Redirection.

The Awkward Show ended last May. Now the Awkward Blog ends as well. It's a new chapter in my life; this semester, I take a break.

Follow my new blog. It's called But Finally, Jellyfish Appeared.

http://inkjellyfish.blogspot.com/

Thank you, everyone, for reading The Awkward Blog. Writing is one of my favorite things to do, and these blogs are where I have a place for it.

When you spilled the milk, did it look like the moon? I love milk.

Potential.

I am freaking out about leaving Boise.

I spent this morning at Dawson Taylor. I left Casey off her leash and she wandered around and all the patrons smiled and petted her. The air was warm. Tess and I sat and sipped coffee with our tattoos and our dogs. She just got a Great Pyrenees puppy, cutest thing in the world. Everyone comes up and talks to us. Asks us how old our dogs are (I lie and say eight) and what our tattoos mean. And I love love love it here.

We went back to her apartment, across the street from Boise High. There's an extra room. It's adorable. Rent is $425. Split between two people, that's nothing.

Austin and I are becoming quite close. We walked around the zoo yesterday. We watch public access TV and make fun of it. I'm always laughing. We eat Thai food and are kind of Buddhist.

My dog rides shot gun. She's the love of my life.

I get so worried about money. NAU costs 10,000 a semester. I am worried that the journalism program is no better than Boise State, but a hell lot more expensive and away from what is becoming my favorite place in the world. Flagstaff has no river. Flagstaff has HIM.

The night we stayed there, we stayed with a girl who just finished the journalism program at NAU. Did I tell you that? She ranted and raved at how awful the program is. How the newspaper just went bankrupt. How one of the Lumberjack's headlines made it onto the Tonight Show when Jay Leno makes fun of newspaper headlines. "Lady Jacks off to a great start." $20,000 a year. Four years. $80,000. No Greenbelt. No Tessa. No Dawson Taylor. No Boise River. No Casey. No Mom. My mom and I are closer than ever. Same with my dad. Same with this city.

But this is the choice I made.

Your flight is gonna leave without you.

I stood in line at security, boarding pass and driver's license in hand. The line inched forward and I started wondering if it was silly to leave right then. Just before I hand the officer my paperwork, I dip out of line and wander back into Sky Harbor. It's the experiences we're supposed to be living for.

With this abrupt change of plans, we pack our bags and head to Flagstaff. The drive is quick, familiar. The temperature drops twenty degrees. The altitude raises to 7,000 feet. For the first time, I am there without him.

We wander around downtown, and there is live music. I eat a crepe and visit my future work. The Barnes and Noble there is small, cozy. They tell me to start the transfer paperwork immediately. A music seller is leaving at the end of the summer. I have a place.

We go back downtown and it's alive like Boise. Everyone is out with their dogs, chatter, one million conversations buzz in the air. The live music is good.

I look down at my phone, surf through Facebook. Pictures come up. I stop dead. Everything around me seems to just shut off. Pictures from the lake. New ones. His family has uploaded them. I don't want to look at them, I don't want to see them, but they are there. And he looks so happy. Part of me is glad he looks so happy. I don't feel resentment and I don't feel anger.

But I also don't feel like talking.

We go to the apartment where we're going to crash. Samantha, the girl who lives there, just made cookies. She's watching Friends. The things that make me feel better. Make me feel okay.

This morning, we met with Andrew Madden, the general manager of KJACK. We talked for a good hour over coffee, plans and suggestions and ideas to make KJACK one hell of a radio station. It'll be a project. It'll be exciting progress. I'm excited that other people are excited.

Driving into Flagstaff, I felt in my bones that I was in someone else's territory. But driving out, it felt a little more like my own.

There was a reason to dip out of line at security. Hopefully there will be a reason for this nerve-wracking adventure as well.

I remember how we used to be.

"You're not old enough to drink that."

I laughed and looked down at the bottle of root beer on the counter. It's good to see people from high school again. I smiled and paid for the soda.

I remember running with a cup of Turkish coffee across downtown to where I could find a parking spot. Trying to get the timing just right. Just before five, so it doesn't get cold, but so he doesn't see me.

I taped the note to the car door. "Hi there! Look under your car!"

The sharpie hearts all over the green coffee cup. The note about keeping him up until five.

I set the bottle on the ground, and hoped it wouldn't roll away.

That the coffee cup wouldn't tip over and spill hot coffee all over his windshield.

That no one would see the bottle on the ground and take it.

That the coffee wouldn't be cold by the time he got to it.

That the soda wouldn't be hot by the time he got to it.

I got a text from him. "You are a complete bad ass. I was just thinking about Henry Weinhard's on my way out."

I got a text from him. "No one has ever done anything like this for me before, that's so sweet."

But now we don't talk anymore. And I've changed drastically, but not at all.

Do you want to see the world, do you want to see the world?

Do you want to see the world a different way?

I get nervous for next fall, breathing, preparing, knowing I will have to sprint smiling through the animosity and resentment. The place I no longer belong. A place where I will already avoid eyes. When he offered me a seat in government almost a year and a half before, I had no idea I would have to avoid his eyes a year and a half later.

A different way.

A different summertime.

The more people I get to know, the more I want to know people.

I've spent a lot of time listening in the last few days. Listening to everyone's stories, piecing together their lives, their pasts, their families, and who they are.

Tess and I sit together outside Dawson Taylor's where everyone pets my fat dog and compliments our tattoos. I smile at the way her life has fallen into place. A sweet boyfriend, a good life in Boise, a good new boyfriend for her mom, an upcoming rafting trip.

Austin and I sit at Camel's Back on a blanket in the sunshine and he explains music to me, the way it works and the people involved. His life about to change, a move back home, a close family, a potential to save up some money.

Michael and I sit outside Pie Hole with greasy cheap pizza by the slice, with soda. He tells me about moving to Boise a few weeks go, about marriage of his parents, of himself, of people he knows. I try my hardest not to notice Brian's good friend Kate sitting at the next table over.

When I talk, I feel like the words are rushed and lately, it just feels better to sit back and listen. I realize how everyone are in different places in their lives, just trying to figure out each passing moment. Tess has lived in Boise for almost a lifetime. Austin prepares to leave it in a month. Michael arrived three weeks ago. And here I am, in the mist of all these people. Listening. Anymore, when I talk, I feel like I only have a vague idea what I am talking about. A brief, but accurate explanation of Brian. Recited facts. Maybe I am just emotionally drained.

Two and a half miles of walking without shoes, a cell phone, keys, or money, wondering why things are sometimes fucked up while it rains will do that to you.

But my mom and I eat milk duds and watch TV and she makes me laugh. I get letters in the mail and they make me smile. My dad and I make plans to go out on the boat and float the river and that makes me glad. The air is warm, and that makes everything a little more bearable.

Melody is blind.

Jazz.

There's nothing quite like it. It's calming and relaxing and sexy and makes me feel lonelier than most things. While listening, and I realize I have no one to think of in that way. In that sexy jazzy you-are-mine-and-perfect-for-me way.

When I hear jazz, my mind's eye sees a small apartment and a city view of night lights. It's a solitary picture. Another scene of my own isolation. Something calm and rejuvenating and lonely. The same self image I have of myself alone, hidden from the world, in the quietness of jazz. And at the same time, lonely. The examination, thorough. The dichotomy, fascinating.

