smile back. 

     We'd get going.  

    

     Now, that would be easy, right? It would. I should not over think it. 

     He would probably hear, but won't listen to what old me says. I wish he did without me putting much effort, though. I would hate to get to the point in which measures need be taken. 

     Perhaps, we would sit for a couple hours; talking about school, friends and, if the appropriate moment comes, I would explain to him the actual motives lying behind our talking. 

     "Now, listen to me young man. I have not brought you here so I could spend a fortune on someone with your eating habits. Before I leave, there is, in fact, some things I would like to tell you." 

     "¿Qué dices?" (What are you saying?) I can already imagine him ask.  

     "Well, did you really think this was all just because?" 

     "No, but. . ." he'd mutter between his teeth. “I just thought there would be more." 

     "One day, you will see me again, I promise, but only if you make it there safely, if you know what I mean." 

Then I'd look him straight in the eyes and add "You'd better do, for both of us." 

      He'd nod and rapidly look at his wristwatch. "Then you had better get started. I have been away for so long mom must be paranoid about my whereabouts." 

       This kid! Gets me every time.

      

       "Good! So pay careful attention." And I go ahead. 

    "You spend too much time sitting on that bed just watching that screen, you know? How about you unfix your eyes from there, Aim to be more than just a bystander. Everybody can do that, but you can do more, dare to do more." 

      "What the hell do you propose, then? I crave to sit in my ass all day," He'd nag. 

      What did he just say?! I remember having manners. 

      "Look, kid. If I were your father. . ." I’d roar, but after thinking it twice I'd simply say "I would ask you to show some respect, but since I am not, please, just shut up." An eye for an eye.

       I continue.

     “So, how are you doing in the new school? Hanging there?”

     “How did you know about it?” He’d inquire with a notable skeptical tone in his voice.

     “A bird told me. They just can’t keep anything to themselves these days.”

     “Ha! You think you are so clever, but by the way you talk I presume you don’t have much friends, do you?”

      That would hurt.

     “I have just the right amount,” I’d proudly say “but, still, that does not answer my question.”

     “Well, I have been talking to a couple guys; they seem cool.”

     “How about girls? How many?” I’d mock him. Of course he’d hate it, but would refuse to say anything. It’s just reasonable.

     “There is this. . .”

     “Are you serious?” I’d interrupt.

     “She is new to school, too, and caught my attention.”

     “No freaking way,” and I’d laugh.

     I’d knew who he is referring to. I remember her. Her name was Carolina. She was not technically new to school. She attended school during the afternoon shift and worked the rest of the day. Still, she was new in the morning, and I think that accounted for her laziness, but who cared anyway? I was young, stupid and liked her, and I, luckily, just happened to know a guy who knew her, Diego.

    

     “So, what’s the plan?” I’d joke.

     “You mean, if it worked?” He’d claim, and I think he’d enjoy that moment.

     “You did what?!” 

              Note-to-self: Do not underestimate this kid.

    

     “Well, I have this friend. He’d taken classes with her before, and he, upon request, introduced me to her.”

     “And?”

     “And? We just chatted for a while.”

     “Did she step up to your expectations?”

     “Sort of”

     “What does that mean?”

     “It was nice meeting her, but not that nice,” He’d sigh “and I do not think she likes me anyhow.”

     “Sorry to hear that, buddy!”

      He’d be wrong. After two years of trying. He’d eventually end up dating this girl, and making plans with her—thinking they would last. Telling him, however, would not be my job. Though I could not explicitly spoil the ending for him, I’d struggle to find the best way to tell him that not to give up on this. This part of life his would be, in fact, essential for him. He needs, he must go through it. 

      “You know, she may be the kind of girl who appreciates persistence.” I’d hint him. “Cheer up, and keep trying.”

       “Thanks for the advice!”

       “It’s nothing; I’d do the same.”

               

              I would, wouldn’t I?

     I figure time is running out, and there is something I still want to discuss with him. Next topic is a bit more delicate than a tale of boys meeting girls and broken hearts. Those heartaches, after all, shall pass eventually. These, on the other hand, are permanent.

 

      "Let me ask you something. How many times does Abuelo comes look after you when mom is working?" 

       "Ehmm. Two or three times a week, I guess. I never really count; why?" 

       "And how do you feel about it?" 

        He'd shrug his shoulders and say, "Just meh!" 

       "Exactly." I'd exclaim. "They teach you needless amounts of things in school; many of which are not even useful when it comes to it."

       I hate to be such a spoiler, “but how about this fact? I bet you have never been taught this in class: One day you'll die, and that mom and Abuelo will, too. He'll probably leave you all first, then she, and guess who follows: you! It is inevitable, and what will you do about it?" 

        "Ok, dude! Now you are seriously scaring me."

        "I am sorry if it sounded like a threat. I did not mean to. I am merely wanting you to infer what I am trying to tell you. Take this to heart; just hug him every chance you can. I hope you will." 

        Then, the silence. 

        That is as far as I would go. I'd stop after planting each one of those seeds. I would wish I could stay around a little longer; just so I could watch him, and make sure my words and money were not wasted, but I must not interrupt. I have watched far too many movies to know what a big deal is made out of altering the past, even in the slightest way. I must depart. I do not think I am supposed to stay there any longer.

        "Let's get you home and out of trouble," I'd tell him. That's how you kill two bird with one stone.

We’d both stand up, look down to the soil checking no personals were left behind, and walk back home.  

       By this point, I would have completed what I had come here to do in the first place, I believe. After all, I’d only want him to understand that he’s got so much up ahead, to have no fear of doing something differently, to enjoy his time (Whatever that really means), and to appreciate the life around him. Taking more pictures, making more friends and memories, whenever possible would definitely be a big plus, but that would be far beyond my control.

      So, I’d leave hoping he’d truly listen this time. I’d leave, I must admit, expecting something in my present to be different. I’d leave blindly hoping that seemingly mannerless kid would do just as I’d advised, for the sake of both of us. Actually, I will say, for my own benefit. I’d leave feeling I have left a wondrous part of me behind. A part of me I shall forever remember.