//------------------------------// // Chapter 6: The Mountains We Haven't Climbed // Story: Monophobia // by Aquaman //------------------------------// The second-hardest part of college is that, technically speaking, you don’t have to do anything. Someone else always used to make the big decisions for me — school started at this time and stopped at that one, I ate the food my parents made and went to bed when they told me to, and my mom both bought all my clothes and gently steered me away from wearing ones that didn’t match. But now if I want to wear a striped shirt over camo cargo shorts, I can. If I want to sleep during the day and eat nothing but pizza and skip every class to play video games instead, absolutely no one would stop me. Every choice is mine to make, and mostly the world just says, “Best of luck with it!” Like Sweetie Belle said a couple days ago, when she decided to get me breakfast because I got her out of our dorm lounge’s bathroom. And that is the actual hardest part of college: the choices other people make that you can’t control. Like the Data Management professor who decided not to post his lecture slides online for the class I missed yesterday. Like the KNZ guys deciding today — or maybe already deciding the moment they first met me — whether I make the cut of people they might still want to hang out with. Like one KNZ guy in particular who chose to skip our English class this morning, so I couldn’t have gotten an update even if I’d somehow found the guts to ask for one. And like Sweetie Belle, who said she’d meet me for lunch today, and instead chose not to show up to the dining hall and not to answer the text I sent her. Actually, according to my phone, she chose to not even read it at all. I chose to wear khaki pants and a maroon Henley today, and I chose to have a salad for lunch, and I chose to wait almost a full hour alone in the dining hall before I finally stopped being an idiot and left. But I can’t choose what other people think of me, no matter how hard I try. I just have to let it happen — to not think about it and move on. Or, y’know, I could not do that. Instead of hunting down those slides I missed or starting a paper I’m supposed to be writing or, hell, even ordering pizza and playing video games all day, I could sit at a library table all by myself, aimlessly scrolling through Diggit posts on my laptop, waiting for nothing to keep happening and moping to pass the time.  And, of course, thinking about Sweetie Belle. About our “date” that never for a second actually was one. About what I did for her this week, what I thought I was getting back, and how little I’ve actually gotten in the end. Which isn’t fair of me, really. Friendships aren’t supposed to be transactional. You’re not supposed to keep a ledger of friendly acts and invoice people for coffee meetups or party attendances. But you are supposed to keep your promises, like I did for Woody last night and Woody did for me. At the very least, she could’ve told me she got held up somewhere, or at least made up a lame excuse before blocking my number. But all I can do with silence is fixate on it, wonder what’s going on or what isn’t or whether she even remembers what she said to me, and most of all resist the urge to text her again and plead for a straight answer. I’d love it if I could choose to do anything else right now, but hey, you know what they say about beggars. I reach the end of a comment thread — post title: “People of Diggit, what’s the weirdest place you’ve ever had sex?” — and click the window closed. Where a moment ago there was post after post of people claiming to have done things I never will and they probably haven’t either, now there’s just the portrait of a sci-fi city I set as my screensaver last year, mostly hidden behind the mess of unorganized files and icons on my desktop.  My still-aimless eyes land on a folder right in the center of the screen: “O&O Homebrew Stuff.” For lack of anything else I feel like doing, I open it, and then open the folder inside it labeled “Music.” I guess Sloop had a point last night. I don’t personally know anyone who’s doing homebrew O&O campaigns, let alone someone my age, so I guess it’s cool that I’m even trying it. And I didn’t even get a chance to mention the second thing I’ve been doing for this campaign: finding music to go with each module, splicing them together in Thesis Pro so they all flow together seamlessly.  It’s not really worth bragging about, to be fair. All I’m really doing is cutting up tracks other people already made, telling a new story by stealing pieces of theirs. There’s one exception, though — one Thesis Pro file in this folder that’s not like the others.  