What Is My Voice?

The only difference between how I use this blog and how I used Xanga when I was 14 is the form of my outlet. Instead of simple paragraphs, I write verses. Is that censorship? Only Future Andrew can decide, I suppose. Hey, Future Andrew. Hope things are better on your side, because right now, life's pretty uncertain.

"What Is My Voice?"

DO I HAVE A VOICE?

Well, of course I do,

but I guess the more interesting question is

does my voice matter?

IS MY VOICE WORTH USING?

Probably.

Perhaps not every person in the world

needs to hear what I have to say,

but for one person at least,

it's worth hearing.

No matter how

quietly small

my whisper

may seem,

I still

I still

HAVE A VOICE.

Do you care about another child

born of immigrant parents?

Do you want to hear the bellows

of another American

who grows up learning

that the "American dream"

is so much more than a goal?

Can you stand

the murmurs and

odd complaints of

my loud mouth

while looking at my slanted eyes

as both communicate to you

the fervor of my plight?

Do you think I have a plight?

AM I A VICTIM?

Or am I like you,

my fellow citizens,

just doing my thang

like any other citizen would?

Do I have things about which

to complain

other than people ending their

clauses with prepositions?

I have food in my stomach

and my parents' hard work supports me,

their sweat results in my penchant

to complain

or work harder

to feed my own children

(should I have any).

DO I HAVE A REASON TO COMPLAIN

OR SHOULD I QUIETLY COUNT MY BLESSINGS

AND ACCEPT HOW COMFORTABLE MY LIFE IS

(relative to others')?

Do I have a voice?

Or am I just another privileged

American

surviving from the charity

other Americans endowed upon my parents?

What responsibilities do I have?

To what duties must I adhere

and by what code of ethics

must my decisions be guided?

I am the m-word,

the manifestation of

"East meets West"

-or, to be fair,

"West meets East."

Does that identity engrave upon me

certain expectations?

Well, yeah. Duh.

Of course it does.

But which ones?

By whose expectations must I live?

WHAT IS MY VOICE?

Does it belong in the discourse

of injustice

or am I just

another Vietnamese boy

overwhelmed by how different

life was supposed to be?

WHAT IS MY VOICE?

WHAT IS MY VOICE?

What is my excuse?

March 11, 2012

Ending the Wrong Way

I'd like to admit to myself

that the only problem with me

is lack of you,

but it's more than that.

It's my tendency to

at

tach so well

and detach so unwell.

So deep is the depth

of my affection

that the thought of you brings both

smiles and sadness.

I have never looked so happy

while feeling so

empty.

Or I could be less direct

and say:

I am in a plastic coffin

looking out to you,

our hands nearly clasped together,

palm-on-palm,

but so much still separates us.

Or I am at the bottom of a well,

fallen for you (did I really?),

and looking up above.

The ground is like heaven,

and you are the angel

who cannot save me.

But it's not as simple as

a goddamn metaphor,

and what I met you for,

no longer is enough.

Prepositions and propositions be damned.

It's always been easier to complain

than act

because action means one step closer

to goodbye.

March 8, 2012

Notes:

The title is a reference to how relationships end as well as ending independent clauses with prepositions. I also dislike cliches, so the parenthetical (did I really?) could be taken as a question of my "true love" for this "angel" or as someone who is reading the poem might react to the overused pun on "falling for" someone. "Did he really just use that?" I also talk about wells and depth both as an emotional measurement as well was a physical measurement. I purposely mix depth and distance to give a warped sense of spatial orientation. I also intentionally ended with "goodbye" to point out its irony with respect to the title.

Goodbye

There are so many
beautiful pictures
because there are so many
beautiful things.

