My time exploring this country, in all its beauty (imperfect, tree-and-rock-and-tree based beauty, but beauty nonetheless), is far from over. Last week, I found myself on the East Coast of Canada once again. This time, though, I was exploring THE BEAUTY OF FRIENDSHIP.
(I also just threw up in my mouth, dun’worry. )
I share enough of my ridiculous awkwardness with the people who read this blog that I figure it’s worth throwing up some of my happiness, too. This one is profound, in the most simple way. I have friends, lovely friends. To me, they are home. They moved. I visited. They’re still home. And that’s awesome. It’s just awesome.
I repeat: I am also throwing up in my mouth.
With the right company, I imagine someone could be anywhere in the world and be happy. But the seafood, fall colours, ocean, and calmness of the East coast made the experience next-level relaxing. This was vacation. After the last post, there’s no doubt I needed one.
It’s different, traveling with friends. My last Canadiana experience was selfish…because, well, traveling alone is selfish. It’s supposed to be. That’s the point. That trip was all about experiences, about learning and bucket-listing; short-term connections, life lessons, et cetra. And I loved that. I’m sure I still would.
But last week, I was visiting old friends. I was traveling with my plus-one. This trip was all about people. It was about sharing experiences and sitting around the table. It was just friendship. Not the one-week-long Hostel kind of friendship (which is beautiful in its own way, no doubt), but the kind that makes you think “This. Is. Home.”
Of course, there is nothing, nothing, like experiencing a brief breeze of “This. Is. Home.” while sitting around with a bunch of strangers in a new place. It’s literally worth traveling around the world for. It’s emotional tourism. But sitting around with people who have been there for awhile and just drowning in the “Home” feeling–even in a someone else’s “house,” even after a long flight–that’s new.
“What should I be when I grow up?” she asked, crossing her ankles and looking at me hopefully.
I smiled at the question. She smiled back.
“I dun’no, mom. What do you want to be?”
My mother asks this question every now and then, in different forms. I always like when she does. It’s sweet, and it’s vulnerable, and it makes me feel like we really aren’t so different.
We are different, of course. She’s an employed, secure, middle aged woman; I’m brand new to the big girl scene. She’s rocking the house/husband/kids/dog combo while I bounce between internships, roommates, and take out in the fridge. Maybe that’s why it’s nice to have something so simple and juvenile in common: Neither of us can see the future. Neither of us “know” what we want to “be” when we “grow up.”
I remember the first time she shared this.I was young, still under the impression that “my parents have everything together all the time!” (even if I liked to disagree with them some). I was sitting on my mother’s office floor with a Fisher Price boom box, interviewing her onto a blank tape. “When you were a kid,” I asked, putting on my best TV voice. “What did you want to be when you growed up?”
She laughed. “I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.”
At first, this terrified me. What do you mean you don’t know yet? Will you ever know? Will anybody ever know?
Answer: Probably not.
[Insert prepubescent panic here.]
As I get older, however, that answer feels less and less scary. At this point, it’s practically comforting. “I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.” Of course you don’t. Of course I don’t. Look at those loaded words, momma, look: “know,” “want,” “be,” and *shudder* “grow up.”
A few days after the conversation with my mother, I turned the “want” “be” “grow up” question loose on a 7 year old friend of mine, a bubbly little girl who had stayed late to help me clean up the Sunday school classroom.
“I dun’no what I wanna be,” She responded, then shot me a goofy smile. “Something where I can sit in a hot tub and relax with my friends sometimes.”
I briefly thought about responding with something moralistic; ‘Oh honey,it shouldn’t be about material things.’ Maybe I should bring Jesus into it somehow, because that’s what a Sunday school teacher is supposed to do, right? But honestly, Jesus didn’t say much about 7 year olds who think hot tubs are kinda cool (which they are). So I just smiled back at her. “Maybe you could sell hot tubs for a living, huh?”
“Hey, yeah! Lots of people buy hot tubs. My mom has one.”
“You wanna be like your mom when you grow up?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, she has a hot tub.”
“Awesome. In that case, I want to be like your mom when I grow up, too.”
It wasn’t the deepest conversation, but it made me think back to my own mother; beside me on the couch, half watching TV, crossing her ankles and asking me what she should be when she grows up. We all have little moments like that, I think–whether we’re 7 years old kids, 20 something college students, middle aged mommas, maybe even as we trek through the much later years. Wondering what comes next. Working through what we do, but optimistically unsure of where we are going.