Barnes and Noble sounded quiet until I started working there. Now, I hear all the sounds my ears never picked up before. People being paged, phones ringing, PDTs beeping, same music, the constant hustle of the store being run. I was ignorant and unaccustomed. Now I sit in the overstuffed chairs and I hear two separate worlds. The quiet, undisturbed peace of a customer surrounded in books. The busy, hectic, noisy business of an employee running a bookstore.

Tea and jazz, the ultimatum of a quiet, lonely night.

Lonely isn't always bad.

I ramble on and on.

I said I needed a project.

I got one.

Something to consume my thoughts, my time, my energy. Obsession. Until I am touching a lip ring that isn't there.

My expression turns focused and my concentration narrows in and I'm no longer aware of time lapsing. And when it's over for a bit, my mind feels pleasantly blank.

Lately I surround myself with people. Catch the eyes of the regulars at the Flying M. Sometimes being around people just makes me feel more lonely though. I watch them smile at each other and laugh and talk together. Share their lives, their experiences.

And I'm flying along the freeway, it takes seconds for me to take off in my car. I don't unlock the passenger door for anyone. Don't wait for them to sit down and get comfortable. Don't wait for them to buckle their seatbelt. It's just me. It's alright, with the windows rolled down and some nostalgic Death Cab for Cutie.

And it's like this is how it has always been, like he never existed. Until I am cleaning out my email and see a message sent on April 12th.

"Hi, B." Look at this that I wrote.

I delete it before the memory surfaces. The mind is still blank.

This weird and totally different feeling I get deciding to take the longer drive home, driving down Harrison and having just been told that something I wrote was good. I see Tegan Ren out there walking her cat and yelling at people in their yards. We're both lonely as hell.

I spend a lot of time to myself.

But on the bright side, I'll be back in Phoenix in ten days.

Windows always open, a cross breeze.

Every time my alarm wakes me up, I want to keep sleeping. Cancel my plans, skip work, just sleep through it all. But I force myself to get up and I am always so glad afterwards. My life turns out to be worth waking up for.

At work, Bill English came in today. I was quite happy to see him, because I read his article in the Boise Weekly yesterday and wanted to tell him how much I enjoyed it. He did a feature on an upcoming writer who seemed quite insightful.

I've discovered there's a quiet hunger for books and literature throughout the state. I've gotten to meet hundreds of kids and hopefully, I've shown them that you don't have to be from Paris or New York to be a full-time writer.

He also said this: I doubt my work all the way through the process, and after it's published, I doubt it even more.

It feels nice to know I'm not the only one working in doubt.

Bill English told me he is basing a character off of me for his novel. I wonder about this girl. Does she have a boyfriend? Does she have a high self esteem? Is she tasteful? He said I should be his protege. I'd like that, since he is living the life I want, writing novels and articles for the Boise Weekly.

At work, I catch myself channeling my own insecurities through other people. Does Nancy think I don't sell enough memberships? Does Lynn think I am an idiot? Does she hate my tattoo? Does Carrie get irritated fixing my mistakes? Does Steve think I am unreasonable for asking for six days off? Does Heidi think I am bossy? Does everyone think I am incompetent? I know these are just my own fears about myself; I just hope I'm the only one that thinks them.

My alarm went off at 4:45, waking me up from a nap during the thunderstorm. I wanted to keep sleeping, to call off the creme brulee party, but I forced myself to get up. And I'm so glad I did; my evening was lovely. Tessa and her very nice boyfriend, Daniel came over and we made creme brulee and I played a great playlist. I told them about the past 13 months of my life involving Brian in about seven minutes. It's recapped so quickly. It's like fiction. We laughed a lot at different happenings in my recent life and Daniel asked me if I had a blog to write about it all.

We went to Dawson Taylor's while the creme brulee set, and Daniel helped a bee keeper take a huge nest down from a tree on the sidewalk. When I say help, I mean, he got stung some 10 or 15 times when the nest crashed to the ground and 50 bees swarmed around him. He sprinted away down the street, covered in bees. It started to rain again and we all got soaked instantly. Tess told me I could share her life.

We played a lazy game of Yahtzee and Tess looked at my favorite picture books. We torched the top of our brulee, and Daniel was a little overzealous with the torch. He made a very burnt smily face. The creme didn't set up enough and was a little watery, but it tasted good.

They left and I did the dishes quietly. I made my peace with being alone. I think about Tess and Daniel and how sweet they seem and how I had that and how he would make me eggs in a basket, but that time is over and I've made my peace. It will stay a bundle of good memories of a different time.

I painted my finger nails pink.

My mom called and told me about their visit to Colorado. She told me how she cried a lot yesterday at the prospect of moving, but how getting out in the world allows for new experiences and I noted how incredibly strong my mom is. I hope to be that strong someday. And I realized that it's not my place to resist this relocation anymore. She needs to do what is best for her and it's not my call.

Just like Brian needed to do what was best for him.

And I've made my peace with that.

I fly planes.

Sometimes it's good to look down at your life from 4,000 feet. And it's good to take hold of the yoke. To land and take off and land and take off and realize that you control your life. That when your hands twist left, your wings veer in the same direction. Look down at the lights. They are tiny. It's all black. It's 1:30 am.

When you pull back, the nose pulls back and you are climbing. When you push forward, your nose dips and the ground comes toward you and you could die or you could keep flying and the moon doesn't look very far away from up here.

"Pull back hard, hard, harder, there you go. Level off. Level off."

And all you have to do is get off the ground to see how beautiful it is.

Since I came back from college, my dad and I have had the best relationship so far. I start to see ways that I am his daughter, too.

We both like buttons.

We both like lights.

We both like buttons that light up.

I get a funny feeling in my stomach when he accelerates incredibly fast on his new crotch rocket. It builds up a sound in my throat, the only way to release the butterflies. The motorcycle can go as fast as the plane. If it had wings, my dad would fly that, too. We ride to the lake. Past Surprise Valley and I just look down at a different life.

Thousands of gallons of water shoots out of two holes in the dam, filling the Boise River until it floods the greenbelt. You would die instantly. You get the same feeling at 80 miles per hour on the motorcycle. Or 180 in an airplane. When I'm flying it.

Take the yoke, and level off.

Laugh it off.

Going to dinner with my grandpa always reminds me that life is here for us to enjoy. Over sushi and hot tea and mochi, we laugh and everything becomes a great story.

Why are you upset? There is nothing to be upset about. The sky is blue and everything around us is green. I just bought you ice cream. It's not worth being upset about.

The past few days have been a stretch of the arms. The eight-mile bike ride along the river, the greenbelt, the stops in the grass. I put my feet in the river. And then sitting at Sun Ray Cafe with delicious breadsticks and great company.

And yesterday, I started my day sitting outside the Flying M with Jared and his new puppy and my fat dog, Casey. Early morning vanilla lattes that taste so good. We talked and I love how well Jared knows me. So little I have to explain to him.

Then I walked down to Dawson Taylor, another seat outside, and my life is starting to feel like an Ernest Hemingway novel. I sat in my spot in the sun and talked to a different Jared in Phoenix, approximately 930 miles away. We talked on the phone.

Tess came to my table and we sat and talked for awhile before going to Lux, the best clothing shop in Boise. I bought a lovely hat for seven dollars. We walked around a used book store. We hugged good bye.

Casey and I continued to walk around before meeting Craig for a lunch, another outside place setting.

I open my eyes and I realize everyone is smiling at me.

Brian was a filling and delicious capris. Now I am forced to look at the rest of the menu and I realize it has splendid vanilla lattes and even better passion fruit creme brulee.