Like the rain on a windowsill,
while the sun still peeks behind
grey blanket-clouds,

or the movement
of a cat's yawn
before it stretches,

or the deep inhalation
as you're on the precipice
of something great,

or stumbling
over a small rock
and catching my balance again,
my sheepish smile screams for
a forgiveness that you've already given
by your chuckle,

or a tightening of my arms
around a branch
that may or may not
support the weight
I've gained this last year,

or my toes
and how they melt
into the sand
and melt out again,

or thinking there's silence
when really
a brook whispers softly nearby
and realizing it's been
speaking to you the whole time,

or a candid reunion
from a long-ago lover
who listens intently
and laughs loudly
like time told her to,

or hair freckled with snow
before it's freckled with droplets,

or the contentedness
of a dog to share a bed with you
and your book,

or the turning-off of a light
that waits to be alive again,

or the feeling of cold water
on a cold day
when the coldness of my friends
could not refresh me enough,

or a savory sirloin
on an empty stomach
at midnight,

or unneeded candlelight
at a modern dinner
with only the glow of company
for vision,

or the moment of understanding
of anything,

or the moment of happiness
even when I don't understand,

or silence,
real silence,

or sometimes, being alone,

or a book
that still smells like our last goodbye.



December 16, 2011

Dihydrated Rium

Beneath the once-turquoise pebbles
are the other pebbles,
more real and as much a part of the
aquarium as water should be.
A stalk of dry bamboo leans against
a large rock
and the transparent wall.

I look into my own eyes
and through them.
I blink and see them swimming.
Kermit
and Miss Piggy
I've named them,
their webbed feet paddling
in what I can only assume
is content.
The consensus between us is reached:
I feed and they teach
me how to be ambivalent.
Just two, just two.
My palm rests above the lid,
fingers gripping the top,
clutching their see-through home
in the clasp that usually feeds them.
They gasp and scurry in the water
as much as you can scurry or gasp in water,
and are as confused
as you can be confused in water -
confusing
water.
I blink,
and my own eyes stare through themselves again.

Turquoise fades to grey,
and dust coats the lid
that covers only rocks
and a desiccated bamboo stalk.

I'm Not Here

I'm not here
to give you one of those rants
about how life is perfect and nature is beautiful,
how
the sound of silence in a forest
can be the most beautiful thing you ever hear,
or how
the air you breath beside a the ocean
flows straight through the lining
of your lungs
and into your soul.

I'm not here
to tell you that
a moment alone with redwoods
is like being a child again
among adults,
as if their presence alone
is all the security you need from harm's way.

I'm not here
to describe at your leisure
the drowning sounds of a waterfall
on a trail beaten only by deer
and the sound of water in your ears,
or how that moment
is the same as losing yourself
and finding yourself.

I'm not here
to teach you
how to enjoy a rainy day,
whether it's opening your arms
in a thunderstorm to embrace
the millions of water-kisses
on your body,
or wading warmly in your thoughts
to the background music
of nature's shushing,
quieting you and letting you love
yourself by yourself.

I'm not here.
I am there,
and I'm asking you to join me.

Andrew's Short Story (Part 4)

Read Part 1 and then Part 2 and then Part 3.

For the next few months after meeting Vivian twice, Andrew saw her sparingly. They had mutual friends and they saw each other at church a few times, but it was nothing serious. She was in town for college, but in addition, her parents had also moved back, so the family was still getting used to the Bay Area. Andrew was more than happy to take Vivian to places that had sprung up since she moved away, or that she had never known in the first place. His dates with her were platonic, but he always got ready for them as if they were romantic.

I wish I could say that after a year or two of Andrew and Vivian mostly minding their own business while still getting coffee or lunch monthly, they began to come closer to love, but that’s not quite truthful. They drifted apart naturally. Hanging out once a month became once every other month, a couple of times a year, and by the end of four years, they had stopped being friends and shifted their relationship in between “acquaintances” and truly “friends.” It is the purgatory you put dozens of people you know, but it is a purgatory wherein they have also placed you. This mutual purgatory enrollment is a natural passing of time. As social as we can be, it is unreasonable to sustain emotional involvement with as many people as we often wish. Andrew and Vivian were something more than acquaintances, but something much less than friends. It was also something that happened with their tacit consent.