Maybe we never “know.” Maybe the process of figuring “it” out can take a whole lifetime or longer.
It rained a lot in British Columbia. It wasn’t really wet, as rainy weather goes;In Victoria, “rain” seems to mean “a mist gracefully puttering from the sky.” The light sprinkle was a little lacking in pyrotechnics, at least by my standards. “Do you ever get, like, storm storms here?” I asked my uncle.
He shrugged. “Not really. Maybe 3 or 4 since I moved here, if that.”
I shuddered at the thought. “Man, I could never live like that…love storms way too much.”
Never. Overstatement, I know. Of course I could live like that. Besides, Vancouver Island’s water action trumps any old rainstorm because it is surrounded by the freaking ocean.
Downpours and lightening strikes might lose this round (though I do still love them).
Later, as I dipped my toes ceremoniously into the chilly West Coast ocean, I wondered why I cared so much about rainstorms. I wondered, too, why hitting both oceans in one month felt so profound and incredible–it’s just water, right?
My whole trip across Canada was watermarked. I don’t just mean I saw a lot of water flowing through the country (though, that too). I mean my internal responses to oceans and rivers and even rainy weather were hella powerful. Eventually, I caught onto the pattern.
Water. Water falling–from the sky, from a cliff, through the cracks. Water rushing past the train. Reading by rivers, walking through rain storms, tears. I’m a leaky faucet sometimes, and have no complaints when the world is, too. Watching the country I call home pass by my forever tear-producing eyes, with its tiny streams and life-giving lakes and salty oceans, I can’t help but take off my shoes and breathe it in because this is what being lucky feels like.*
Traveling across Canada, I became very aware of the water surrounding me, and intensely grateful of what it meant–for myself, for the life around me, for the very definition of Canada. I walked along a lot of rivers, you guys. I used 8 different showers, in 8 different cities, and had many people to thank for it. And, of course, this happened (and was awesome):
I also had those leaky faucet moments, of course. The only thing worse than being a history geek is being an emotional, embarrassingly patriotic history geek. Being an emotional music lover is just as fatal, especially since this damn beautiful country kept throwing me history and music…and water…and wonderful people. All at the same freaking time.
So I wept a few times, all warranted. Most notably, I broke down in the middle of a museum. Also in a train station. Also on the train itself. They were tears of privilege–I missed my guitar, I loved my country, I felt strongly about how my family got here.
And when I cried, it rained. Or I made my way to a waterfront. Or the train passed by a river. I was surrounded by water, and it started feeling really special.
I’m not sure what to make of this alleged connection between water and my soul and this country and the world. No guarantees, but I may just be re-entering “finding myself” territory. This experience may change my habits, or at least my outlook. I might try to get a little more quality time with the canal, appreciate the taps and tubs and scenery I take for granted, light that candle that smells like the beach.
Like I’ve said before, this was never my intent with this trip…but here I go. Growing as a person. Making connections. Damn it. Sorry, guys.
At least there were a few funny, awkward stories in between the oceanfront epiphanies.
Another thought bubble from the cross-Canada trip, one that I can’t seem to pop: Until last month, I probably would have claimed that I could never live out of a small, tattered school bag. Could never deal with not knowing where I was sleeping the next night. Could never sleep on a train. And, oh man, could never feel close to someone less than an hour after meeting them.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, double wrong.
When I have never done something, sometimes I assume it’s because I could never do it. This is one of the lies my brain tells. Maybe your brain tells it, too. I am forever grateful for the people who reach out and pull me out of that. Because as much as I was “traveling alone”? None of this was done alone. It didn’t start alone, and it hardly ended that way. I still remember studying with a girl in my history class, telling her about my trip. She looked at my small, black backpack, filled with a few books and a laptop, and said “Yeah, I traveled Europe using something about that size. You could do it easy.”
So I did.
I still remember when my co-worker, Julia, dropped off her ukelele at the office; “You can bring it with you if you want, I never use it anyways.” She insisted that she was sure I could learn how to play it, and suggested I cover it in stickers from across the country.
I did that, too.
An old high school acquaintance Facebooked me after reading my blog, offering her air mattress in PEI. Another friend told me his wonderful folks could host me in Saskatoon. West Coast family members welcomed me with open arms.
