moments before bed

Just so you know, you're watching Idiocracy on the big screen and set up this weird cardboard stand for the smaller monitor. You're feeling pretty clever right now. And hungry. And tired. It's late and you should be asleep.

So you're not going to watch the whole movie. You're just seeing if this new set-up works.

Plus your stomach hurts.

This is such a waste of time. All you want is to say that right now your life is good. Knock on wood, your life is good. And you're not bragging. You just want to record the fact that the past week has been nice. Not sure... The movie is distracting you. So that's that. The strip club was awesome. You saw Kayla. You went to a party -- yeah, what the fuck, right? -- and didn't stay long but you talked to people. Done.

UPDATE: You and Bryce are looking to cancel Comcast because they upped the prices (newest bill was 120 bucks, twenty more than last month, and 70 of that was just for television -- and you don't even watch television). So that might stop this blog short, lest you figure a way to write while at school, but you already know that's kind of awkward.

Okay. Good night.

first of the last

It's funny because you don't really want to write right now. You're fine just listing to Only Son and stumbling aimlessly across the internet. But yet here you are. Each sentence forced out, rewritten, edited. Painfully. Slowly. Your fingers are pretending like they're sore, tired, like they don't want to type. Like they just want to do nothing. Shut up fingers, you say, shut up and work through it. Pretend like you're playing Guitar Hero.

"Brand New Broken Heart"

Or maybe it's your brain. Your body. You're tired. Your brain doesn't want to work this hard. Making words. Forming sentences. Kind of. Short snippets of thoughts. This is your brain on school. This is your brain on two hits of pot. This is your brain after one of the most unique weeks of your college education, ever. Ever, ever, ever. This is why you're writing -- OH YEAH! -- because this is the last first week of your first last year of college. The first week of your last year, my friend in the future. This week was a transition. Next week the ball starts rolling. For the last time. Seriously. Like -- forever. So don't fuck it up, you.

"Quiet Surrender"

Matt Raute. What the fuck, right? A guy you weren't especially friends with -- more of a friend of a friend thing -- during highschool -- and he calls you up last year and tells you he's transferring to SSU. He shows up a few months after that and wants to hang out, wants to know where's good to live, wants to know what I'm up to. No dialogue passing between us for months. You're remembering this now because you probably wouldn't have ever thought about Matt Raute again if you didn't walk by him this morning, before class. He was there with Terran (spelling?), a girl from highschool who was also a friend of a friend of a friend. Layers over layers. Terran is definitely not how you spell her name, but it sounds like that -- you think. She didn't say anything to you today. For a second there you thought Matt was going to actually complain about or refer to the fact we never talked since he'd transferred -- and you did feel guilty, which is why you suggested meeting at The Pub for a beer (make that two) before our five o' clock classes.

Thanks to Sean Gohara, you talked to a girl on the bus for a good fifteen minutes.

"Sleepyface"

Emma Smales. What the fuck, right? For whatever reason, friendships suddenly disappear. Laziness is your excuse, most of the time. After moving to Santa Rosa in 2007 you immediately alienated yourself from your SSU friends and your (now) ex-girlfriend. While you can't break up with your friends like you broke up with Amy, you can still fall into an odd gray area where life took you both in different routes. You're not the same person after six months. Seven. You're not the same person you were one month ago. Emma was not the same person. Familiar, someone you care about, yes. You care about all of your friends. But she's older. She's got different friends. But so do you, so what did you expect? Your life is totally different now. At least through humor and reminiscing and the distractions of others seated with us in The Pub (including Matt Raute), there was not a bit of awkwardness. There's a "thing" on Saturday that you really should go to. But, um, yeah -- that paragraph was about the time you ran into Emma after not seeing her for so long that you didn't expect to ever see her again.