It’s a pattern with Andrew. He isn’t a go-getter, a goal-grabber or any other alliterative and hyphenated term that reminds people of broken dreams. Once he sniffs defeat, he acquiesces. He wanted to be an actor once, but he faced reality and settled for a major in engineering. He wanted to be a writer, too, but found that his works lacked the quality he expected of others. He wanted to be with Vivian, to care for her, to hold her and do all those things he supposed were standard in a loving relationship. He wanted so many things, but when it seemed highly unlikely, he decided to take the safer route. Better to avoid defeat and remain undefeated.

This, however, held no bearing on his personality. He was as charming as a garden snake in Eden, but his fall from grace would not stifle his joy in life one bit. He accepted all of life, the good and the bad, and believed heartily and merrily that things will just somehow work out. He is naïve, but he knows it and doesn’t care. It’s easier not to care about your shortcomings than to deal with them, and at the very least, his positive qualities outnumbered his negative ones, in his mind. He didn’t consider that while they may outnumber his negative qualities, they may not outweigh them.

Actually, he did, but it was much later than the time period we’re talking about now, which is a few years after he met Stacy. I mean Vivian. I have no idea who Stacy is. Sorry.

Remember what I said about Andrew not always accomplishing his goals? It applies to his writing. This story began with Andrew’s story, and a few years later, he had not even finished that story. He still had no idea where he was going with it. Did he want it to be autobiographical? Partially autobiographical? Or should he make up new characters from scratch? He had little to no experience drawing up characters. The ones he created were so shallow. He didn’t know how to tell a story. How was he going to write this thing?

He wrote anyway.

“One of the problems with farts is that they smell only sometimes. If you get too comfortable with farting, you are setting yourself up for bad times. Not only will you be unable to detect the stench of your farts eventually, but when you do release a genuine stinker, you won’t be able to predict it. In reality, no one can predict with absolute certainty if farts are going to smell or not, but in some cases, deductive reasoning can narrow it down, similar to weather forecasts.

For example, if you’ve had beans or cheese, both known to produce quite smelly farts, there is a greater chance that the fart you experience within the next few hours will smell. Another way to predict farts is to fart just once. If that fart smells, it is best to refrain from farting afterwards, unless the intended effect is to leave the air smelling like your shit. If that fart does not smell, however, it might mean your other farts may not smell either. Be warned, though, that those acclimated to their farts will be the least able to predict the rancidity of their flatulence.”

It was rubbish, a word Andrew only used in his writing and thoughts but never aloud because it sounds ridiculous if not said in a variant of a British accent. He had no idea what he was writing about. He was only thinking of stuff to write that he experienced at that moment. And it was at that moment that Andrew had an epiphany. I have no idea what it was, but I’m sure it was good. Probably something to do with his writing. Either that or farts.

Andrew's Short Story (Part 3)

The party continued for a few hours before Vivian’s parents decided to leave. They had introduced themselves to the Trans, thanked them, and promised to visit soon. Andrew, however, did not trust this, and asked for Vivian’s number. When he put his mind to it, he could accomplish the most surprising of things.

“Uh, sure,” Vivian replied reluctantly when he asked her. She felt comfortable around him, a feeling she did not feel too often among strangers, especially not at funerals.

“Oh,” Andrew said when he looked over her number. “Are you from Massachusetts?”

“Yeah, I was born here, but we moved over there about six years ago. I’m back here for college,” she replied. And a funeral, she added in her thoughts.

“I was born in Worcester!” Andrew replied, smiling as he always does.

“Oh,” Vivian said politely. There was only a split second of silence, and Andrew, always the quickest to detect awkwardness, saved the soon-to-be palpable awkward pause.

“I’ll text you when Father Joe visits me next time,” he said deftly. Vivian chuckled, and said, “Okay, sounds good. It was nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

The second time Andrew met Vivian was a chance encounter at the local mall a few weeks later. He saw her walking out as he was walking toward the theater. He smiled as he recognized her smile.