So I stayed with them.
Friends before me had conquered enough of the train that I felt I could take it on.
I trusted their judgement. And they were right.
After awhile, all these wonderful friends and prayers and instincts sent the message that “You can trust God. You can trust some people. You can trust yourself.” No one learns to believe something as crazy as that alone. And certainly, no one can confirm it alone. I needed a ton of help, coming from all sides–from upsides, downsides, from inside, outside, from everywhere.
Is this getting cheesy? I’m sorry. I promise it’s honest. I just owe a million thank yous. Even though my trip was through my own country, more of a backyard bash than an exotic adventure, it taught me some crazy things. And now I know Canada–I don’t care for it any more, or any less, but I know it now. I’ve reconnected with water, profoundly so. I am filled up with stories. I’ve visited my aunt and uncle in their hometown and it’s about damn time, really.
And now I’m home. I took the bus to work today, past the Ottawa river. My heart lept at the sight of it, just a bit–a new response, to say the least. I gazed out the window and smiled.
A Mari Usque Ad Mare.
* By the bye, the “being lucky” thing is pretty serious: lack of access to safe drinking water affects a LOT of people around the world. If you’re one of the lucky ones, consider paying it forward: http://thewaterproject.org/
Clichés, my high school teachers told me, are worse than useless. They’re uncreative. They’re filler. Usually redundant, always unimaginative.
They were right. Of course they were right. Even the things I live my life by have never really been “clichés”–my mantras and reassurances come from quotable places, but they matter because they caught me by surprise. Yes. That. That right there. Never thought of it that way before.
Usually I consume words, but every now and then, words consume me. (sorry. that was cheesy).
Those are the rare, rare words that stick.
Here’s a peek:
I know, how simple and strange. “I believe in you. I trust you with yourself.”
Obviously these are terrible words to say if you’re actually worried about someone. But if you have faith in someone’s survival skills, it’s a pretty great way to share the faith without demeaning their situation. To say that it’s normal to be falling apart at the seams, rebuilding, laughing, crying, calling a friend at 3 am, insert lifeline here–they are going to be okay. At least, you think they are.
That seems to be worth something. It was worth a lot to me.
This is part of the poem “Transient” by Al Purdy…a great poem, though not overly relevant on the surface. But these words, these two lines–dude. The best way I can describe it is, they let me move.
It’s a weirdly big deal, and I can’t really explain it, but anyone who knows me well has seen these words written on something (my blackboard wall, my binders, in pen on my arm). The words are honest, and make no assumptions: Yes, I was always headed to wherever I am. And yes, the dirt under my fingernails, the person that I am, this can be “home.”
These are lovely ideas.
Here’s some tough love. Sometimes, it’s someone else’s turn. A person you love will leave, because they’re meant to be with someone else. A family member will die, because they’re in a lot of pain. Your business will fail and you’ll be left with nothing, because society needs to move forward and economies change.
You can spend a lot of time and energy trying to figure out why that happened to you. Trying to figure out the reason. Thinking in a vacuum–something must have happened to you, so that something else can happen to you. Post hoc ergo hoc propter hoc.
Now, I’m a pretty religious person. I believe that everything does happen for a reason, and I believe in resurrection–closed doors leading to more open ones. But it’s silly to think that the exact reason for everything has to do with you, right now.
God has a lot of kids to look after. At one point, you’re going to end up being collateral damage. We take hits for each other all the time, whether we know/like it or not. That’s the price we pay for balance, for the circle of life, and for the privilege of being so beautifully interconnected with each other.
Your fate does not only belong to you. But what you do with that fate? That’s all yours, baby.
The ladies down at everyoneisgay.com say awesome stuff all the time, but this line from Danielle really stuck. So simple. So valuable.
Fact: If you worry things are going to suck, and you’re wrong, you’ve wasted your time worrying.
Fact: If you worry things are going to suck, and you’re right, you’ve wasted your time worrying. So you’re miserable twice as long–waiting for the thing, dealing with the thing, recovering from the thing.
Constructive concern is a go. Any other “worrying” gets served with this lovely question:
This is my mantra. I close my eyes and repeat these words in my head as I rock back and forth–because I’m totally sane, obviously. It’s an every-other-day thing, at least, and I have no shame in my brief reality checks. These words bring a great deal of focus: “Who am I today?” That’s all that really matters, in the end. Screw the coulda/woulda/shoulda. Screw worrying. Screw the fact that I do both of those things…until the mantra walks in and gives me a role to play. Today.
