She sometimes forgets her dirty underwear in the bathroom after she showers. She sometimes doesn’t brush her teeth in the morning because she’s that late to class. She forgets sometimes where she’s parked her car, only to leave it parked by campus overnight and scream that someone stole her car the next day. She likes walking around naked, leaving her door open when she changes so her roommate can at any time, see her naked. She likes to belt out “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” at karoke, at the sheer disgust of many.
But a person has oh, so many quirks about her, and that’s what makes her special, and unique, and exactly the person she is.
She takes care of you when you’re sick, running out in the rain to buy you hot soup. She likes to pretend her shiny Acura Integra is a Porsche, racing up the curves of Tilden like it’s a racetrack. She picks you up from the airport, even at 1 am, and always does it with a smile on her face. She’s intelligent, well-read, has cultural depth, and can hold a conversation with anyone. She adores Frida Kahlo, from her infamous unibrow to her vivid self portraits depicting the pain of childbirth. She has a penchant for blueberry pie a la mode from Fenton’s, and pineapple fried rice from Thai Basil. She takes pictures of herself when drunk, imitating those she dislikes, and doing a damn fine job of it. She’s spontaneous yet predictable, hilarious yet sometimes lame, but a hundred percent genuine.
You start to love her the very instant you meet her. She makes you feel comfortable. She makes you feel warm. She makes you feel loved.
It all passed so quickly, this past year and a half. I’m going to miss living with her, and yes, I’ll probably even occasionally miss having a room next door with insurmountable piles of clothes and papers and random items scattered on the floor. I’ll never forget the time she clogged the toilet, leaving it to me to plunge, or the time we ordered take out to be delivered from King Dong’s, which was, only literally a block away from our apartment. I’m going to miss her reading her psychology textbooks out loud, for she claims she remembers things better when shouting them out at the top of her lungs, or rather, in strange accents ranging from broken British to abnormal Indian.
And I could go on forever, because it seems that as I begin to list many of her idiosyncrasies, I come up with ten more. Truth of the matter is, she’s probably taught me more than I ever thought I could learn from a person. Lessons about giving, generosity, modesty with some well-deserved cockiness, living in the moment, never regretting the past. She once wrote me this letter, slipped under my door two Christmases ago, about how I know how to be a really good friend and that she’s lucky to have me both as a friend and a roommate. What she didn’t know then, and perhaps what I should have told her months before, is that she knows just as well, if not better than I do, how to be a true friend, a confidant, a listener, and one of the most honest, I’ll-take-no-shit from anyone people I know. I always keep that letter close at hand, in my desk drawer, in Berkeley, and now at home, tucked away safely so that whenever I start to feel sad, or alone, I pick it up and read it. And it never fails to bring tears to my eyes.
You once told me that I sometimes close myself off to the world – I take everything in, and hold it there, afraid, and perhaps wary of opening myself up, sharing my troubles, hopes and fears, because I found it selfish to always be talking about myself, my worries, my drama. But she’s taught me that it isn’t selfish to want to talk to others sometimes about what’s bothering you, that it’s okay to complain every now and then, and to bitch, moan and groan. I’ve learned so much from her starting from the very day I met her, I’ve grown so much, I’ve experienced some of the best memories to date. And now she’s off, to bigger and better things for the next five months, in a foreign country that I’m certain she’ll wreck havoc upon with her presence. And I’m going to miss her. So much. But what I know for sure is that she’ll always be there, across the Atlantic Ocean, four hundred miles away, or even the room next door. I know she’ll always be there.
Amy dear, I hope you have a blast in Rome. I didn’t write you a Christmas card this year, or even a goodbye letter (fuck goodbyes, there never are any, anyway). So this is it. In all its glory. Because I want everyone to know how great you are. I’m selfish like that.
But a person has oh, so many quirks about her, and that’s what makes her special, and unique, and exactly the person she is.
She takes care of you when you’re sick, running out in the rain to buy you hot soup. She likes to pretend her shiny Acura Integra is a Porsche, racing up the curves of Tilden like it’s a racetrack. She picks you up from the airport, even at 1 am, and always does it with a smile on her face. She’s intelligent, well-read, has cultural depth, and can hold a conversation with anyone. She adores Frida Kahlo, from her infamous unibrow to her vivid self portraits depicting the pain of childbirth. She has a penchant for blueberry pie a la mode from Fenton’s, and pineapple fried rice from Thai Basil. She takes pictures of herself when drunk, imitating those she dislikes, and doing a damn fine job of it. She’s spontaneous yet predictable, hilarious yet sometimes lame, but a hundred percent genuine.
You start to love her the very instant you meet her. She makes you feel comfortable. She makes you feel warm. She makes you feel loved.
It all passed so quickly, this past year and a half. I’m going to miss living with her, and yes, I’ll probably even occasionally miss having a room next door with insurmountable piles of clothes and papers and random items scattered on the floor. I’ll never forget the time she clogged the toilet, leaving it to me to plunge, or the time we ordered take out to be delivered from King Dong’s, which was, only literally a block away from our apartment. I’m going to miss her reading her psychology textbooks out loud, for she claims she remembers things better when shouting them out at the top of her lungs, or rather, in strange accents ranging from broken British to abnormal Indian.
And I could go on forever, because it seems that as I begin to list many of her idiosyncrasies, I come up with ten more. Truth of the matter is, she’s probably taught me more than I ever thought I could learn from a person. Lessons about giving, generosity, modesty with some well-deserved cockiness, living in the moment, never regretting the past. She once wrote me this letter, slipped under my door two Christmases ago, about how I know how to be a really good friend and that she’s lucky to have me both as a friend and a roommate. What she didn’t know then, and perhaps what I should have told her months before, is that she knows just as well, if not better than I do, how to be a true friend, a confidant, a listener, and one of the most honest, I’ll-take-no-shit from anyone people I know. I always keep that letter close at hand, in my desk drawer, in Berkeley, and now at home, tucked away safely so that whenever I start to feel sad, or alone, I pick it up and read it. And it never fails to bring tears to my eyes.
You once told me that I sometimes close myself off to the world – I take everything in, and hold it there, afraid, and perhaps wary of opening myself up, sharing my troubles, hopes and fears, because I found it selfish to always be talking about myself, my worries, my drama. But she’s taught me that it isn’t selfish to want to talk to others sometimes about what’s bothering you, that it’s okay to complain every now and then, and to bitch, moan and groan. I’ve learned so much from her starting from the very day I met her, I’ve grown so much, I’ve experienced some of the best memories to date. And now she’s off, to bigger and better things for the next five months, in a foreign country that I’m certain she’ll wreck havoc upon with her presence. And I’m going to miss her. So much. But what I know for sure is that she’ll always be there, across the Atlantic Ocean, four hundred miles away, or even the room next door. I know she’ll always be there.
Amy dear, I hope you have a blast in Rome. I didn’t write you a Christmas card this year, or even a goodbye letter (fuck goodbyes, there never are any, anyway). So this is it. In all its glory. Because I want everyone to know how great you are. I’m selfish like that.
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