"Long Live The Future"

You're also giving your new friend Rachel a lot of attention. You don't know what that's about, yet, and even now -- today -- August 28, 2008 -- you don't know if you're attracted to her or want a new friend or just enjoy talking to her... And Kevin from ETLIST and L & C is the one who really made you think about what you're doing, about how it's "the first week of school" and "you're already going after the ladies." Kevin is the more mature and older version of Garrett Sucatre, from highschool. That better still make sense to you in the future, Future Me, because that's the only way to describe him and only you will get the reference. But anyway, you were talking about Rachel -- glasses with short dark-red/black hair and a relateable disinterest in school Rachel -- and maybe you wrote about that because you'll find this stuff interesting in the future. Past crushes. If this is a crush. You don't know. You're just trying to be more social and you prefer to socialize with women. Kevin's cool, though. It's nice to have someone also taking L & C and ETLIST back-to-back with you. But fuck off if it isn't impossible to know how old a person it this year! Jessica from the bus could very well be 25 or 26, although she looks like a sophomore. No offense, Jessica. But the more you talk with her on the bus, the more you realize that she's gone through some shit -- just like everyone else you've been meeting (which is maybe why Rachel is appealing because she seems to have the same casual white middle-class upbringing that left you with very little traumatic memories) -- and been going to SSU for six years already.

Now you're listening to The Whitest Boy Alive again.

"Burning"

You're taking a class on aliens. And the history of the Hawaiin Islands (you learned five new words today and the names of the five volcanoes that make up the Big Island).

Light and Color could be a legit physics class, but probably not.

Shakespeare's holding you back from a totally bullshit semester. Not to say you won't learn some interesting tidbits and factoids, like stuff you could use during Trivial Pursuit. Your alien class might substitute for a real creative writing class, turns out, which is sort of awesome in a whole bunch of ways. Guess you'll get someone to read your stuff after all. Feedback helps, even on short little assignments. Hone those skills, boy, because you ain't got anything else going for you except knowing how to make a cappuccino.

"Done With You"

That was fun. I'm glad I wrote tonight. A fucking hour or two just went by and I only took five hits from the bong. I didn't even get up.

Well, you broke out of the second person for a moment but you don't want to fix it.

Then you erased this compliment you gave Chuck Palahniuk. It was dumb, don't worry.

So now you're done. Maybe. You're gonna take another hit and then think if there was anything else worth talking about. No. That's it. Maybe. Yeah... well I guess what's on my mind, your mind at this point in time, is if any of the people you've met this week will become out-of-school friends. You know it's true that if you don't meet people during the first two weeks, you'll have a hard time making it happen. This year, you really do feel like you've been pushing your usual social limits. Just quit being so self concious, someday, if not soon, because it's fucking annoying to go to the bathroom every hour to make sure my hair's not all flat and ugly -- just get a haircut already. Just keep brushing your teeth and using deodorant.

You'll be fine. Just go that that "thing" on Saturday if you don't want to lose all of your friends forever.

Out.

chapter three

Names to remember: Rachel from LIGHT AND COLOR, Kelly from ETLIST, Jessica from THE BUS HOME, Maddy from SHAKESPEARE, and to sit with Lindsey from OUT OF NOWHERE.

You also just finished re-reading Lullaby and have started re-reading Fight Club.

You're kind of in that phase right now.

You're Chris Fryer the student, now. It's an entirely different you. A summer goes by when all you did was smoke pot and watch movies and work and lounge, lounge, lounge... you forget what it's like to sit in a classroom. Go over the syllabus. Introduce ourselves. The meet-and-greets of the first days are over, now. You've leapt off the diving board. You're swimming in it now. Literally. With school and work running side-by-side, you're immersed. No more full days of nothing. No more trips to the river, unless it's on Sunday. No more staying up past your bedtime for no reason. Not as much coming home stoned after work at 3:00 AM. Not as much being stoned overall, most likely.

But fuck all that. Alyssa got fired.

Monday, the official last day of summer, and the official last page of 2008: Chapter Two, and the chapter ends on a plot-twist that no one could have seen coming. You went into work like normal around 3:00 PM and Michelle pulls you aside and says, "Alyssa got fired," and tells you to read the note they posted on the whiteboard in the back. It says she didn't pay for her food. It says they need to fire her to send a message. To prove they will drop the axe on any of us. At any moment. For the stupidest shit. Better yet, they'll fire you for stupid shit that you didn't even do. Alyssa paid for her food after coming inside from smoking a cigarette. The money is in the register. The food is paid for. No harm done at all. She's fired -- swear to God this is true so don't think you were crazy or anything because this really happened two days ago, I promise you, me, and us -- she's fired because she didn't pay for the food BEFORE she started to make it, before she put the cheese and pesto on the bread and tossed her sandwich into the oven.

And you don't know who you're writing this for. You, obviously, but you feel like it's necesary to write it down. Catalogue the event. Even though you know that life will go on. The sad truth is that life will keep going. It's like A'romas hit a patch of rapids while rafting and Alyssa fell out of the boat. Splash. Just like that, snap of the fingers quick, she's gone. Forever, probably. Although she'll probably stop by now and then like Mario. Shayna. AJ.