“Who am I today?” A student. An employee. Sometimes a writer, always a sister and daughter. I’m pretty alright at those roles, once I remind myself what they are–and who I am. Right here, right now.
What phrases give you pause, comfort, or something-in-between? Which sentences shape your life?
I guess this is the part where I reflect on the last four months.
This is gonna get weird, friends. This is the “excited to go, but sad to leave” part. The part where I pull out my uncomfortable cop-out response to “Are you ever coming back?”, and you prepare to dodge my inevitable “Are you ever going to come visit me in Canada?”
On “goodbye” weekend, I am queen of the awkward laugh.
I can’t seem to get it quite right. Yesterday, I parted ways with a dear coworker by saying: “Have a good one! And by ‘one,’ I mean, like, life!”
…that sounded exactly as awkward out loud as it did in your head.
He responded with a lovely speech about how great it’s been, how I’ll be missed, how his door is always open. I looked at the ground and said something stupid like “Teehee, gee, thanks. Don’t know why I would ever be down there, but hey, you never know.”
I could’ve just said “Ditto!” and smiled. I could’ve mentioned “I’ll miss you, too, dude.” Or found some way to explain how epic my time with these co-workers had been, how much I care about them, how these four months have genuinely changed my life.
But I did none of that. I probably won’t even stay in touch (empty promises 1; Shauna 0). I want to, but I don’t really know what “stay in touch” even means.
Another friend, who evidently sucks less than I do, tried to strike up a meaningful closing conversation over dinner:
“So, where do you think you’ll be in five years?”
“Pregnant and sad.”
What kind of response is that? [I wondered. As I said it. Out loud. I didn’t even miss a beat, you guys.]
So begins a long string of goodbyes. I’m waiting for a few of them, though I don’t doubt for a moment they will be just as strange. And since I finally, finally got my camera working, the strangeness is being recorded.
A-and, like clockwork, Expedia just emailed me a reminder of my flight. At the same time, my friend Niki messaged me to make plans for Tuesday–Tuesday! Tonight,I’m going to clumsily follow a “Lincoln Assassination” walking tour, the second of two attempts to get my tourist on via DC by Foot before I leave the city on Monday.
Whenever I talk about growing up, I use the term “big kid.”
A costume change (see also: my foray into the “business casual” world) is “putting on my big kid shoes.” Pushing past emotions is “putting on my big kid face.” Moving households and changing furniture is “getting into my big kid bed.”
It’s a bit strange, using such juvenile terms. I get that. But this “big kid” terminology works. It works because, even if it’s just a distant memory, almost everyone knows how it feels to be told that they are now a “big kid.” Step it up. Here’s your new title, now go earn it. Be brave. Growing time is now.
It’s uncomfortable, exciting, challenging–and yes, “big kid” moments continue long after you outgrow the physical definition of a “kid.”
It’s no longer my parents and teachers telling me to what time it is. It’s more of a voice in my head, reminding me that this next step is BIG. And, naturally, that I need to be BIG to greet it effectively.
…though really, I don’t know what exactly being BIG means.
In a lot of ways, I’m still just a little girl. I’m a little girl in stilettos, and lipstick; I’m a little girl who does her own laundry and sleeps in a bed across from Capitol Hill; I’m a little girl who seems pretty confident while taking the Metro. But rest assured folks–I am the clumsiest, goofiest, daydreamiest little girl ever. I get all kinds of blisters from my metaphorical big kid shoes. My big kid bed is a pretty lonely place. And those steep escalators out of the Metro station? They terrify me.
And so, I think about growing up all the time:
How do I grow up without losing my sense of wonder?
How can I grow spiritually, intellectually, emotionally, socially, and professionally (whew!) without one of those worlds sabotaging the others?
How exactly do I go about creating one of those “home” things? And how does a big kid respond when “home” suddenly doesn’t grow with them?
Once I establish a “home” with all the big kid fixin’s, can I bring it with me when I travel? No? But, isn’t traveling the best way for me to grow, too?
Do I even have control over any of these things?
This list might make me sound like a total stressball. I promise I don’t just sit around worrying all day. I love growing up. I love learning. It’s just that sometimes, while I’m on that journey, these questions come up.