My eyes aren’t aimless anymore. I stare at the file for a few seconds, and then finally double-click it open. I taught myself to use this program when I was fifteen, because my brother needed someone to do the mixing for his garage band’s terrible cover album, and he wanted to pay for the job in candy rather than money. And then a couple years after that, I figured out how to mix separate tracks together so I could play them over gaming sessions, both the ones with other people playing and the ones who I was alone in my dark bedroom. And then finally, I was grinding out modules for my O&O campaign last summer, just slogging through the writing process and losing my mind at how long it was taking. And another thing driving me crazy was a tiny noise from my desk lamp — a dull electronic buzz, droning like an angry teacher and prickling like the knowledge of exactly why they’re mad.  It got stuck in my head. I couldn’t think past it. So I put on headphones and opened Thesis Pro and clicked around on the keyboard until I found a fuzzy synthetic note that sounded just like it, because I heard once that you can get songs out of your head by skipping to the end and finishing them. Then I clicked on a few other notes, and remembered a track from a video game that sounded kind of similar, and found that track in my media library and dragged it into Thesis and plunked the keyboard some more trying to find exactly the right sounds to mimic it. And then I blinked, and the sun was rising outside, and I had this: a rainbow of sloppily-layered samples over a basic 4/4, hours of work that amounted to less than two minutes of a song nobody but me will ever hear, because it’s unfinished and unoriginal, and it’s not good enough to put into my campaign or show to my parents or be proud of. But I was. I remember my eyelids drooping and my breath catching and my heart bursting in a way it never had before, brimming over with how inexplicably right making this shitty little ripoff song felt. The closest anything else in my life has ever come to that same feeling is Sweetie Belle — and, I think, two nights ago, blackout drunk at some party I still can barely remember, so far outside my mind that I forgot to think about being afraid and just lived unburdened in the moment. I don’t know. I’m probably remembering it wrong. And it’s not like I made any more music after this song, and I don’t know if I should or even if I really want to, because it’d be a waste of time and tuition money compared to Data Management and other things you can get real jobs doing after college. There’s a future in boring shit — an identity. Something other people might actually want. That’s not worth giving up just because I was sleep-deprived once and giddy about it.  But… A harsh sound snaps me back to the present — my phone, buzzing obnoxiously against the table. Woody’s texted me, as well as a number I saved in my phone last night as “Crescent”:  You hear anything from KNZ yet? I sigh — for all kinds of reasons, all of which I choose to ignore. Crescent and I both reply at the same time. negative Nope. This sucks. Yep. YEP It does. And it’s not going to change unless I do something to make it change. And that means making a decision.  Okay, then. I’ve decided I need to quit moping and actually get some work done, in that order. Maybe I’ll be able to focus better at my desk back in my dorm. I slide my laptop and charger into my backpack, then get up and push my chair in as quietly as I can so I don’t get glared at. Nobody silently studying around me so much as glances up, and neither does anyone in the stacks I tread past on my way to the stairs leading down to the exit, not even as the stairway door squeals on its hinges as I push it open. Right before I step through it, though, I notice someone myself. They’re in a sound-proofed recording booth at the end of an aisle of bookshelves to my left, hunched over the desktop computer inside, looking absolutely fucking miserable through the big pane of glass in the middle of the booth’s door. It’s Sweetie Belle. She’s doing something in Thesis Pro — gesturing wildly at the screen as if demanding an explanation for why it’s not doing what it said it would. And what I should do now that I’ve seen her is keep going down the stairs and leave. What I should really do right now is take the hint and not bother her and keep the tiny little spine I’ve managed to grow this week from atrophying back to nothing again. And instead, I let the door to the stairway swing closed, and I squeeze between bookshelves over to the recording booth’s door, and I knock on the glass pane and give a spineless little wave as she looks up. When she sees me, she scrunches up her face and swears so loud I can hear it from outside, and nearly trips over her chair standing up and rushing to the door.  “I’m so –” A moment late, she realizes how loud her voice is. Still cringing at the glares she’s getting from other students nearby, she drops her voice to a whisper. “I’m so sorry. I’m such an asshole. I’ve had…” She pauses for a moment, then jerks her head, inviting me into the booth. Once the door shuts behind me, the pointy padding on the walls drowns every single sound except for Sweetie’s haggard breaths and the squeak of her chair as she flops back into it. “I have had a fucking day,” she says, back to normal volume. “And I completely forgot about meeting you, and I’ve been ignoring my…”  She reaches towards her bag on the floor, extracts her phone from inside it, and grimaces as she sees the flood of notifications that fill its screen. “Yep,” she groans, her phone dropping into her lap as she presses her fingers to her temples. “Giant fucking asshole. I’m so sorry.” “Nah, it’s… it’s fine,” I tell her — and honestly, I don’t really know if it is. She seems genuinely upset right now. Maybe I should still be upset with her anyway. “Just a busy day?” “It’s…” In the unnatural silence of the booth, I can hear Sweetie’s teeth clack together as she forces her mouth shut. Whatever it really is, she’s not going to tell me — because she doesn’t want to talk about it, or doesn’t want me specifically to know? Her phone buzzes in her lap. She glances down at the screen just long enough for whatever she sees to make her jaw tighten even more. Then she picks the phone back up, clicks the screen off, and stuffs it deep into her bag. “Doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have ghosted you,” she says firmly, before running her hand through her hair and sighing as she looks at her screen. “And I shouldn’t have taken a 400-level class as a freshman. Lots of things I shouldn’t have done, really.” Speaking of choices, I make a deliberate one to not overthink her last sentence. At least, not right now. Plenty of time for that later. “You’re taking senior classes?” “Just the one,” is her wry reply. “Intro to Computer Music. Because ‘intro’ means ‘easy,’ right?” “Oof.” “Yeah.” She turns away from her computer and back to me. “Anyway, forget me. I wanted to hear about rush. How’d it go last night?” “Uh… I think well,” I tell her, settling back against the soundproofed wall. I suppose that’s another choice: to not be upset with her, and to stick around now that I’m here. “I guess I’ll find out for sure at some point today.” “Oh, right, KNZ does that invite-only thing.” She shakes her head. “God, that’s weird.” “It is?” “Yeah. Lotta frats just have a few parties and then send out bids. I guess KNZ’s gotta be extra careful coming back from probation.” “Well, you know more than me about how all this works,” I say with a shrug. “I do my homework,” Sweetie cracks, before glancing at the computer screen again. “Or attempt to, at least.” “What are you, um… attempting to do?” “Oh, don’t worry about it, it’s –” “‘Cause I could maybe –” We both talk over each other, then both clam up at once. I’m the first to blush by about half a second, and the first to speak up again a second after that. “I was just gonna, uh… I-I’ve used that program before. Was thinking I could maybe help. If you want.” Sweetie gives me a look I don’t know how to interpret. “I ditched you for lunch, and you still wanna help me?” I chew on my lip and try to compress the shapeless blob of feelings in my chest into something audible and understandable. “I mean… you were right the other night. We used to be friends. And I just… wanna help out a friend. That’s all.” She’s still wearing the same inscrutable look, and squeezing one thumb against the other in her lap. Finally, she gestures at the computer screen, standing up and offering me her chair in the same movement. “I’m supposed to be mixing these two files together,” she tells me as I edge around her and sit down. “But I’m supposed to keep all the parts of them separate too. Like, all the different instruments. And I can’t get one file into the other without everything mashing into one… stripey thing.” “All right…” I mutter, scanning the track she has open. Sure enough, there are just two channels visible in the mix, where I gather there are supposed to be a lot more. “Are you using the ‘Import’ menu?” “I am… just now learning there’s an ‘Import’ menu.” “It’s up here.” With a couple clicks, I open the correct menu and display a list of files. “Which one do you need to layer in?” Sweetie’s tight-lipped for a moment, then she leans over my shoulder and points. A loop of her hair brushes against my collar, and I catch a whiff of floral shampoo that sends sparks flitting through my chest and flying off the grinding gears in my brain.  “That one. ‘Project 1.2’.” “Oh… o-okay,” I manage to say. “So… open that from this window, and that pulls up this new window of all the channels in that file. Then you can check off the boxes for the channels you want to copy from this second file into your first one.” “And channels are…” I bite my lip, but I can’t help smiling. “The, uh… the stripey things. It’s what the program calls them.” I check all the boxes on display and click the “Add” button, and the main project window fills with new stripes of data, all in separate channels like they’re supposed to be. “And that’s basically it.” I try to look up at Sweetie, and I only catch a glimpse of her shirt’s neckline — hanging an inch away from her chest — before looking away and staring with blurry eyes back at the screen. “Well,” I hear her sigh behind me. “That was embarrassingly simple.” “It’s really not,” I tell her — or really, her faintly visible reflection in the computer screen. That version of her is hard to look in the eyes too. “Took me a while to figure out the first time too.” She inches closer to me. The walls of the tiny room come in closer with her. “So you use this program a lot, then.” “I… have used it,” I say to the computer screen. “A few times.” “To do what?” “Uh… mixing stuff for my brother’s band. And…” And I know exactly what else, and exactly what it would sound like to someone like Sweetie Belle. I barely got away with it last night in front of formerly dorky frat guys. I’m not gonna get that lucky twice. “And… that’s basically it,” I mumble. Sweetie doesn’t say anything until I force myself to turn around and look at her, which is when I see the arch in her eyebrow and the call of “bullshit” forming on her lips. “Okay, you might be good with computers, but you suck at lying,” she says. She’s right. I am, and I do, and both of them are making me shrink into my chair as she straightens up behind me. “So, here’s what I’m thinking,” she continues. “My brain’s fried, I’m at a good stopping point with this crap, and I don’t have anywhere to be for a half-hour-ish. So let’s get out of here, I’ll get us coffees, and in exchange, you let me listen to some of the songs you’ve been working on. Deal?” I want to say no deal — scream it, really. I want to suggest we go do something less primally terrifying, like skydiving without a parachute or fist-fighting a grizzly bear. But I end up saying nothing at all and just gaping at her instead, lips soundlessly opening and closing like a fish on a hook he really should’ve known better than to go after. “Come on,” she says, softer this time, and seemingly sweeter. “You’ve bailed me out twice now. I wanna do something for you.” “I-It’s just the one song, really,” I mumble. “And it’s not that good, so…” “I still wanna hear it,” she replies. “We’re friends, right? I like everything my friends make.” How am I supposed to argue with that? Do I even really want to? I was gonna have to show that track to somebody eventually. Might as well be someone who isn’t one of my players. Then if she hates it, at least I can scrap it without throwing the campaign off course. And if she likes it… An animalistic growl reverberates around the tiny room — not from Sweetie’s throat, but from her gut. “Also, not to put any time pressure on you or anything,” she adds through a toothy, tight grin, “but I kinda ditched both you and lunch in general earlier. So I’m going for coffee and a sandwich either way because I’m starving, but I really think you should come too.” “You really wanna hear this song that bad?” I ask. She looks at me, brow twitching a bit, and smirks as she brushes her hair behind her ear. “Yes, I really do,” she says, sounding like she barely held back an eyeroll. “Now come on. I’ve got like five minutes before I go feral and start eating the foam off the walls in here.” === In retrospect, I was wrong earlier about the hardest part of college. It’s not making choices for yourself, or dealing with the choices other people make, or something else vague and lyrical about the weird liminal space between childhood and adulthood. It turns out, the hardest part of college is sitting in the little coffee shop