Posts Tagged ‘baking’

Last Days

August 23, 2008

They’re finally here. My last few days in Moraga. I’ve been waiting for these days for so long, and now that they’ve arrived, I’m not sure I’m ready.

It’s fucked up, isn’t it? Yeah. It is.

I had a god-awful time in high school. I’m not going to lie, I hated just about every second of it. I felt like I was being forced to fit some mold that was just entirely the wrong shape to begin with. Like I was a puzzle piece from one of those 3-piece dinosaur floor puzzles for unintelligent children being forced into a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle of star formations or something you would want to throw at a wall after five unsuccessful hours of assembly. Take this class. Do this. Do this too. Make sure you do this so that you’ll get in to a Good Collegeā„¢. But I didn’t want any of that. It didn’t feel right. What was the most logical solution for me? Spend four miserable years doing it all anyway. Because I’m dumb, and I didn’t know any better.

Now I know better. This summer, I’ve come to realize a lot about myself and how I need to live my life. I need to do what makes me happy. I’ve done that this summer. I’ve found a lot of what I’m looking for in life during the past few months. And for the first time in years, I’m honestly happy.

And now I’m leaving. Whoops.

Okay, okay. Leaving is the wrong word. The people that belong in my life will be in my life, no matter where I am. Wherever I end up, I’ll always have myself. And if I am honest about who I am, I know I’ll be happy. So, maybe I am ready to go after all.

All I need to do is be happy, and do the things that make me happy. Nothing more. I’ll make my own choices and live the way I want to live. It’s going to be great.

Goodbye Moraga, maybe I’ll see you again someday.

To my friends, I will stalk you all on Facebook until you un-friend me and file multiple restraining orders. Because I care.

That said, I’m ready to go. I’ve got at least 16 new pairs of underwear in my suitcase, 30-something mismatched socks, and my waffle iron. Oberlin, here I come.

Okay, this entry got a little bit sentimental. Let’s balance it out with some bitching, yes?


Dearest vanilla extract,

Fuck you for costing six dollars. And for smelling so good, yet tasting so bad.

I wonder if the bad taste is the fault of the 35% alcohol concentration. Seems likely.

Still. UNCOOL.

With love and resentment,



Greg and I made a fruit tart yesterday. It changed my life in more than one way. I’d need a thesaurus to adequately describe it’s deliciousness, but I am too lazy to leave my bedroom.

It tasted good. REALLY GOOD. There.

Our parents played Rock Band while we baked. And they sucked. Horribly. It was possibly even worse than the time when my dad came home at one in the morning, completely hammered, with a insatiable urge to play DDR. That was hilarious, actually, and is probably one of my fondest memories of him.

Okay. I’m going to go pack before my mother comes home and shits a brick when she realizes I’ve done nothing.