That plot-twist marked the end of summer and the next day you woke up and took the bus to school. Physics: Light and Sound, Astronomy: Extraterrestial Life / Interstellar Travel, Geology: The Natural History of the Hawaiin Islands, English: Intro to Shakespeare. All good classes. You've met a few people. Girls, you notice. Funny...

Now you're out of steam. So, that's all for now.

nights like tonight

See... and then nights like tonight... you really do want to move to Denver. You really do want to start over. Start fresh. Right now it would be okay if tomorrow you drove to the airport and left California. Left school, left work, left your friends, left your apartment, left your Jeep, left your bills, left your stuff, left your life. Now that your credit card is nearly paid off, the idea isn't so far-fetched. You've just got two more semesters of college and the gates open, my friend. Here's to hoping we made it that long, Future Me. Because right now you're thinking you need the Denver Plan. You need it the way drifting shipwreck survivors need to see dry land.

Ctrl A, Crtl X, Ctrl N, Ctrl V.

Just like that you'll be at square one. Older, wiser... Fresh.

It makes sense that you'd feel this way now. Heartbreak is a killer. You've felt your share of it, shy boy, because you're still too timid. Not shy, no. You'd hardly call yourself shy these days, having broken out of that shell over the years. But you're reserved. No. Not too much. You flirt. Everyone flirts. You don't flirt the right way. Dropping hints and teasing her... Bryce called it "planting seeds" and that's something you don't do. Not hardly at all, really. You don't feel unique anymore because a lot of guys experience the friendship trap syndrome. So it's not cool to be a lot of girls' closest guy friend. Because you probably aren't. It's frustrating when you like a girl. It's so frustrating.

Fuck that. Stop talking about it.

You don't want to remember heartbreaks.

But you write this out and you speak your mind because it feels good to let go. And now you're going to get high and eat a bowl of frosted flakes and just try to step back. Be happy you're alive. You feel like you're in a low point in your life right now, it's been feeling a little lackluster around these parts, but soon that'll go away. School's going to be a bitch but it'll be a new adventure. Your credit is looking much better. You have food in the fridge. So mostly everything is good. Just keep your head up, You. Someday you'll look back on this part of your life and marvel at the sort of stuff you used to let bother you. Right now you're reading this and thinking about a hundred other things you stressed out about since then. It's all a part of life. Nothing is consistently good forever. Emotions fluctuate. You have to adapt.

Ebb and flow.

eighteen minute post

Last night you bought Madden 09 because a Snickers deal saved you eight bucks at 7-11. Last night you drank Russian vodka. Last night you thought a lot about Denver and why the plan lacks the appeal it did before. Last night you watched Half Baked for the second time. Last night you got stoned. Last night you got your financial aid check (and this morning you paid off $1,433.18 of your credit card). Last night you worked on an art project you plucked out of Half-Life 2. Last night you stayed up obnoxiously late until the aforementioned art project was complete (and this morning you hung it up above the door). Last night you were worried you'd feel bored and lonely but it turned out to be just right.

You're only writing this to kill some time before work. You're driving today. Someone almost stole your hat when it flew off your head as you biked across the Range / Guerneville intersection. Amy stopped by to kill some time before she went to work -- she's gone now -- and she brought you hot chocolate and a pizza bagel.

This is what bothers you about the Denver Plan: it's not your plan.

The idea is you'll move to Denver and stay with your uncle, Brett, and his wife, Megan, while being hooked up with a job in Megan's father's advertising company (or some media-connected field like that). But the matter-of-fact way that your mom reminds you of how it's going to play out is what distresses you. You hate it. You hate that you hate it, too. Denver is cool. You've been there a few times, now, and you know you like the city. It's like the Seattle of the Rockies. Sure, you hate the Broncos and will probably get stabbed on the street for wearing a Raiders shirt, but that's okay. Denver seems like a place you'd enjoy living, and you totally know that. But still...

You remind yourself how much A'romas (or any coffeeshop) is a temporary, transitional job. It's the college job. It's not a career. It's a starting point. A place to meet people and not take life too seriously. When you graduate it will be time to really figure out what the next step is. In your vision of the future, you work simple side jobs and write novels. But that won't happen right away. And do you really want to keep the status quo as it has been? Living paycheck to paycheck? You know this is going to be a hard pill to swallow.