And the answer to all of the questions? I don’t know.
I can guess the answer to that last one, though. Do I even have control over any of these things? So far, it doesn’t feel like it. Not really. Yes, my choices matter. Yes, I ultimately am the one who decides to put on the big kid shoes and the big kid face. But if I didn’t make that call…
Well, I would be pretty cramped in those little girl shoes.
The people around me would be pretty cramped, too. As we grow up, we have to change to greet our new discoveries. We adapt. Mostly, we learn what we can expect from people, and what we can expect from ourselves. That we all need a little help sometimes, but we still shouldn’t count on anyone. That we are more capable than we ever thought possible, but that we can’t do it alone–though, some days, we’re going to really have to try.
“My latest definition of “growing up” has been the process of realizing 1) how very alone and 2) how very not alone we are. Growing up means always playing with loneliness and interconnectedness, because life is a whole lotta both of them.”
As I sit here, feeling homesick, feeling loved, feeling alone, feeling like I have community (and trying to articulate those feelings, because that’s what big kids do), one thing is for sure:
It’s big kid time. This is what growing up feels like.
I have this mildly unhealthy habit of checking my blog stats WAY. Too. Often. Thankfully, WordPress only gives me really basic information–I steer clear of Google Analytics, since the geographic detail feels a bit too creepy. Here, I just get the basics: I can see what different countries readers are coming from (‘sup, Yemen?), and I can see how they’re getting here. Usually, people find the blog via social media like Facebook or Twitter. Sometimes, Stumbleupon points people my way. Mentions or comments on other blogs can also spur a few hits.
And a few times each day, someone finds my blog through a Google search.
The search terms are usually predictable enough: “Things to do in Ottawa,” “Blackboard wall,” “Stocking stuffers that give to charity,”…you know, straight-forward subjects directly related to blog entries. Every now and then, though, I see a search term that makes me FEEL THINGS.
These search terms are the desperate, doomed-from-the-start pleads to the internet for guidance. These searches come from the same place that bring us 11:11 wishes, untimely text messages, bad “poetry,” and worse habits. There’s a knot in someone’s soul and they can’t massage it out. The default solution? ‘Maybe, just maybe, Google knows.’
And then, if they find my blog, a ‘Maybe, just maybe, this Shaunanagins website knows.’
Full disclosure: I have totally been that person, sitting alone and unsure of something (everything?) at approximately 3 o’clock in the morning. I will shamelessly admit that I have turned to Google for validation, or just a gentle reminder that it’s allllll good.
“Coping with stress” “How long does it take to get over [thing I am under]?” “How to deal with learning curves” “What is good about being single?” “a;gnfdbldfkb mdfl;vdf” “Plane tickets to Seattle.”
(No, I’ve never been to Seattle. The alone/unsure/3 am combo sometimes ends in weird places.)
It is this past experience in the field of “Well, shit. Life. I guess I’ll just Google it?” that makes me FEEL THINGS when I see search terms designed to…massage out those soul-knots. This month, two such search terms really stuck with me:
“i can never relax. what do i do?” and “don’t exactly know where home is”
Heavy. I feel you, Person A. As for Person B…I have so much to say on that topic, it’s a little ridiculous. All I can say for right now is that I feel you, too. Or at least, I felt you for awhile.
Dear Person A,
In response to your search “i can never relax. what do i do?” : Dude. I wish I knew. I guess turning off your computer would be a good start. Maybe drink tea and do a puzzle? Or go to a used CD store, pick up some new music, and put it on. Close your eyes and listen. Or, hey, just read. Maybe read a blog. Maybe this blog, brought to you by another person who can’t relax.
That totally killed my “Turn off your computer” thing, didn’t it?
Dear Person B,
You told Google that you “don’t exactly know where home is.” My response to this could, and should, be a full blog entry. It should be a series of blog entries. What I can say in short right now is that Home is the place where things grow. It’s the place where you grow. And sometimes, growing can be uncomfortable. So, sometimes, Home can be uncomfortable. But if it’s safe and loving, if whatever needs nurtured is being nurtured, you’re on the right track.