“Hey!” he greeted her.

“Oh, hey!” she said. “I replied to your text about the visions. It took you long enough to tell me.” Privately, Vivian was still mourning the death of Father Joe, and had hoped Andrew would provide some lightness to get her mind off the sadness. She was smart enough to know that death would be a common motif in life, but that knowledge did not abate her sadness. Facts do not always provide closure in the way that faith sometimes does.

“I’m sorry,” said Andrew. “He visited me that night we met and said you were an awesome girl, but I just forgot to text you about it until yesterday. I’m not very reliable at delivering news.”

She laughed, and he felt forgiven even if she did not forgive.

“Remind me never to wait on you again,” she said.

There was something about her ability to reply so surely, her conviction, her –

“Are you Mexican?” he asked her abruptly.

“Half,” she answered, mildly taken aback by his sudden curiosity. “I’m half-Mexican, half-Columbian. My Spanish is terrible, and if I spoke it fluently, it would still sound terrible.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Mexican Spanish sounds terrible to everyone else. There’s usually more slang and informal usage. Columbian Spanish is beautiful. The two accents put together would probably be a bastardization of the language that only I could accomplish, so it’s a good thing I haven’t set my mind to it.”

“That’s how I am with Vietnamese, too,” he said. “Northern and Southern dialects all jammed into one confused tongue. When Vietnamese kids ask if I’m from the North or South, I just tell them I have one parent from both. I don’t even know what kind of Vietnamese I am, let alone Vietnamese-American. It’s weird.”

The thing Andrew and I have in common is that we’re both procrastinators. He took a long time to text back Vivian, and I took a long time to disclose that Andrew was Vietnamese and Vivian was half-Mexican, half-Columbian, or as Andrew would later say to no one but himself, Mexlumbian.

“Why do you ask?” she asked.

“I was just curious,” he replied. “Are you busy? I’m gonna movie-hop right now, and I think I’m going alone.”

“That’s so sad!” she replied. She was right. It’s pretty sad.

Andrew laughed, confident in his plans.

“It’s better than watching a Transformers sequel with other people,” he retorted.

“Do you watch movies alone often?”

“Sometimes. I like movies, so the company doesn’t always matter.”

“Then I don’t want to ruin your solo date.”

“Maybe being alone is better than hanging out with you!”

She scoffed, playing along. “You haven’t even hung out with me yet!”

“That’s why I said ‘maybe.’”

“So you admit that my company is possibly better than your own company to yourself?”

He rolled his eyes leftwardly and upwardly and furrowed his brow. “It’s possible,” he said carefully.

“As long as you know that you could have potentially had a better time, then I’m okay with that. I’ll see you around. By the way, Father Joe came to me in a vision, and said you’re full of shit.”

“He was always a wise man, that Father Joe,” Andrew chuckled.

She laughed.

“I’ll see you around, though, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, turning around to go. “But don’t wait on me.”

It would have been perfect, thought Andrew a moment after he turned around, if she had said, “I won’t,” and smiled knowingly as we parted.

But she didn’t, so Andrew had to settle for an uneventful goodbye, a normal goodbye, a real one.

Andrew's Short Story (Part 2)

You can and should read Part 1 here.

“I have the most unique experience reading this,” Andrew’s brother, Matthew, said. Andrew was sitting next to Mat, as he liked to call him, the next day in order to present his short story. Mat took Andrew’s phone from his hand and checked his messages. Sure enough, Mat thought, it’s that girl again.

Andrew blushed as Mat did this. He shouldn’t have included that texting tidbit in his story. It was too transparent. He looked down at his food to hide the redness of his face. Pasta never looked so interesting.

They were at Olive Garden for lunch. It was that time of the year when Olive Garden offered unlimited pasta for $8.95, which was an unseemly deal for the two brothers, especially considering they offered unlimited breadsticks and soup or salad as well. It was the third time they were there that week. Some of the staff had even started being recognizable at that point.