next to the campus library, staring across the table at someone you’re trying really hard to impress, and watching her listen in total expressionless silence to a song you threw together in one night for an O&O campaign, waiting for her to give you literally any sign of an opinion about it. It turns out it’s that specifically. Much like the soda at the KNZ mixer last night, the coffee I keep aimlessly sipping from isn’t helping at all. I actually didn’t drink a lot of coffee in high school or before now in college, but admittedly it tastes better than the energy drinks I’m used to — or at least like a different, milder flavor of battery acid. Either way, it goes down easy and quickly, and it’s got my foot twitching uncontrollably under the table as I stare at the students around us and the tchotchkes tacked onto the walls and literally anything but Sweetie Belle’s still-blank face behind my laptop screen.  Is that a good reaction? A bad one? Is she even listening at all, or just trying to fake it long enough for me to think she has? I tip my coffee up until my cheeks are bulging with lukewarm liquid, and finally — as I’m painfully swallowing — Sweetie Belle plucks her earbuds out and unplugs them gently from my laptop. She holds them against the table in one hand and props the other against her chin, covering her lips with her knuckles as she still stays completely fucking silent. “I-I know it’s not…” I try to say, my fingers drumming against my coffee cup. “You don’t have to, like…” “That’s really good, Button.” Sweetie looks up at me, and I blink stupidly back at her. The only thing I can think to say — and just barely stop myself from blurting out — is, “No it isn’t.” “Like, okay, if I’m being totally honest, I was gonna say that anyway,” she continues. “Just to be polite, supportive, y’know? But I’m not kidding, that was genuinely good. Like, there’s no way that’s the first song you’ve ever made.” My face is warming and my foot’s still twitching. For some reason, this feels even scarier than her hating it.  “I mean… kind of,” I mumble towards the table. “I messed around some in high school. Just trying to copy other songs, see if I could figure out all the parts and put ‘em together, but it’s… I don’t know if that really…” “Button, look at me.” I don’t, for a second or two. Then I swallow hard, grip my coffee, and force my head up again. “You’re good at this,” Sweetie Belle tells me, emphasizing each word almost like she’s lecturing me. “Accept the compliment.” “Do I have to?” “Yes.” I sigh and shut my eyes. “Fine, okay, I’m good at it, whatever. It’s still… I don’t know why I’m like this.” “Like what?” “Like…” I motion towards my face, and the pained expression I know is written all over it. “It shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s just a song.” Sweetie Belle waits a moment before she answers, seeming to mull something over in her head. “You know what happened the first time I sang in front of a crowd?” she says. “I was so scared I puked. Sprinted off stage halfway through and just… everywhere, like, long-distance demon-possession barfing. And instead of letting me go home like I was begging to, my sister cleaned me up, changed me into a new dress, and sent me right back out for the rest of the show.” I’m blinking again, this time in surprise. “She made you go back out?” “Oh, I was so fucking mad at her,” Sweetie says, laughing at the memory. “Just glared at her in the audience the whole time, screamed half the verses more than sang them. And then afterwards, I’m stomping towards her ready to start screaming again, and I can’t even get to her before a dozen people are in my way, just losing their minds about how good I was.” “Still kinda mean of her,” I say. Sweetie Belle shrugs and smiles in response. “Very mean of her, yeah. But if I’d quit when I wanted to, I never would’ve gotten on stage again. Sometimes you just have to force someone to do something they love. Especially when they don’t know how good they are at it.” That explains a lot — about what happened, and about Sweetie Belle. “I guess that means you forgave her eventually.” She chuckles, and says, “Well, that time. Plenty of other stuff she still has to answer for.” Then she starts to say something else, and silently casts her eyes down towards her coffee instead. “Your sister’s Rarity, right?” I ask. “Three years ahead of us?” “Yeah,” Sweetie replies, “but she dropped out of college last fall. Got an internship with a big-time designer, so she went with that instead of school. And our mom’s… pretending she’s fine with it. Around Rarity, at least.” “But