So we eat raw fish fearlessly and nothing seems quite so serious as I recount my life.

So why are you sad? The sky is blue and everything around us is green. The music is great and the people are even better.

I hope now that I will stretch my arms through a roof folded down and in the back of the car. Flying along a seven-lane freeway with sun that stops at nothing to make you feel warm.

I'm allergic to love.

The healing process.

I am good to go. My ACL was cleared yesterday morning and I am good to go. Cleared for wake surfing. Not that that matters now. Surgery never felt so unnecessary. Reconstructive surgery.

When I listen to Little Dragon, it's back to my spring break and I am wandering around Northern Arizona University's campus with one head phone perpetually stuck in my ear. It feels all the same, but it isn't.

But it is a love/hate relationship here in Boise.

There's no one to know.

There's nothing to do.

This is where I live, but

I've never felt less at home.

Yet the sun comes out and it feels like summer and I can't help but love it a little bit. An eight-mile bike ride, two stops to lay down in the grass and look up, one to dip my feet into the freezing cold river. And then breadsticks and raspberry lemonade and a refreshing sip of dark beer at a restaurant where the waitresses wear jeans and everyone has tattoos. How North End.

Today, early morning coffee. I've never been in a situation where I held so much of other people's hopes. And I don't like being the one that has to break them.

Permanence.

I just try to move past it every day.

But it's like a perpetual tattooing. I look down and see the needle and the ink and the blood. It doesn't feel like my own. I can't believe it's my own. Sometimes it hurts worse than others, but it always hurts and I am always aware of it. It's a feeling I've never felt before, it's unlike anything.

I'm not used to it. It feels adrenaline-pumping and painful and tingling and annoying and like a hot razor and like a good scratch and unbelievably permanent. It's the same disbelief that's been following me everywhere.

Is this really how things are now?

Has all this really happened?

This accusation is perplexing.

Nothing has ever hurt so badly in my life. But I can't just jerk away every time the artist starts drawing. I make myself sit still.

Will this tattoo turn out to be something beautiful?

Finally, jellyfish appeared.

Am I pregnant? Breast feeding? No.

Do I realize that it is in fact permanent, that infection is always possible? Yes.

The first hour, he drew with Sharpie. My hand fell asleep. Anticipation of a needle. I have no idea what this will feel like.

"It feels like someone pinching you over and over again."

"It feels like a sunburn."

"The first five minutes are the worst."

"The end is definitely the worst."

"Red hurts the most."

"It feels like a very angry wasp humping you."

It's a feeling I can't describe, and frankly, no one else can either. It's almost fun, almost exhilarating, almost sexy. It's annoying and making faces doesn't make it hurt less. It's gorgeous and I love it. It's too big to my parents, it's better than I imagined, it's a jellyfish.

The second hour, he dipped the tip in magenta. Here it goes. Oh, that's it? That's what it feels like. He outlined.

The third, he filled in with color. Pinks and white. Finally, jellyfish appeared.

Cancelled noise

I walked up to the security line at the Boise airport and called my mom.

"I'm screwed. There's no way I'll make my flight, security is way backed up and it'll be boarding in fifteen minutes. Stand by."

And I sprinted barefoot across the Boise airport, arriving in time and out of breath. One may call this trip lucky.

I sat looking out at the rain pouring down on the tarmac, and leaving tiny spots on my window. The guy behind me smelt strongly of cigarettes and alcohol. It was 7:25 in the morning. He talked to no one. He wouldn't stop talking. I blocked him out with Bose headphones. Cancelled noise.

As we arrived into Salt Lake City, much to my displeasure, he reached around and poked me. Why are you touching me? Why?

"Are those the great salt lakes?"

I looked down at what looked like a few flooded fields.

"I have no idea."

I hate being under ten thousand feet.

I got a bagel smothered in cream cheese in Salt Lake. The woman working told me she liked my smile. Strangely enough, that's not the first time I've been told that very thing in an airport. Last time, though, it was Heathrow. I struck up a conversation with a traveling college student. His backpack was covered in flag patches from all over the world. I only ate half my bagel. I hate how expensive airport food is. I threw the other half away guiltily.

The flight to Phoenix was pleasant, I slept most of it. That kind of sleep where as soon as your head starts to dip, you startle awake. Over and over and over again.

Upon arrival in Phoenix, I took of my sweater and wandered around Sky Harbor, which looks more like a mall than anything. Landing in Phoenix is one of the only ways to see how vast the valley is. It is mind boggling. The city seems to stretch on forever.

I sat at the curb twirling a bottle of water and watching all the posh cars go by. North curb, terminal four. There are only three terminals. Two through four. I saw no black convertible, though.

"Where are you?"

"North curb, terminal four."

"No you aren't."

I'm at departures. I realize this shortly after accusing Jared of not knowing his own airport. Hell if I know how to get down to the arrivals curb. Though I do think I remembered more taxis before.

We drove along the freeway and I finally felt warm and it felt liberating driving in a convertible. We pulled into a gated community and there was no doubt I was in Scottsdale. Jared's house was beautiful. 17-foot ceilings at least. Rock and stone and tile. And ceiling fans. A projector room. The "media" room. As many CDs as KBGA. Not quite. Big screen TVs and surround sound.

We sat on the floor looking through cookbooks before deciding it was easier to make other people cook for us, and decided to go to In'N'Out. A cheeseburger and pink lemonade. Absolutely delicious. I was starving.

We went to Blockbuster and rented Rock Band 2 because I have a distaste for Guitar Hero, and Jared is kind enough to let me have my way with absolutely everything. Including the top down in the car and the music exclusively mine. We went on a search for Raspberry Ginger Beer, stopping first at a store called BevMo, and then AJs and then Safeway. No luck and I settled for a case of Izzes.

We drove to another neighborhood buried in Scottsdale and picked up a boy with a striking resemblance to Cousin It in a trench coat. I deem the trench coat unnecessary in Phoenix's 105 degree weather, but he disagrees. His name is KC and he choked me with my seatbelt when attempting to jump into the back seat of the convertible.

I tagged behind these boys plus one other, named Koga, at the Fashion Square mall. A note on Fashion Square: holy shit. It must be four huge stories at least, and it's...indescribable. Huge and beautiful and posh. I wandered aimlessly, taking it all in. I ate dulce de leche ice cream. The boys threw insults at each other back and forth until I offered up a challenge.

"I bet you can't find a trench coat in this mall. I bet there isn't a single trench coat in this Phoenix mall in June."

And the challenge began. Starting with the major department stores. Jared seemed overly determined to prove me wrong. With little luck. He considers himself victorious though, on one small technicality.

"No, we don't have any trench coats here," a woman said in a British accent. "Try back in December."

"Ha, see? There's no sense in having a trench coat in a Phoenix mall in the summer time. It doesn't exist."

"Well, we do have one in the back. It's not for sale for another several months, though."

Apparently I wasn't clear in saying the trench coat had to be for sale. I thought that was implied. Jared gloated and I ranted and I still think it's BS.

The four of us returned to Jared's and played Rock Band and I blistered and I never realized how fun Rock Band could become when it's maxed out on players and the boys are attempting to sing. I refused to do so and played my drums.

We sat outside on Jared's very comfortable lawn furniture for a long time, talking and listening and I closed my eyes and just felt the sun. They claimed it was the longest they had been outside for a long time.