Now you have to go to work.

alyssa and melinda

Here's a memory you really don't want to forget, considering how surreal it felt. You went to work tonight at 8:00 PM, the first real thing you'd done all day, and that was nothing special -- just a chance to let out some of that pent-up energy from the past two days. Work ends, 'nuff said. You're down to go smoke with Carissa after you drop off Alyssa -- which was the original plan -- but then Carissa says that Alyssa (20-ounce-breve-hot-chocolate-with-whip Alyssa) wants to have us over to smoke and see her apartment. You're in no position to decline a new experience and you agree without hesitation to meet back at the A'romas parking lot after taking Alyssa (the coworker) home and picking up two forties from 711. Midnight rolls around and you all head your separate ways. Oh, and you let Alyssa drive herself home because she passed her permit test on Wednesday and, gosh darnit, you couldn't say no to her.

Half hour later you follow Carissa out of the A'romas parking lot thinking you had a far way to drive, but then you're pulling over down the street -- less than a block from work -- and parking in front of this old building that recently became a bicycle shop after a failed clothing store. Now you're looking up at the balcony that overlooks the road on the second-floor of this building and there's breve-hot-chocolate Alyssa waving down to you. She actually lives up there. And you're not even going to remember exactly how awesome this place was. Imagine that bachelor pad apartment you dreamed about renting in some big city, and then blow your mind by actually meeting the people who rent an apartment that, more or less, exactly matches your dream home.

The staircase is a thin, too-vertical climb with steps that creak and moan like demonic piano keys. The first room is a dark laundry area with an obnoxious amount of doors leading to unknown places, hallways or secrets. You've been in love since you parked on the road. You're following Alyssa through the tour like she's guiding you through a virtual recreation of what you someday hope of having. The tiny last-minute-thought kitchen off to the side of the empty dining room with hardwood floors and white peeled-paint arches and beams -- everything from the 1940's and showing age, yet sturdy and homely. The scatterbrained assortment of chairs and knick-knacks all over the place. The headless, armless, legless mannequin. The food porn coffee-table book. The two bedrooms with the shared bathroom. Access to the flat gravel-coated rooftop with an incredibly open view of the stars. High ceilings. An unkempt and unorganized look to the place that makes you feel more comfortable than being somewhere too tidy. You know from the instant you step inside that these are the kind of people you want to be friends with. And, maybe because you loved the apartment so much and wanted to someday return, you were seriously on your conversation game tonight. Carissa even complimented you on it when you guys went to Jack in the Box afterward.

You know what that's like -- when you're the perfect mix of stoned, buzzed, and hyper and an unusual amount of comfort and energy seems to sharpen your wit.

Alyssa and her roommate, Melinda, were good hosts. Melinda and Alyssa would both qualify as two of the most attractive girls you've had good conversations with. And you're a harsh judge when it comes to how you think a conversation went. You usually pick up on negative vibes and back out of it, quickly, when the conversation goes wrong -- especially with an attractive girl -- and the same goes for how you respond when it goes right. Like tonight, when you were talking to just Melinda (the other two were having a cigarette break) you had that "Oh fuck I'm really stoned I don't even know if I'm making any sense Can she even understand the words coming out of my mouth Am I too quiet Too loud Too weird She's not laughing Focus Focus Focus" moments, which often causes a minor panic attack when you're the wrong mixture of high and low, but tonight you pushed through it. Literally. You literally remember having those pessimistic thoughts in your head and you remember telling yourself to step back, focus on what you're saying out loud, and find some cohesive point to this conversation. You talked about ways she might make the apartment more homely -- as Melinda confessed she still didn't feel like this place was her home... When it was the four of you together you felt totally comfortable -- not awkward in the slightest -- which helped you stay vocal. If only you could figure out how to tap into that confidence every time you went out... Alyssa reminded you a lot of Jillian -- who quit -- who is simultaneously sweet and rough in her demeanor. Melinda was more relaxed and played along with your stoned ramblings about making the apartment more homely, which almost became a competition between us of who could have the dryer sarcasm.

