So Maybe It Wasn't The Fairy Tale.

Growing Up Means :propelling Yourself Forward Into Whatever Lies Ahead, One Turn Of The Wheel At A Time.

Once, She'd Been A Pro At Decompressing, Loved To Sit On The Back Deck Of The Beach House In One Of Our Splintery Adirondack Chairs For Hours At A Time, Staring At The Ocean. She Never Had A Book Or The Paper Or Anything Else To Distract Her. Just The Horizon, But It Kept Her Attention, Her Gaze Unwavering. Maybe It Was The Absence Of Thought That She Loved About Being Out There, The World Narrowing To Just The Pounding Of The Waves As The Water Moved In And Out.

I Love Ya, And It's Been A Really Good Fit For Me. But At Some Point, I Would Like To Try Something Else: A Collection Of Short Stories, Or Writing About Something Other Than High School. A Lot Has Happened To Me Since I Was Eighteen.

This Is The Problem With Dealing With Someone Who Is Actually A Good Listener. They Don’t Jump In On Your Sentences, Saving You From Actually Finishing Them, Or Talk Over You, Allowing What You Do Manage To Get Out To Be Lost Or Altered In Transit. Instead, They Wait, So You Have To Keep Going.

Best Friends. And I Thought Of What She Had Done All The Millions Of Times I Cried To Her, Collapsing At Even The Slightest Wounding Of My Heart Or Pride. So I Reached Over And Pulled Her To Me, Wrapping My Arms Around Her, And Held My Best Friend Close, Returning So Many Favors All At Once.