Eventually we went to a restaurant called Buffalo Wild Wings and I met three more members of Jared's gang. Jenn, Sara, and Teresa. Jenn and Sara are a pair of very entertaining, yet very sweet lesbians and they kiss in public and seem to have gratuitous amounts of love for each other. Teresa receives constant shit for her height, or lack there of, at four foot eight.

The waitress was terrible. We sat for probably an hour waiting for our check alone. But the table was alive with chatter and constant and loud laughter and jabs at one another. I remained quiet most of the time, simply observing this set of lives I sort of just plopped down in front of. However, I found the misters above us highly unnecessary, since it wasn't 105 anymore. KC gloated in his trench coat.

They all came over for a swim in the pool later, despite the pool filters being broken and the water being green. It doesn't look as bad at night though because you can't really see it. We alternated between the pool and the hot tub, surrounded by tiki torches and warm air.

That night, I slept hard after being awake for a total of 23 hours. And woke up to blue skies the following morning.

Jared and I drove to Barnes and Noble the next morning and picked up a book for Jenn's birthday. I used my employee discount, and glanced at their music section. Ours is bigger. We drove to Desert Ridge, an outdoor mall underneath palm trees and misters. I bought a smoothie and read, waiting to meet up with Alex Casady.

We drove through the desert to what I was beginning to consider butt-fuck no where until we reached a dirt road and a jumble of ranches. We got to a house with a screen door we couldn't see into, and picked up Jacob. They instantly started bashing a certain someone, and the bashing lasted the entire afternoon. I laughed and joined in, yet everything they said, I could totally see the person doing. I laughed but felt a strike of feeling, when I found all those quirks so endearing. But that didn't change the fact that he wants nothing to do with me, so I laugh along and shove the feelings aside. Screw drivers and martinis, the final nail in the coffin.

We went to a shoot off of PF Chang's called Pei Wei. It tasted quite good, and I felt a new excitement for NAU. Already, I have several friends, and I can't wait to spend more time with them.

I met up with Jared again at Desert Ridge, bringing him what I couldn't eat, but failing to bring chopsticks, and it went to waste anyway. We drove to the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art and the artist had drawn a picture of what strangely seemed to resemble my brain. Maybe it was the beautiful and colorful swirls around the outside that represented to me Phoenix, or it might have been the huge blob of dark blue in the middle with the fire spurring from it, that represented a bit of a past I am working to overcome. But I looked at it for a long time. And then I looked at books of Banksy and we left.

I decided it was necessary to wrap Jenn's present in pictures from a Playboy, so after making Jared buy it, we went back and sat in the pool. I picked out the best pictures and we sat talking for a long time. We talked about me too much. We jumped off what we deemed the rock of indecision. We got ready for dinner.

Kona Grill sits in Fashion Square Mall, and it fit my definition of swanky. The food was delicious, the evening was beautiful, the company was excellent. The passion fruit creme brulee, though, couldn't have been more fabulous.

Jared and I walked to the theatre down the street afterwards and saw The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, which was not as good as the book, as expected. All throughout the movie, I couldn't stop thinking that's not how it went at all. But what can I do? We argued about it the entire car ride home, and then the lesbians came over and we sat on my bed, mostly tired.

I read by the pool the next morning, a lovely way to spend a morning in my opinion. We got ready and drove out to the Phx Zoo. The elephant was my favorite, the way he rocked back and forth and the way his trunk swung around him. I stopped at every drinking fountain we passed. The zoo was huge and delightful. Baboons really do have bright red butts. All the animals looked dead because of the heat. I picked hibiscuses. We ate at the Rain Forest Cafe.

We happened to be passing a World Market when I asked if we could stop. I figured it would be one last failed attempt to find a Raspberry Ginger Beer. It wasn't. I became ecstatic and we listened to loud music the rest of the way back. Jared and I then set to work on making chocolate covered strawberries. He blamed all the ugly looking ones on himself. He was lying.

We took the strawberries to Jenn's birthday party at Red Robin, along with our "charitable contribution," not a gift. The dinner was pleasant and even better, everyone came over for another pool party in the green, green water. There were ten of us, and it felt so great to be surrounded by people. A part of a group.

After much swimming, we made frozen pizza and played Rock Band. The night couldn't have been better. It only made me wish I could stay a lot longer. I love the people I met and I want to be a permanent fixture in their lives. Again, I am living my life wishing I was somewhere else. Consequently, it keeps being Arizona.

But the next day, Jared and I kept it quiet, only went to In'N'Out once again for lunch and a milkshake, and watched Law and Order SVU. On my request. He took me to the airport and being home has felt rather depressing. And cold.

Let the skin burn.

In Scottsdale, the speed limit is fast. And everyone goes faster. Because everyone has nice cars. And nice cars go fast.

In Scottsdale, everything is beautiful and fits perfectly in place. Clouds aren't allowed in this sky. The sun beats through anything.

We drive fast and I lose all control of my hair in a black convertible. The feeling is liberating. I've been in a state of oblivion since I arrived, having no idea where I am or where we're going or how to get around. In the desert, everything looks the same. I take in the scenery. I have no bearings.

I stepped into lives of people I don't know. Observed them, joined them, and I already love them. Three days won't be enough of them. Enough of this. I feel like I've been smiling since the plane touched down. Smiling and warm. Smiling, warm, and accepted.

And the heat. I've been cold for nine months. 112 degrees feels lovely. I've found for myself nothing short of a paradise.

Everything needs an emergency shut-off.

A full and packed weekend planned, starting with a flight departing Boise at 7:25 AM. A mini vacation and some exposure to the sun. A lot of exposure to the sun. Shorts and sunglasses, Bose headphones and a new book. Pack lightly.

Friday: 103. Lunch at In'n'Out. A trip to the grocery store and a walk around a mall with people I've never met before. Rock Band in someone else's house. A pool with no water, surrounded by tiki torches and speakers that look like rocks. I use my imagination to figure out what it looks like.

Saturday: 107. Lunch and Rock Band with Jacob and Alex. I have blisters on top of blisters, and try to play everything on Hard. It often results in multiple failures. Jared will take me to SMoCA. Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art. We'll drive a convertible. I have Ralph Lauren sunglasses. Swanky dinner of swank afterwards, and the Swedish version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. It won't be as good as the book. But the company will enjoy it. And I'm excited.

Sunday: 110. Phoenix Proper. Every time we spell Phoenix, in our heads, we're all saying, Pho-Enix. You do it, too. You do now. We're going to the Phoenix Zoo. I find it "highly improbable" that they will have polar bears. But camels are for sure. As well as elephants. No spazzy crane. Downtown Phoenix. Four million people. 110 degrees Fahrenheit. We're going to cook dinner. Enjoy a case of Raspberry Ginger Beer. A treat, a special occasion.

Monday: 108. It's unplanned. A flight home. The next trip to start planning.

I'm excited.

I'll be at the D curb.

I won't be waiting for a blue Subaru.

It's Brian's school, without Brian. Brian's city without Brian. Brian's friends without Brian. Brian's life without Brian. I wonder how long until it feels less empty. I just try not to think about it anymore. Mourn it like it's dead. It is what it is.

Until it stops being the first thought I wake up to every morning.

Harry Potter and his "Magic Wand"

Last Thursday, I came home from a Rock Band session at my dad's, and dinner with my mom, to find my dog in the yard. She saw me and made a b-line for the gate. Then she ran back to the house and back to me in a floppy, clumsy excitement. I unlocked the door and she ran all through the house and back to me and to the door and to me again. The one joy in that dog's life. I grabbed her leash and she rolled into the grass, face first.