not around you?” I guess — and judging by Sweetie’s expression, I’m right on the money. “You know, there’s a part of it that’s funny,” she says, bitterness creeping into her voice more and more with every word. “Like, for my whole life, Rarity was the one with all the pressure on her, who my parents were all over about setting a good example and doing something with her life. And now she is doing something, but it’s not the right something, so now suddenly I’m the big deal. The one who can’t fuck around with…” “With college?” “With anything. At least one kid has to graduate, be the normal one, or else…” She blows out a sigh. “I don’t know, it’s family stuff. I shouldn’t be venting it at you.” “I don’t mind,” I tell her. “Is it helping? To vent it?” She laughs again, but the sound is lower and rougher this time. “It’d be nice if it did,” she says. “I mean, you get it. You’re a younger sibling too, right?” “Yeah, but I think my parents’ standards for my brother are ‘not being homeless.’ Not a super hard example to live up to.” I get a smile out of her from that, but not much else. “Any case, I think you’re doing great.” That gets a reaction out of her — and not the one I was expecting. “Really?” she snorts. “That’s your impression of me after this week?” “I mean, yeah,” I tell her. “You’re keeping up with classes, you’re popular… you’re doing better than me, at least. I wouldn’t even be rushing right now if it weren’t…” For you, I almost say. “You just make it look easy, that’s all. Even though I know it’s not.” She doesn’t laugh this time. Actually, she looks for just a second like she wants to cry. “I really thought it would be,” she says quietly, staring down at her coffee cup. “I’ve never… not had friends, y’know? People I’d known for years, just there all the time. And now Apple Bloom’s working and Scootaloo’s across the country, and I’m… here. Starting over again.” “Not completely starting over.” Sweetie Belle catches on to what I’m implying before I do and smirks.  “I-I mean, just…” I quickly add. “I’m here too. Also, uh… making new friends.” “And old ones,” she says, still smiling. “Y-Yeah. Some old ones too,” I mumble, trying to hide my blush behind my coffee cup. I don’t think it works, because Sweetie Belle’s staring at me when my cup hits the table again. Her smile’s faded, and her sullen look — like she wants to cry and won’t let herself — is back, and then suddenly something bursts out of her like the cap flying off a shaken soda bottle. “I was such a bitch to you in high school.” This time, I don’t swallow back what I instantly want to say. “No you weren’t,” I tell her — not even to make her feel better, more because I genuinely don’t know what she’s talking about. Lots of people were actively jerks to me in high school. Sweetie Belle just… ignored me completely. Which, I realize looking at her now, is exactly what she’s talking about. “I abandoned you, Button,” she says. “We were friends, and I took you for granted. Just let you drift away, and didn’t think about it because I was so caught up in myself and my own shit. And now I’m just… forcing myself on you again, acting like we’re still friends, like I don’t know exactly whose fault it is –” “Hey, stop.” I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe I feel bad for her. Maybe she’s right, and I’m letting her take advantage of me. All I know is what it just led to: me reaching across the table and grabbing her hand, and her falling silent as my palm touches hers, and a swell of adrenaline blasting through me as I look her in the eyes and somehow — I don’t know how — don’t look away. “I let you drift away too,” I tell her. “I could’ve said something, tried to hang out or go to parties, and I didn’t. I just let life happen to me, while you went out and made life happen for you. You’ve always been good at that. You’re still good at it now, even if it’s harder than it used to be. And I don’t even know if I’m good at it because I never even tried before, but I’m trying now, and I probably wouldn’t be if you hadn’t forced me to. So just… be nice to yourself, okay? You’re trying. We both are.” She doesn’t say anything at first, just squeezes my hand and presses her lips together and tries to blink away the moisture beading in the corners of her eyes. Finally, she wipes her face with her free hand and roughly clears her throat. “Thanks,” she murmurs. “Sorry.” “Don’t be,” I murmur back. “I’m glad we’re friends again.” And I am, on one level. I really did miss hanging out with her, hearing her instantly strong opinions on everything, guiding her patiently through video game dungeons where she’d get drawn towards shiny stuff and always forget about enemy spawns.  