This is why you started this blog. You want to remember nights like this one. You don't always go out. You don't always meet new people. The day to day stuff is pretty boring in the long run. But when you end up going to a customer's apartment for the first time with one of your best friends from work and relaxing while passing around the bong and talking about cooking, about books, about music, and then go get 2:00 AM Jack in the Box... Those are the nights you want to remember the most. Nights you feel like you made a positive and memorable impression on strangers who could become friends. You were high. You were all high. So that has to be taken into account when you figure if your conversation had any worth -- you remember all agreeing that a trampoline-sized drum would be awesome because someone could dance on it while also playing the drums -- but at the time, during the experience, the dialogue was good. That's what matters, now, looking back. Like choosing between the fish or the chicken side of the meat category, singing along to "Don't Worry Be Happy," guesstimating that memorizing twenty meal-sized recipes qualifies you as a "chef" as opposed to a "pretty good cook," how you write fiction but enjoy writing fiction that pretends like it's non-fiction -- and the ensuing confusion over which meant what...

It all fades so quickly. You're glad you got as much written as you did.

Oh, and Bryce got his HD camera. That's the start of another adventure entirely.

two : thirteen a. m.

Bob Coleman recognized you from the platform when you stopped by A'romas today. He called out your name and you turned and saw him, still looking like Don King, sitting with some other professor. Now you're not about to pretend like you didn't just make eye contact with the guy, so you hold tight to your coffee cup and scurry across the coffeeshop to say hello. And what does he say? You can't remember now, but it was something like "You're lucky I let you pass my class, you ungrateful shit, and I know you didn't read any of Jane Austen's books -- you didn't even buy them. So let's just make sure THAT'S the last thing we ever talk about." And you probably just got that vibe because you were riding the endtails of an earlier high, so you do whatever you can to get away.

Blink, gone, you're going home.

You wasted an obnoxious amount of time working on a blog / story concept that came out alright but didn't turn out as satisfying as you hoped. Hours wasted. That has never been a feeling you've enjoyed, but it's one you're used to. False starts. Fucking false starts. Not that it didn't help pass the time. Now that you've flushed all that out of your system, though, you find that it's already 2:00 AM and you're not that tired. Just now you erased five sentences in which you confessed to being high and then tried to validate it. But it was dumb rambling.

All you wanted was to talk about seeing Coleman at A'romas. Oh, and you paid Carissa back. And all your checks are in the mail and your paycheck was a high average, so you're feeling financially comfortable. Bryce warned you that you might get kicked out of school on September 9th if those tuition fees aren't paid off. But you honestly don't know the first thing about how your education is being paid for, so like you've done the past three years, you're going to do nothing about it. Here's to hoping those aren't famous last words.

Not much else is going on in these parts. Ashley is trying to get "The Crew" together for a paintballing expedition before Aaron goes back to France. That would be a lot of fun, you're sure of that, but you feel like those friends have given up on you. Not all the way. Not yet. But you did decline a handful of chances to hang out with them over the summer because of one reason or another. People pay attention to that. Friendships are work. It's just that more often than not, you feel the happiest in your apartment with your stuff and your hobbies.

Okay. That's all. You really have nothing to say. Okay. Done.

(UPDATE: the next morning you woke up to check out your class schedule on CMS and your "Total Due Now" amount was replaced with "You have no outstanding charges," which means the 2,100 some odd dollars I owed for tuition was magically taken care of. Again. I'll be expecting the bill after I graduate...)

tuesday at noon

Last night you made a pancake in the oven inside of a brownie pan. A blueberry pancake smothered in butter. Then you played go-fish on the kitchen floor. You're thinking about when you cleaned the kitchen floor Cinderalla-style on your hands and knees with a sponge. And how cleaning up can really alter a person's attitude if they're ever feeling a little off-put by their existence. A way to keep order. Organization. As much as you like to say that you just go with the flow, that you're not inclined to plan anything long-term, you feel a whole lot better when your bed is made. Anyway, you're a little stoned, so don't bother finding meaning in this entry. You are writing this exactly one week before you start your senior year at Sonoma State. The last hurdle before you really find out what reality feels like.

There's really nothing to say. But because you already put this much effort into writing an entry, you'll just let it stay. Who knows? You could have stopped smoking pot because of some future life choice, and now that you're reading this... you're getting a nostalgic feeling that brings a little smile to your face. Making pancakes in the oven... You crazy bastard. Or maybe you'll just shake your head and wonder how you managed to tie your shoes every morning, being stoned half the time. Either way. There you have it. Some stoned ramblings.

Um...