It was an absolutely lovely walk. We walked through the North End where everyone smiles at you as you walk past and all the houses have open windows. Some 60 degrees and the sun finally came out. Boise is drenched in green. The only word I could think of was pleasant.

I almost didn't go. I was a little tired and I'm not good at walking my dog regularly. But this walk was perfect. Sometimes my dog has a better insight to my life than I do.

And I love my job.

My phone rang at 11:3o this morning.

"Hello?" I said, trying to make it sound like I wasn't asleep. I never sleep so late.

"Jessica? It's Josh. Did I wake you up?"

I love waking up to the sound of your voice, I told him.

Every day I wear cute dresses and smile at people. Rant about how good The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is. Keep myself busy with little projects and make an adventure out of finding obscure DVDs for customers. Customers who still buy DVDs.

"Music is the red-headed step child of Barnes and Noble" and we are all so stylish.

Today someone called to ask if we sell adult movies. At Barnes and Noble.

"No," I said, and then I walked around the shelves thinking up possible alternative porn titles for Harry Potter. Harry Potter and the Polipenis Potion. Harry Potter Fucks Hermione Granger and Ron Weisley at the Same Time While Draco Malfoy Sucks on his Balls in the Hidden Corridor of Sexy.

I apologize for that. I didn't know I had it in me.

The best part of my job is the drive home every day. I roll the windows down and soar along the freeway, going the opposite direction of traffic, and thinking about how much I love my job and listening to my favorite music.

I'm excited for Phoenix, only four days away. But I learned something from the past year; after living every day waiting for this summer, and hating every day that wasn't this summer, I learned to look forward to things, but still enjoy the present moment.

I enjoy this present moment.

Dead guys and me.

You could call it a first day initiation if you wanted.

This enthusiastic and cutely awkward girl who can't stop smiling and chatting about this book and that. And there was that old man who called me cute and then started acting funny.

"Could you sign this, please?" I asked, setting his receipt and a pen beside him. He tried to sign the slip with his fingernail.

"Your pen's out of ink," he said.

That's because you aren't using a pen.

And then he started to fall over a bit, and his arm frantically waved over the counter, hand grasping for the scanner, the pen cup, something to hold on to. Mandy and I looked at each other with wide eyes and asked if he was okay. He collapses on the counter now.

"Go get a chair," and I'm running across Barnes and Noble in dress shoes and a brand new shirt, grabbing a chair and sprinting back.

It took Mandy, a manager, and a customer standing by to get him off the counter and into the chair. Mandy and I looked at each other again, both of us sure he had died on the counter. He had passed out. Paramedics on the way. Trying to maintain composure and ring up other customers while he got sick. Not my specialty. I fought the urge to run out of the music department.

Mr. Stamps came in I tried to hold a conversation while other customers stared at the sick man surrounded by EMTs. I helped him find a DVD. The stretcher was gone and in ten minutes, it was as if nothing happened at all.

That was yesterday. Today, Mrs. Keeney happened to stop in.

"How was your first year?"

Please don't ask about Brian.

"Did you have fun?"

Please don't ask about Brian.

"And did you take any writing classes?"

Please don't ask about Brian.

Anymore, it really only hits at the end of the shift, when I go to clock out and walk past the end cap devoted to Chuck Palahniuk. The stacks of Tell All and Pygmy in paperback now. When I drive home on the freeway, and remember counting lanes on Phoenix's freeways. When we were both enthralled to be on a seven or eight lane roadway. Those little quirks we had in common. That of a cork-like nature. When the newness wears off and I only want to be with the people I feel most comfortable with. The person who says "I know" to everything I say.

19 hours logged at the new job. New outfits, new friends, new hair, new style, new Jessica, new life. But I'm tired right now.

When I'm tired. But you aren't the same person anymore. And anymore, I'm all but myself, too. "Yeah I fucked up good and well and you put me through fucking hell, but good luck finding someone who can love you better than I."

Than I.

At 105.5.

There's something about being suspended in 175 thousand gallons of water. Of floating on my back, and hearing nothing, all noise blocked out. Even thoughts seem to drown. Just floating, feeling the closest I will ever get to a lack of gravity. I never pretended to understand exactly how physics worked. But I feel weightless.

The same weightless I felt driving fast on the freeway, missing the exit, continuing to drive until downtown came into view. Music turned up too loud. Weightless, rapid acceleration. Weightless. Waitless.

I am not waiting.

"We'd like to offer you a job."

In the music department of Barnes and Noble, so that every time someone asks me for something mainstream, I'll have no idea what they are talking about.

And every time someone purchases a CD, I can mumble how they should have just downloaded it online.

And every time someone comes up to the counter with a country album, I can drop it, and say "Oops, I broke it, go get another one. Oops, I broke it, go get another one. Oops, I broke it. Go get another one. What, there's none left? That's okay, the world is better off without country music. How about this other bizarre obscure artist?"

Laid-off executives are looking for jobs right now. Young professionals and parents needing second jobs. And yet, they hired me today. How do I stand apart from everyone else?

I'm weightless these days.

18 days to Phoenix, 24 to InkSpot

You know that feeling where you are glowing and it's like everyone around you knows it? And you feel like you are sharing excitement and happiness with everyone around you? Like everyone can hear the music in your ears, and everyone can feel the warm sun?

I didn't think this would be me one week out from the Awkward Hour. I didn't know my own strength, my own resilience, my own independence.

This independent streak, a jellyfish on my arm, a trip to Phoenix, another flight listing. I still ride along the Greenbelt.

This habit of late night conversation, trailing off into early morning text messages. Tea with Jared. Tattoo parlors. Talk with Jared. Both Jareds. You're both lovely.

I wrote a short story on the back of my resume.

"Why did you name me Stutter?" Stutter McStumblepants asked her mom over a dish of strawberry ice cream.

"Because we wanted to name you Miranda, but your grandma freaked out about Carmen Miranda and the Miranda Rights and stuff like that."

So obviously Stutter was the next logical choice.

It's a job I might get. We'll see.

And a visit to Mr. Daron. Out of all the people in Boise High, it's my math teacher I visit first. Who would have thought? Not newspaper, not art. Not even English. He laughs a lot, and I liked making him laugh. Feeling clever and witty. A visit to Mr. Mendive, who could only remember Brian's name, but not mine. But Mr. Stamps was warm and nice, as always.

Brian was an absolute delight in my life. But now I am finding that life itself is rather delightful.

That pink umbrella I hide under.

Yesterday, I spent some time looking at the car. Sitting outside the Flying M, Orangina poured into a glass with ice. Was it his blue Subaru? Everyone in Boise has a blue Subaru with a rocket box. I couldn't see the back, no way to confirm the bike rack. Everyone in Boise has a blue Subaru with a rocket box. But then he walked to it. Blue shirt, tight jeans, black and white Pumas. Sunglasses that look silly on my face. Polarized. He turned down the street, drove right past me. Didn't even glance in my direction, yet I find it impossible that he didn't see me. Maybe he didn't recognize me with the new hair. Or maybe this will be the next three years.

Walking around all day filling out job applications, all the reasons why these people should hire me. "I can work under pressure, and stay upbeat." "I am reliable, have a focused work ethic." "Editor-in-Chief of my high school newspaper." "70 hours volunteer service for KBGA. 80 hours on-air." All these things to set me a part. All these reasons I stand out.

