from me, in a shitty hotel room in Buffalo, New York
to you, wherever you are
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April 12, 2010
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Dear J.:
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This morning I got the urge to go far away.
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I lay in bed for like an hour thinking about it, and then I got up. I packed a backpack with a toothbrush and a change of underwear, things like that, not much, and Andrew sort of rolled over in bed and mumbled, Do you have an exam or something, it's the asscrack of dawn, where are you going, and I was like, I dunno yet but I guess it'll be somewhere you can go by Greyhound. So he thought about that for a second and then he was like, What about AJ, which is the name of my three-foot bong that I got last year, and I was like, What about AJ. It turned out Andrew wanted to know if, a, he could keep it while I was gone, and b, I wanted to say hi to AJ one last time before leaving. To the first thing I said Sure, and to the second I said also Sure, if you provide the weed. I wanted to make sure the high lasted out the day so we smoked a pretty manly amount, and then I finished packing. I stuck my iPod in my pants pockets and remembered to put the charger in my backpack, along with my phone and the charger for that. I took the baggie with the last of my weed, although I sort of wish now that I hadn't since I'm not going away just to have everything be the same as it was when I was at school. And I left my journal (which I hadn't written in for nine months anyway, but if I had it now I might have written to myself like a normal person, instead of like this, pathetically, to you; or I'd have just opened it to the last page and stared, stymied, at it the way I have every couple of weeks since the day you died). Then I left. I didn't tell Andrew when I'd be back.