Okay, that's all.

the denver plan

You're listening to: The Whitest Boy Alive - "Burning"

Michelle called you this morning around 11:00 and you're pretty sure she just wanted you to drive her to the bank, although she couldn't quite come to say it. You're thinking that maybe all the really bizarre arguments you had with Amy have scarred your conversation skills. At least on the phone. Talking to Michelle reminded you of the feeling that you weren't saying the right things on cue and weren't taking the conversation where she wanted. Frustrated with you, she quickly ended the conversation. This all seemed way too familiar.

Then again, it could be in your head. Maybe you just assume it was a bad conversation because, when you were with Amy, that was a bad conversation. Almost word for word. And the tone of disappointment, like each word is followed by a sigh, was coming through pretty well.

So that was weird.

Sean called you last night. You talked for an hour. At first you were like, "Oh... I'm just being lazy... I don't know if I want to talk right now," and then after a while you realized that friends like Sean are rare and if you keep being so lazy about all your friendships, you'll lose them. So we theorized about social interactions and discussed life philosophy and plotted out an idea for a book we might co-author. You're wondering if you'll find a chance to visit him. You think about the Denver Plan and you're reminded of how much that feels like the Real First Step in your life and how unprepared you are. Sean was talking about getting an apartment in New York City after college. That's a surreal thought, but mostly because it doesn't fit with the Denver Plan, and your mind is pretty set on the Denver Plan.

The Whitest Boy Alive is your new Mellowdrone.

You were happy to hear that Sean is experiencing some of the same feelings as you were at this age. He has more focus on meeting girls and being a productive socialite than you. But that's always been the case. You've never really dedicated much attention to the pursuit of women. So far you're okay with that. You're put off by how much effort it takes. Look at how you reacted to that conversation with Michelle -- and she's a friend from work, not a girlfriend, not a girl you intend on dating. You're not ready for that. Plus, that goddamn Denver Plan is a constant cock-block. What's the point of meeting a girl if you're moving to another state in ten months?

Anyway, you're gonna run out of weed today. Congratulations. Or maybe you'll save a little for tomorrow. Really it depends on whether or not Michelle hangs out after 6:00, before you go back to work at 8:00. And if Alyssa's cashed, too, then you might smoke the rest with her. That might be good for you. Clean out tonight and start fresh tomorrow. No more buying. Not for a while. Not until all the bills' checks clear. Keep your head about you when school starts next Tuesday. You woke up this morning at 9:30 and realized that you would have probably gotten up earlier and caught the bus to school by now, since a usual Monday schedule has you going to class at 10:00 every Monday and Wednesday morning.

You think you'll be able to handle the commute -- the bus, the bike, the busy days, the addition of homework -- and yet at the same time you're pretty sure it's going to be hell.

where are you?

Well that's three times you've started and erased this entry. Should you even bother with one today? This feels like entirely useless blabbering, now. And it is. It really is. But now you're kind of enjoying it. What will this be like to read in the future? Can you remember what it was like to be stoned, sitting with your back against the wall and your legs stretched forward on your bed, tucked away underneath the staircase in that small loft you rented with Bryce in Santa Rosa? Where are you now, Chris Fryer? Are you still living the same lifestyle? Do you still have the same friends? Do you remember that loft in Santa Rosa? The checkered blanket you had hung up underneath the staircase like a canopy over your bed. The movie-ticket collage. The poster you drew of the reindeer looking at a bird. The nightstand by your bed made of plastic milk crates and duct-tape. The 32 inch flat screen TV that put you in debt -- do you still have that TV? The Xbox 360. The Gateway PC. The little videocamera. Do you still have any of that?

What about...

The entertainment center Amy bought for you from the Thrift Store. The iPod. The black ottoman chair you're surprised you've held onto for so long. Do you still use that alarm clock that you've had since freshman year of highschool? Could you have even held onto that blue trashcan you remember Nancy giving to you for free? It would make a good trashcan for the bathroom... And do you still have that apple juice jar full of loose change? That 'born' poster you copied off of the wall in Half Life 2. That Shel Silverstein poem you posterized and framed. That map of Liberty City. The stuff board... And what about that $45 dollar mint-green couch you bought from the Thrift Store (still one of your favorite purchases, up there with the TV and computer)? That's the first couch you ever bought. How many of those DVD's do you still have? Did you hold onto that bike or did you have to give it back? What ended up happening with the Jeep Cherokee? Do you still sleep with the same blankets and pillows? The same mattress and bed-frame?

Are you the same person you are now, just older?