"If you walked into a grocery store..."

Where is she going with this?

"And could pick out only one item..."

Why would I be in a grocery store if I worked at Barnes and Noble?

"...that best represents yourself, what would it be?"

Well that's not what I was expecting in this job interview.

"One of those little pink umbrellas you can put in your drink," I said because it was the first thing that popped into my mind. A pink umbrella you can put in your drink, seriously Jessica? "Because I am unique and I brighten people's day...and I can shade your drink..."

This is why I called my show The Awkward Hour. This is why my blog is called The Awkward Blog.

My mom asked me, "So how did it go?"

How did it go? Not well, nothing is going well, my best friend is done with me.

And yet Barnes and Noble called today. They want a final interview.

And yet there are still good things. Had I spent all my time with him this summer, I wouldn't have developed a friendship with Jared Lows. A friendship so rapidly developing, it seems ridiculous. Phoenix next month? Might as well, no reason to stay around here.

And maybe I'll get that job at Barnes and Noble. And maybe I'll get that job at the Sun Ray Cafe. And this summer won't turn out as I planned for the past year, but it won't be terrible either.

Maybe it really is what it is. Maybe it's time to just ride the fucking board.

You are home now.

I thought I had a pretty good grasp on the reality of the situation. But it wasn't so easy driving into Boise, overlooking Surprise Valley, and ten thousand other memories not to be repeated.

Last night, my dog and I went for a long walk, and I watched how other people live their lives on a beautiful, warm evening. We walked past the park where some people slack lined, and one guy read with his bike tipped over beside him. Other people living happily. Other people with the ones they love.

I know I need to make the changes I was so certain I would make in Brian's company. Enjoying every moment, living in it. But God, it's been harder than anticipated.

I got a hair cut and a job interview to be pretty and employed. Maybe something this summer will turn out.

"I guess I'll just spend it reading and hanging out with my dog," I said.

"Well maybe that's exactly what you need," said my hair dresser.

Maybe that's exactly what I need.

Thank you.

I can't be angry and I can't resent him, so the easiest thing to do at this point is just to move on. There's been a chain link fence on the other side of the sidewalk by my dorm since I got here. They look it down today and something about that felt strangely liberating.

My last radio show, and the phone rang once.

"I'm really sad to see you go, Jessica," said a guy, I didn't know who it was. "I've really enjoyed your show, but you seem like a really optimistic person, so I'm sure all your future endeavors will be great."

How is it that strangers have more insight on my life than I do? How did he know to say that to me today, not any other day, but today? I didn't want to be rude and ask who it was, so I'll never know. But it's powerful and significant to me.

"It only makes sense," I said, "to play the very first song I ever played on KBGA." I turned on "In the Hot Hot Rays" by the Fleet Foxes. "Missoula, this has been great. Thanks for listening, I have had the most fun time."

On radio, no one can see you, but can they hear it in your voice if you are about to cry? I cannot think of a title for this blog to sum up everything I've learned in the past year, and the experiences I've had, and the person I've become. Everything that KBGA has taught me, the way it has shaped my life. There's no single set of words that could sum such a thing up...except thank you.

"Are you regretting the decision, then?" Clark asked.

"No, not at all. I'm excited," I said. "I spent some three hours last night talking to a guy who works at KJACK, the nicest guy ever, I swear. And he said everyone there is so cool and he'll introduce me to everyone and he's excited to have me. So no. There'll be tons of cool people there."

I didn't know how true it was when I said my decision was independent of Brian. I was pretty sure at the time, but I didn't know how right I was.

Those three months I worked, the progress I made was all for this moment right now. It's an opportunity to be strong and resilient. This is the situation I am in, and I intent to handle it with as much grace and openness as I can.

"You look older," Clark said to me.

"I've been through a lot in the past twelve hours," I said.

Sunday mornings, six to nine.

In early February, Clark came into the studio during a show I was covering. I didn't have a permanant show yet, and didn't think I was likely to get one in the near future. He asked if we could take a walk when I finished up. My stomach turned over with butterflies, but I tried not to let the thought of him offering me a show manifest. Trying not to get my hopes up. He came in again towards the end to remind me of our walk. He was smiling. Again, I told myself, no, it's not that, don't get your hopes up. Of course they already were. Of course I was hoping this was it.

After the show, I went into the office and we started walking around the UC. He asked me what I think about when I talk into the mic. My smile sort of slid off my face. This wasn't about offering me a show, this was about how I needed to work on live radio. I could hardly get through a newscast without slaughtering it and screwing it up. That's what this was about. Clark gave me some advice on how to overcome that anxiety and how to have a smoother, better sounding presence.

"I think of the mic like a person, like I'm talking to a person," he said. "It sounds silly, but it helps."

A few weeks later, I sat on the couch, and Clark was talking to another DJ, writing him up for missing too many shifts.

"If that time just doesn't work for you, we'll have to give it to someone else. We have other times, if that would help you." He listed a few. "Sunday six to nine AM just opened up."

"Oh, no, I can't do that," the other DJ said. My ears pricked up and I waited until the guy left when I said to Clark - very bashfully - "I could fill that six to nine."

He smiled and said he'd have to talk to Ben. I went to class and came back and they both turned their chairs to face me when I sat down. They had talked about it. They didn't think I had enough experience. They didn't think I had enough face time. The dozen other shows I'd already covered, the 120 million hours I'd spent in that office. They smiled and said it was mine. And I couldn't stop smiling. Kyle walked in and looked down and asked what I was so happy about.

"You are looking at the new six to nine Sunday morning DJ," Clark said.

"Congratulations," Kyle said and I couldn't stop smiling.

I just finished my last six to nine Sunday morning show.

It's not that I am terribly sad. A little, only because I was so attached to it. When Clark offered me the Monday mornings six to nine, I turned it down, even though I would have had more listeners. I just liked the Sunday morning. I don't care about getting up at 5:30, it's always worth it. It was always worth it.

I'm a little sad, but this is just the beginning. This is a new opportunity. Besides, this year has had a very strong impact on me. I never had any idea that radio would be what I would fall in love with. DJing at that. I would have never guessed that would become my second home, that I would pour my heart and passion into it. At the end of every show I did, I would think, man, what a great show. There was never a bad one. This has been one of the best experiences of my life, and it has shaped what I'd like to do with the rest of it.

KJACK will be an opportunity to apply what I have learned, and spread a standard of college radio, striving to give other people the opportunities KBGA has given me. I have learned an incredible amount. I can't thank KBGA and all the people involved enough. I'll miss it, but this is just the beginning.

"I think of my life as a series of projects," Clark said.

Well this is one hell of a project ahead of me.

The bus.

There's a limit, a threshold I reached, the moment I realized I have to listen to the music blaring in front of me rather than the song I can't get out of my head.

Robert and I ate dinner at Biga Pizza, I drank a huckleberry-vanilla Italian soda. I bought a ring from Betty's Divine, asked if it looked cheesy - no - asked how much it was - five dollars - and haven't taken it off yet. Clark picked us up in the bus and then went on a mission to clean it from front to back. I sat exhausted on his futon, Robert showing Ben and his wife talk-over music for his new show, Erik sitting next to me. We were both glad to have each other so we didn't feel like losers sitting alone.

"You haven't seen Star Wars? That's blasphemy. What about the Matrix?"

What is it with guys.