“It’s not bad,” Mat said, closing the laptop to continue his meal. He didn’t like Mat’s paltry response at first, but Andrew knew that was the most analysis he could expect from his little brother. He supposed that they were close enough for brutal honesty. If it were terrible, Mat would have said something to the effect. “Not bad” all of a sudden looked not bad after all. It was also not finished yet.

“Hey,” began Andrew a few minutes later, his mouth partially filled with alfredo-blessed linguini noodles. “When do you think the First Lady stopped being a Lady and started being a political hand for the President?”

Mat paused, so Andrew continued.

“Well, I guess Jackie Kennedy was the first really public First Lady, but she was known for her fashion sense and stuff, right? And Reagan’s wife did the “Just Say No” campaign for drugs. So somewhere in between, something happened.”

“Dude, I don’t know.”

They continued eating, peppering the meal occasionally with tidbits of conversation only brothers can maintain comfortably. At one point, Andrew mentioned he would totally sleep with Hillary Clinton.

“And Chelsea Clinton, too,” he said. They laughed as he continued, poorly mimicking Chelsea Clinton. “‘Oh, mommy, daddy cheated on you.’ ‘Looks like you need a new daddy, Chelsea.’ ‘Oh, Senator Andrew! What are you doing here?’”

“Wait,” Mat laughed, interrupting. “Senator Andrew? I can’t tell what’s more ridiculous, that you’re a Senator in this twisted fantasy or that they don’t call you by your last name.”

They laughed some more at the idea of a threesome with Chelsea and Hillary Clinton. They weren’t even old enough to have voted for Bill Clinton. The former Arkansas governor would have been offended on many different levels.

When it was time to pay, they weren’t greeted by their original waiter.

“Hey, Andrew!” a melodic voice piped.

“Oh, hey, Vivian. You’re not Dustin,” Andrew replied, smiling. Vivian laughed.

“Nah, Dustin’s taking his break. I was told to take care of your desert or any refills you wanted on the pasta.”

Mat and Andrew looked at each other, unreadable to Vivian.

“Can we get refills on the pasta to-go?” Mat asked Vivian, smiling.

“Sure,” she replied with a smile of her own. “And then the check?”

“Yes, please,” Mat said. Vivian turned around to leave.

“Wait,” Andrew said before she could get far. He put his hand lightly on her arm, and she turned around.

“What’s up?” she asked. Andrew smiled mischievously.

“When we tip, who gets it? You or Dustin?”

“Dustin does, I’m only doing him a favor,” she said.

“Well, damn,” said Andrew. “Looks like I have to tip now.”

Vivian pretended to gasp in shock. She playfully hit him on the shoulder and laughed, saying as she walked away, “Remind me never to wait on you.”

When she was out of earshot, Mat and Andrew resumed their playful banter.

“Smooth,” said Mat. “Why don’t you just tell her, already?”

“I did. I told her real good.”

“Don’t be an idiot. I think she likes you.”

“I think she gets hit on a lot, and she’s either oblivious to the guys that flirt with her or she knows and sees everything and refuses to acknowledge it.”

“Whatever, dude. All I hear are excuses.”

“Eat your fuckin’ pasta,” Andrew retorted uncleverly. He thought about it. It had been three years since he had met Vivian, and he had always had a crush on her. He knew that some guys may have asked her out, but as far as his knowledge went, she had never had a boyfriend. Perhaps he had felt guilty about asking her out because he met her through their local church. Their parents had actually met at first at a funeral of one of the pastors, but it was not until after the funeral reception, which Andrew’s parents had graciously hosted, did Andrew meet Vivian.

She was stunning in black, Andrew’s favorite color at the time, and her hair was wavy and blacker than her outfit, the embodiment of regal. He and Mat were guiding the mourners to their kitchen, where they mourned some more before they feasted. There was always food at the Tran house, people said. Actually, I’m the only one who says that. The Trans are a very wonderful family, and every time I’ve visited, there has always been food. It’s a wonder Andrew and Mat aren’t obese. Andrew’s gained some weight over the years, but that’s probably more from his appetite for beer than his appetite for food.