On another level, my heart’s jackhammering so hard I can barely breathe past it, and if I hold her hand much longer my palm’s going to start sweating just like the rest of me already is. Are we friends? Or are we… is this…? With another blink and a sniffle, she pulls her hand away and then rubs both hands against her jeans, bunching a denim a bit beneath her curling fingers. “Oh God,” she says through a heavy sigh. “Sorry, seriously. I’m a mess. But I’m really glad we’re friends again too. I mean that.” Did she put extra emphasis on the word “friends”? I don’t know. I already can’t remember. My heart still goes from pounding in my ears to sinking into the pit of my stomach.  “Hey, I gotta go,” she says next, her voice a little stiffer than it strictly needs to be. “Gotta get to my next class. But, uh… if you make any more songs, I’d love to hear them.” “I’ll keep you posted,” I reply just as awkwardly. “And, um, if you’re still singing, y’know… I remember you were really good.” This time, she’s second to figuring out what I’m implying, and she smiles sweetly once she does. “I’ll let you know,” she says. “See you later, Button.” She glances back at me once as she pushes the shop’s front door open, and another time through the plate-glass window outside. Then she disappears around the corner, and I blow out a sigh I didn’t realize I was holding in.  I can already feel the floodgates opening in my head — all the little mistakes and missteps and uncomfortable pauses in our conversation piling up on top of each other, ready for me to overanalyze. But maybe it’s the coffee, or the stress, or the last traces of warmth from Sweetie’s hand still tingling through my own, but I just don’t have the energy to think about this any more.  Sweetie Belle and I are friends again. That’s objectively good, whether there’s a “just” in front of “friends” or not. And the only thing obsessing over the semantics of all this right now would be good for is fucking that friendship up again. Besides, I still have homework to do, and class notes to catch on, and a frat party invite to maybe not end up getting. But right now, I don’t want to think about any of those things either. Right now, I’m thinking about when I could see Sweetie Belle again, and whether I could make a new song for her before that happens, and tapping my finger idly against my coffee cup trying to find a rhythm that I can feel tickling the base of my brain but can’t quite hear yet.  I want to think about that. I want to dive into the tingling in the center of my chest and find out what’s causing it and shape something brand-new out of it — the same way I did when I stayed up all night and made the song Sweetie liked so much.  I want to see her again. I want her to like my next song just as much. And just like that, I realize I’ve already decided I’m going to make a next one, because I want to. Because I choose to. In my pocket, my phone buzzes. It’s a message from Source — and sent to a bunch of different numbers besides my own, including the ones labeled as “Woody” and “Crescent” in my contacts:  After much debate, deliberation, and general dilly-dallying, we the brothers of KNZ have decided in our infinite wisdom that you probably don’t suck. If you want that “probably” to become a “definitely,” come to the Jefferson Street house at 8 tonight in your best cigar-smoking, card-sharking attire. Or don’t. We’re not cops. By the time I finish reading the first text, a second one arrives: Also, I guess this is now the official KNZ rush chat, so decreed by me because fuck making a listserv. Send each other memes and/or dick pics as you see fit. I have time for one brief, big sigh of relief, and then my phone starts blowing up with images from the other people in the group text — thankfully all memes, and zero dick pics. In any event, I guess Woody and I have plans for tonight after all. And I have about six hours to kill before those plans begin, which I could occupy by going to my afternoon class and learning about boring shit and being the most responsible, grown-up student who ever college’d. Or, as a way better alternative, I could pull my laptop out of its case, plug in the charger and connect my headphones, open up Thesis Pro, and waste time and money doing something I actually give a shit about. It doesn’t take me long at all to decide. Life’s short. I’ve missed too much of it already. And between old friends and new ones, trying to make the most of it now feels more and more like the right call.