In seven hours, the bus sat outside my dorm, and we set off garage saling around Missoula. Kyle bought his dog a bald eagle stuffed animal and within a matter of minutes, the face was chewed off. I bought two blue mugs for a dime and gave one to Clark, who doesn't use mugs. We found a box of thirty French erotic novels, the oldest from 1889, the newest from 1923, at an estate sale. The box, along with the old view-finder with slides of a creepy boy named How-dee-do smiling back at you, the record of FDR fireside chats, and the hand-wired cowhide AM radio made me wonder who died.

Kyle, Brandon, Chris, Erik, Robert, Whitney, me, and Clark sat around a table in a dark casino and ordered breakfast food - except for Kyle, who pounded down a whisky and coke. Clark said something harsh to Chris and the table fell silent.

I thought back to Robert's advertising campaign for KBGA. It's right behind you, it's penetrating the minds of your children, it's inside your wife while you're at work, it's in your food. I wondered then if Clark felt tired of these radio waves he can't escape. The same group of twelve people, the same sleep deprivation every week.

Last week, he laid out two bottle caps on the table at The Bridge, a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, and a paper plate with a slice of pizza on it.

"KBGA," he said, "is more like a cult." He used his diagram to explain what he meant, his fingers tracing from one object to the next.

You take an FM transmitter, a low power, say, 600 Watt - costing maybe 1,500 dollars - and you take an FM tower. The tower has an exciter on it. It's not as sexual as it sounds, although with KBGA, you never know. The exciter amplifies the radio signal. That's what we do. We amplify ourselves across the city.

"1000 watts in Missoula will not be the same as 1000 watts in Arizona," he said. FM signals depend entirely on landscape. It may reach a wider distance, it may do just the opposite. It's like line of sight more than anything. It's infatuating.

We ride around in the bus, pick up a couch on the side of the road with half a pizza box sitting on it, black Sharpie reading FREE. It has an ominous stain on one cushion, which I automatically assume to be vomit, and don't sit anywhere near it. We scavenge yard sales and tell people this is our job. All wearing the same hoodies, in four or five different colors.

Stop saving the picture frame for something that only might happen, and use it for something that's already happened instead.

1000 Watts

The last DJ meeting I'll attend. We went in a circle and introduced ourselves. I was last.

"I'm Jessica. I have the Awkward Hour every Sunday morning, six to nine. And for all you new people," I said, looking around and the new group of trainees. "I haven't been here that long, but this is the best group of people, and the greatest thing, so don't leave it so quickly."

I had to look down and away to keep from crying. Clark and Ben and Robert and Kyle and Duane and Chris and everyone else started clapping. Clark and Chris and Tom and Robert and a few other people came to my reading. I read the end of "1000 Watts" and nothing else could have been more fitting.

At the end, I got a giant KBGA hug. In the middle of Duane and Chris and Robert and Clark and Ben and Tom and I kept myself again from crying.

Holly lay awake for what felt like an hour. She listened to Chris breathe heavily beside her. Rhythmic, steady. Undisturbed, and untroubled. She listened to rain beating on the window, on the roof. She thought of nothing, the sheets above her, the rain, and Chris’s breath.

She rolled to the side and her eyes fell upon the digital clock beside her. Red numbers blared into her eyes. 7:40. She watched the colon between the numbers blink to show the passing seconds. She counted 36 blinks. 7:41. Holly closed her eyes and dug the side of her face deeper into the pillow. Her hand gripped its softness. She smothered herself, feeling tears seep into its fabric.

She uncovered herself and quietly got dressed. Holly lifted a canvas bag off the counter, groping it to make sure a thin, square was within. She didn’t look back at Chris, her focus only on pulling open the door and closing it gently behind her.

She was hit with an unexpected burst of cold. Barely 60 degrees in late June. She pulled her hood up and tugged the jacket tighter around herself. The fabric was thin at best.

Holly started her walk to the station, the bag swaying around her arm with each step she took. In a matter of minutes, the cold rain soaked and penetrated her clothes. Flip flops weren’t ideal in this weather, but they were a mindless habit this time of year. Besides, her thoughts weren’t on shoes and rain when she got dressed this morning. Her feet ached with cold, turning pale from the water and chill in the air, but it was with ease that she ignored these details right now.

Holly lifted her hood and looked up at the studio’s window. Rain pelted her face, ran down her neck and inside her sweatshirt. Strands of hair turned dark as they grew wet. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her canvas bag and she followed the steps up to the station.

Once inside, each step felt so overwhelmingly familiar to her, so normal, so routine and so comfortable. The underlying knowledge of these being her last weighed heavily on her. Walking to the studio slowly now, she could herself tracing all her past steps. She felt the memory of her first time here rise from the floor, through her feet, her body, to her mind. She remembered being scared, nervous, excited, intimidated, self-conscious. She fixed her hair and clothes over and over again, forcing them to lay exactly as she wanted them to, her fingers nervously fixated with the chain around her neck. And now, this final time, she walked calmly, a mess, soaked.

It was Sunday morning, so the station remained deserted except for the on-air DJ that had taken over Holly’s permanent show. Holly carefully and quietly opened the glass door as little as she could, and slipped inside the studio. The DJ turned around, a look of surprise on her face, and then a smile of acknowledgment.

“Hi,” Holly said in a small voice.

“Hi there,” the other girl said, pulling the headphones from her neck and setting them on the countertop. They stood in silence for a few awkward moments, until the girl piped up again. “Oh, do you, um, want a minute?”

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Holly said quickly, attempting to cut her off, turning red from embarrassment at her situation.

“No, really, no, it’s no problem,” the other DJ said, getting ready to leave the studio for a few minutes, and Holly talked over her at the same time, “Really, don’t worry about it, please stay,” and the other girl talked as well, “I can go, only for a few minutes,” and Holly made gestures with her hands to show her leave was unnecessary. The girls fell silent again. The DJ made the executive decision to leave Holly in the studio alone, a final good bye, and slipped past Holly before she could protest. She looked around her, looked up at the colorful posters, the soft light coming from the old fashioned lamp, the rows upon rows of CDs.

Her body wandered over to the wall of shelves, and her fingers slid across the CD covers, touching their spines, the familiar plastic. She stopped at the end of the “D” section. She bit her lip and glanced at the phone. It sat still, unringing, mute. She sighed and walked to the soundboard, looking down at the glowing keys. The yellows and reds began to blur in her vision into one beautiful mess of luminescence. She blinked back the tears, and looked up to the window, speckled in clear water drops. Rain ran down the window, collecting gobs of water droplets in long streams. The sky was unforgivingly grey, harsh, heavy. The tips of her fingers unconsciously felt the sliders, followed the tracks they slid on. She touched the CD players, ran her fingers over the open/close button, the fourteen lights that lit up in a neat row to signify the seven-second delay. This was a lovely place, Holly thought over and over. This was a lovely place.

She stood there for a long time lost in her own reflections and memories. She remembered the first time she touched these instruments, how intimidated she was, how afraid she was of messing up and looking like an idiot. How live air felt like such a monumental thing, and how she walked home from her first show, thinking the whole way, I was on the radio. People heard me. They don’t even know who I am, but they heard me. The sun was unseasonably warm on her walk home that day. She had that stupid smile that she couldn’t keep off her face, even though she walked alone.

Holly watched the nanoseconds pass on CD Player One. The yellow numbers started flashing to signify only ten seconds left of the current song. Holly picked up the headphones and hesitantly slipped into them, bringing her face close to the mic. As the song ended, she switched it on.