Oh, and Home doesn’t have to be a geographical Place. It can be a person, or an attitude. And if you get spiritual, that there’s a whole new dimension to the concept of Home. But for now, just focus on finding a safe spot, geographical or otherwise, that has positive energy. A Place that you can move and shake in. Do not worry if, while moving and shaking, you stumble away from that Place for awhile. A life well lived will always bring you back Home eventually.
Okay, I feel so much better now. I know Person A and Person B will probably not be back to this blog, but maybe other people with similar pleads to the internet will. And maybe they will also be able to help me learn how to relax, or figure out where home is. Because we’re all just floating, you guys. And we’re all alright.
My advice if you try the blackboard pumpkin idea, which I still maintain as awesome, would be to buy a craft pumpkin. I think I’ll pick up a few of them if Michael’s has post-halloween sales. I feel like a pumpkin made for crafting would be better for a project like this…and it would be cool to be able to reuse my beloved seasonal countdown.
I have an antique side table which has recently become the household “tea centre.” This isn’t because the people in my home are adorable and quaint, though Miranda sips tea frequently enough to probably qualify. The “tea centre,” rather, is purely functional. Whenever we would plug the water boiler into a kitchen outlet, it would blow a fuse. It was irritating that this little water boiler was stressing out the outlets, of course, but eventually we stopped fighting it and moved the boiler has across the room. The tea, coffee, and mugs followed suit.
This became an impromptu “tea centre.” One which needed to get its seasonal-ism on.
There are two ways that I have been able to set up the Fall “tea centre,” and I think they’re both pretty adorable and fun. Right now the more “halloween”-esque design is on display. Turns out that spiderwebs and a “Troy and Abed in the Morning!” mug are the very best combination.
Fall Tea Time: Phase 1
You could easily replace the big ol’ glass martini glass here with a big ol’ glass anything. Even a bowl would do the trick, though you would have to rearrange. You could always store/display the tea in extra mugs while using a vase with some autumn flowers as a centerpiece instead.
That was the “tea centre” for Autumn Apartment phase 1, but of course things had to get just a bit creepier when October entered the scene.
Fall Tea Time: Phase 2
Same items, different presentation, but equally fitting for this time of year. Don’t worry, I haven’t given up my love for cheapy/seasonal dollar store ribbon. I just relocated it to the PM drink centre…
That’s the one! Essentially, whatever your drink of choice, I’m that hoping my October apartment will have you covered. Now all I need to do is grab some spiced pumpkin tea…mmmm. Anyone know a good brand?
What a crowd-pleaser statement, I know. Of course I want my home to be fun. Of course you want your home to be fun. I also want my home to be cosy and open and bright and quirky and welcoming and [insert unarguable “home” attribute here], but that’s besides the point.
“Fun” was front and centre in my mind when I reorganized the apartment this summer. I was set on having a specified area in the open concept living space that was fun–specifically, fun in a music-y way. Music has always been important to me, and I knew my roommate-to-be was no different, so the apartment had to encourage tunes. I wanted the keyboard to get played. I wanted our CD collections to get played. Basically, I wanted a space where we could “play,” period. That space, naturally, needed to be as open to creativity as possible.
The blackboard wall was inspired by a suggestion from good ol’ Josh, and solidified thanks to some fond childhood memories (growing up, our playroom in the basement had featured some cute little blackboards…these were mainly used to to torture my younger brothers with endless games of “school”; I know I had a good time).
All it took was two coats of blackboard paint, purchased at the local Canadian Tire, to turn my previously-dull keyboard corner into a canvas. I have never seen anything so effective in making a home more fun.
Here’s a picture from the “cloffice” post last week. You’ll see the blackboard wall in the background:
It’s super helpful for making notes to self/one another, as well as for writing down ideas, encouragement, Pokemon doodles…the usual. I would like to note, however, that the wall was visited last weekend by two monumental artists. This was a gamechanger.
I rest my case. Actually, I should probably rest my case with a picture of the wall in its current state. If this isn’t fun, I don’t know what is!
Since the wall has become such a hit, I decided it would be worth it to take this chalk action to the next level in a couple subtle/clever ways around the apartment. It’s happening. It’s happening as you read this, in fact. Lloyd’s response earlier today as I set to work on this latest project: “You said you were going to do it, and now you’re doing it. I don’t know why I’m still surprised anymore.”
Translation: Autumn apartment part two and Chalking it up part two are very ready to make their relationship official. Can’t wait for what next Friday has in store!