That day there was extra food. Vivian, however, wasn’t hungry. She never could eat after a funeral. Andrew, of course, being the gracious host he was taught to be, refused to see a guest not enjoying the post-funeral festivities.

“Really,” he told Vivian, sitting down next to her on his couch. “Father Joe would be sad if you didn’t eat. I swear. He just told me in a vision.”

She laughed, less at the declaration and more out of the nervousness she felt at being put on the spot. She was too polite not to laugh, as most people are when Andrew approaches smiling.

“A vision. Really? How come he doesn’t tell me himself?” she asked, meeting his smile with one much more winning of her own.

“God gave him a vision quota, and he used it on his family, and then on me. He’s all out for this month. Jesus is gonna charge him extra if he goes over,” Andrew replied, stifling his own laughter.

Vivian, however, did not stifle her temporary enjoyment. She loved Father Joe, who had baptized her 22 years ago, and joking about his death seemed wrong somehow. Still, she couldn’t help but laugh.

“That’s terrible. His body’s not even cold yet, and you’re joking about it!” she said, shaking her head and smiling widely.

“The food, however,” replied Andrew without skipping a beat, “is definitely getting cold. Please, have some.” He offered her an empty plate.

She obliged.

“Fine, but only because you’re being blasphemous,” she said coyly, getting up.

“My name’s Andrew, by the way. The heretic. Andrew the Heretic.”

She laughed again, turning around to the now-standing host.

“I’m Vivian. Father Joe baptized me.”

They shook hands. When Vivian shakes hands, she makes a point of having a firm grip. She is usually too engrossed to notice the other person’s grip, which, in this case, was also firm. Andrew does the exact same thing. This similarity, sadly, will never be known by either of them for as long as they live. It’s just one of those things that never comes up. There are lots of them among you and your friends or acquaintances, actually, but obviously, you wouldn’t know. Some facts stay hidden, and our lives can never be changed by them, just as some diamonds aren’t meant to be discovered. I should take back what I said about it being sad. It’s not sad at all. It’s just a fact, bereft of emotional connotation on its own.

Andrew's Short Story (Part 1)

If I told you that I thought the funniest shows ever were 30Rock, Community, Arrested Development, Cheers, Three’s Company and The Simpsons, in no particular order, you would probably say that I lived in the first or second decade of the 21^st century. This is because you would know that some of those shows began and ended in that decade, or this decade, depending on when you read this. However, the presence of shows like Cheers and Three’s Company would imply that I was either very old during that or this decade, or that I enjoyed my teenage years during the first decade of the 21^st century and somehow had access to those earlier shows. And if you knew enough about television to place a timeline and use that kind of logic, you either looked up those shows or would assume that if I was younger, I would have watched those shows on the Nickelodeon channel programming Nick at Nite.

In fact, you can rest assured that all those assumptions are very brilliant, so if you were able to deduce my age at all, you deserve the highest of praise. I’m not going to tell you how old I am, because that’s not relevant. In fact, the shows I’ve mentioned I have just selected randomly as popular comedy syndications. None of that is relevant, but you can’t know that. You don’t know what I’m talking about, so you can’t decide if it’s relevant or not. You have absolutely nothing to start with. How is it fair for you? Tell me. How?

Of course you don’t have to tell me. To expect an answer from you would be ridiculous, and even if I did get an answer from you it wouldn’t make sense to me. By the time you answer me, I will probably have no idea what you’re talking about. I’d have forgotten the whole matter altogether.

I mean, it would be ludicrous to receive a call from a stranger, or friend who happens to be reading this, at a random hour saying, “It’s not fair, Andrew. It’s not.” I do not expect it. Well, now that I’ve mentioned it, maybe I will. I don’t know.

