FBI-Pod

I love my iPod. I love it so much that I'll make sure the "i" is not capitalized, but the "P" is. I love my iPod. I (surprisingly) haven't named it, but I love it.
(This is obviously not an actual photo of MY iPod, because:
1. I probably would not have this song on my iPod at this very second, and
2. My camera had a fatal run-in with a whole lot of sand while I was in Ireland, but that's another story altogether.)

Anyway, my iPod is great. Reliable. iPod mini, 1st generation. Older, gray, and a little dull, but it does everything I need it to. And it was the first one with the click wheel!

And the thing that make me most excited about my iPod is that...I can listen to it...and nobody else has ANY CLUE WHAT I AM LISTENING TO. It's amazing. I can listen to the Backstreet Boys. I can listen to High School Musical 2. I can listen to "MMMBop" the entire 15 minutes it takes me to cross campus, and NOBODY KNOWS. It's great.

(Disclaimer: Yes, I understand the idea of "good" music. I play music. And if you catch me on a good day, I might even listen to this "good" music of yours. It's just that whenever I listen to music, I tend to lean towards...junk. You're dealing with a girl who could eat pizza every day and thinks that anything is a well-balanced meal if you add a glass of chocolate milk. You shouldn't be surprised.)

I love that I can listen to guilty pleasure tunes on my iPod.

However, my relationship with the iPod craze took a drastic turn while I was in Europe.

And I'm going to blame it on the tektonic kids.

The tektonic kids, with their fauxhawks and neon clothes and flashy dance moves, have this really awful habit of letting everyone else on the bus listen to their music. They play MP3s on their cell phones. They carry tiny little speakers. And they have IN/OUT headphones, especially created to let you and everyone around you hear their techno beats.

I wasn't a huge fan of the tektonic kids when I spent most of my time riding buses around Dijon.

So here I am, sitting in the library, when another student comes and sits down next to me. He's got an iPod. He puts in his ear buds, turns it on, and turns up his music reeeeal loud. Oh boy.

Okay, I've got to admit, his music is pretty good, but doesn't he KNOW what he's missing out on? Doesn't he KNOW about the joy of top secret aural entertainment?

It's okay, iPod. I get it. My secret's safe with you.




And for your viewing pleasure...

TEKTONIC

I must have walked the same path hundreds of times. Hayden Lawn. Past the MU. Right at the motorcycle lot. Past Irish B. Left at the stop sign. Walk past Best. Cross the street in front of the IHOP.

I am starting my senior year at ASU and I still feel like the same girl from three years ago. Sure, I've got memories that accompany all of these places. Singing under the stars. Early morning walks back from Hayden Library. Saying "goodbye", and trusting that God would turn it into "until we meet again". Laughing. Relearning how to ride a bike. Lighting birthday candles in the courtyard. Smoking hookah on the lawn. Oversleeping and rushing off to class.

I'm the same girl, but everything is completely different. I still feel the same. I still feel like I'm seventeen, but the faces and the stories have changed. The location remains the same.

I can't believe how quickly the time has passed. I can't believe that I'm nearing the end. And I can't believe that I feel like the same girl, after all that has changed.

Fireworks

I'm back in Arizona. It feels good. I'm happy to be back with my friends and my puppy. I'm happy to be living in my house and eagerly awaiting the return of my roommates. I feel at home, which is somewhere I haven't been for a long time.

Fireworks make me miss you. I used to cry when I saw them, because I worried for you. I used to cry much more than I do now. I almost couldn't bear to wake up on patriotic holidays, because every country song brought tears to my eyes. I couldn't wait for you to get home. I couldn't wait to tell you about all the times I had seen fireworks without you and how you were the only person with whom I could have truly enjoyed them.

I missed you at every fireworks show, every sporting event, every holiday party, every family gathering, every wedding. I feasted on lies of how you would be there someday, and all the waiting would have been worth the wasted years of missing you.

I wasn't here for 4th of July last year. I was in Namibia and I didn't see any fireworks. I'm sure I must have thought of you, if only for a quick second. I'm sure I must have said a prayer for your safety. But without the fireworks, it was easier not to miss you. It was easier to admit that you were gone, that you weren't mine anymore; it was easier to accept that you weren't coming back.

I saw fireworks tonight and I missed you for a short while. I was on the roof with my friends. You know them. Hot monsoon winds whipped my hair into my face, and I held down the hem of my skirt with my fist. I still miss you, but it's different now. The sentiment is less tinged with fear and more with nostalgia. I once carried a dull, heavy ache for you. The wounds you left have faded into pinkish scars.

I finally feel like I'm living in Arizona on my own terms. This city has lost the scent of your clothes and the tempo of your step. I no longer hear echoes of your accent in the places we once shared our lives.

I'm hoping to smile at the fireworks I'll see on New Year's Eve. I'm hoping that your phantom smile will have left me in six months' time.