It isn’t fair, though. You’re right. You can’t be held accountable for what is relevant and what is not relevant when the subject of this tale hasn’t even been established yet, has it? Don’t answer that.

“A wise man once told me that putting quotations or italicizing words gives a phrase added credibility. This wise man was me, and I told myself.” – from Putting Things in Quotation Marks or Italics Adds Credibility.

Usually this credibility is unquestioned because as long as the quotation or the phrase in question is relevant, people just go with it. The show must go on, after all.”

That’s what he had so far. Sorry, I forgot to add the opening quotation marks to signify that everything you’ve read until the sentence before this one was part of a fictional short story the main character of this short story was writing.

It was what he had so far, and he was ready to send it off into the abyss of the Internet. People don’t really know how the Internet works, really, and if we’re still supposed to capitalize such a common word now. Internet. internet. Either way looked fine to him. It wasn’t a word he was putting into his short story. Even if the word were to come up later, he would decide then. Take life as it goes, he thought.

Oh, I’m such a terrible host. The guy I’m talking about is Marvin. No, never mind. His name is Andrew. I’m going to go back and bold his name now to avoid confusion. There. I’ve done it. I’m sorry I haven’t introduced you two earlier. I’m really usually good with introducing people to each other. I apologize.

Andrew was writing a short story. He’s a very weird thinker, as you’ve probably gathered, and sometimes people don’t follow him. It’s okay, though, because in Andrew’s mind, those who do follow him are lead to treasure troves of knowledge and thought. They are treasures because they are rare. Thoughts in general aren’t rare, but specific thoughts are unique. Any thought could be a thought no one else has thought, and that thought is therefore the rarest thought to exist. If there was a list for “Rarest Things Ever,” it would be tied for first with all the other unique thoughts and other super-unique things. For simplicity’s sake, Andrew called them sunique things. He’s weird. I don’t get it either.

Andrew also didn’t mind his weirdness because he was also very self-aware. In fact, he knew his short story started off terribly because it was too self-referential and went nowhere. As the author of the short story, Andrew knew he was much too involved. It’s best to let a story tell itself, he thought.

I’d like to take this moment to interrupt Andrew’s thoughts. It will only be a moment, I promise. I think he’s wrong. I think an author has every right to get involved with his own story. It is his story after all, and he can do whatever he wants with it. Or should I have italicized the other word. Let me try again. It is his story, after all. Maybe it’s smoother if I contracted the beginning. It’s his story, after all, and he can do whatever he wants with it. Yeah, that sounds better. Did that take long? It was really unfair of me to promise it’d take a moment when reading is such a different experience for all of us. I shouldn’t have presumed. I apologize. Anyways, back to Andrew.

He didn’t know where he was going with his short story, but he knew that he wanted romance to be involved. Just then, the girl of he had a crush on texted him, breaking his train of thought. It was worth it, he thought after he read and replied to the text and got back to his short story.

“Wait,” he said aloud. Did I come off too strongly with that last text? It was a worry he would never admit to harboring, but felt often. Texts are serious little messages sometimes. Per character, Andrew and I both think that they have the highest efficiency at conveying emotions. You can understand, then, why Andrew was worried about his text. I share his worry, but I’m not important.

Did I? Andrew thought. Maybe I used too many happy emoticons. She hasn’t texted me back yet. Oh, never mind. I can’t wait to read this one.

He had not come off too strongly. She replied as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Andrew breathed a sigh of relief. If there’s anything that would make Andrew uncomfortable, it would be making the girl he likes think he likes her. This makes no sense to me, of course. If you like someone romantically, you should let them know. There is no sane reason to hold back. The only thing you have to fear is rejection, but if you are a good person, then that rejection could mean more romantic possibilities or better yet, establishing a strong friendship with your crush.

I’m joking of course. “More romantic possibilities” is way better than “establishing a strong friendship with your crush.”

Andrew’s crush had not crushed him yet. He got back to his short story and began to develop the romantic storyline he knew he wanted in it.