“You are listening to,” she said slowly, feeling each word circle through her mouth and out her lips. “KBGA, Missoula.” She paused. “Thank you.” She took the headphones off gently, resting them on the counter beside her and listening to the last song she’d pick fall from the speakers, as the rain fell from the sky. Both seemed to soak her in the same way, a cold feeling that wasn’t totally unpleasant. By this time, though, Holly felt eyes on her back. She came back to reality, quietly apologizing for intruding, for being here. She didn’t look up. She couldn’t look up.

Instead, she grabbed her canvas back and pulled out the thin square wrapped in plastic, the vinyl record safely inside its cardboard sleeve. The Best of Mozart. She left a note, simply saying, “For Dustin,” and carefully placed it beside the collection of other records for him. Holly glanced at the DJ and gave a quick and forced smile before turning to leave.

Once into fresh air, Holly took a breath, and sighed, standing a moment to reassess her life, and at the same time, wishing she didn’t have to think at all. The rain stopped. She looked up at the sky and found a very thin strip of blue. She started her walk home, flip flops squishing under her feet, waterlogged. As she walked, she suddenly felt the same heat of the sun on her neck. She stopped at this, and looked back at the station, but the sun caught in her eye and she saw nothing. She turned, and kept walking.

Dumpster diving for wet cardboard

It's a little ironic, if we want to see it that way.

Last night I thought about how Missoula disappointed me. This was supposed to be the place where I would fit in and be happy and have one million friends and have a great time. Our happiness depends greatly on our expectations, that's what my mom always says. Missoula didn't disappoint me. I'm more disappointed in myself for not making it the place where I belong. Because I could have. But now I'll make Flagstaff the place where I belong and that will be that. And it'll be great, it will.

When Clark questions me and he looks at me through those really intense blue eyes, I have to look away because I am talking myself in circles, like some research paper without a well-defined thesis. Why am I moving? Here's my list, and here's the things not on my list, and here's the reasons why I don't want to stay, and here's the reasons why I want to go.

There's some things I will do differently there, things I learned here. There's things I'll learn there that I will do differently afterwards wherever I am.

It feels like I am just trying to figure out what song to play next on the radio. Which will go well after the last. Only right now I feel like I am talking in the mic, talking in circles, not knowing where to begin or where to end and trying not to say "before that" even though I said it anyway. Twice. I don't know how to end or where to end it and I earn my DJ name, and it is The Awkward Hour. That's how I feel right now.

It's like looking back at my Spinitron playlist when I get home, just as the morning sun touches the courtyard. I pick out the songs I like, and I assess the show overall. It's like wanting to put on Bose headphones to block out the sound of my thoughts. It's like knowing but not really truly knowing I won't touch KBGA's soundboard anymore. Knowing it like a fact, like that there are starving children in Africa, but not actually understanding it.

It's like when something comes on way louder than you expect it and it hurts your ears and makes you jump and your heart rate takes some time to come back down, only that relief of the silence afterwards hasn't happened yet. So don't ask me why it's too late, it just is. But it's okay. KBGA will be fine without Stutter McStumblepants...and Stutter McStumblepants will be alright without KBGA, too. We'll write letters.

We'll write letters.

What a mess of a blog post.

I work at a radio station; it's a very sexy occupation

I should be working on my term paper, but instead, I am eating a muffin, drinking tea, and blogging. These are the perks of getting up at 5:30 in the morning on a Sunday.

The first time Dustin called me, and I could hardly understand him, he requested Mozart. This was my first ever show. I was pretty excited to be fulfilling his request, I mean, the guy is practically famous at KBGA. So I started looking for our classical section, assuming we had a classical section. Which we do, it just happens to be buried in a drawer somewhere not in the studio. I wasn't aware of this.

So I pretty frantically ran around the studio looking for the classical section, panicking only a little bit. And then I sort of looked up in exasperation, and there was a record sleeve sitting on top of the CD shelves, the Best of Mozart record. So I got all excited again and pulled it down.

When I was doing my training, I never really listened to how to use the turntables. Vinyls? Dude, I have an iPod. And a laptop. I don't have vinyls. But I'm hoping that I can figure it out...which I couldn't. I hit TT1 (turntable 1, incase that wasn't obvious) on the soundboard, and I hit "START" on the record player. And nothing happens.

Let me tell you something about silence on the radio. Nothing compares to silence on the radio. You know when you are sitting with a date or a new friend or whatever and things go all awkward and quiet and the silence is a little painful? Yeah, that is nothing compared to this. To knowing that every single person tuned in (which actually is relatively few at 6am on Sunday) is hearing your pitiful mistake, or rather, hearing nothing at all.

I very ungracefully threw on another song, SOMETHING to kill the awful silence.

And then I saw the "ON/OFF" switch on the turntable. Did you know there's an "ON/OFF" switch on the turntable? Did you know it has to be turned ON in order to play? You would have known this if you paid attention in training.

So even more ungracefully than the first time, I switched BACK to the turn tables and Mozart started flooding the studio and my God was it an ordeal.

I tell you this story out of a sort of irony that happened to me today. I have two shifts left, so today was one of my last. You'll never guess who called and you'll never guess what he requested. Well after having some 70 hours plus of on-air time, I'm a frickin' genius at running the turntable (as in, I switch the thing on first).

Only today, even after turning it on, the damn thing wouldn't work. And that horrible silence came over the air once again. It's like, if silence could eat you alive, I was breakfast. Bad analogy. Anyway, it was nostalgic and ironic and catastrophic and I turned on a CD of Brahm instead. Still don't know why the turntables weren't working.

And so Dustin calls back about an hour and a half later and asks me to play Mozart, and I'm like, yeah, about that, the turntables aren't working. I played you something else though, didn't you hear? I played you Brahm.

Dustin didn't hear. He wasn't listening to the radio after he made his request. Facepalm.

It's important to note that in this conversation with Dustin, I pronounced Brahm "Braam." Dustin then went on to correct me for the next five minutes, telling me it is "Brawm," not "Braam." He doesn't know why it is pronounced that way, and he sees how I could think it was the other way, but it is actually "Brawm," not "Braam."

So for the love of God, just call him "Brawm." Live radio is a great place to make a fool of yourself.

Just sayin.

The Awkward Hour

I never really can sleep well the night before I do a radio show. Something about knowing I have to get up at 5:30 and do something always messes with me. My brain sets an alarm clock to go off once an hour from the time I go to bed until the time I get up, just to make sure there's no mistake.

1 AM. 2AM. 3AM. 4:30 AM.

And then I have those dreams that are so convincingly real, and you are positive you are actually awake and living your day. In my dream last night, I went to the studio to find the power out. This is surprisingly creepy, as everything in a radio station, believe it or not, runs on electricity. There is never a time when something isn't humming or blinking or glowing in that room. Yet it was completely dark, and naturally, there was a dead girl in there as well. Couldn't see her right away due to the lack of power. I couldn't have been more convinced that all this really happened, right up until my alarm clock actually did go off this morning, of course.

So I went and did my show. And then the next DJ didn't show up for his show at nine, and it was a lot like deja vous, since this is exactly what happened last week, and I ended up staying until noon. A six to noon shift is long even by my standards. Lucky, though, I escaped by ten today.

While I rode my bike home, I thought, what will KBGA do without me? But then I thought, what will I do without KBGA? Get more sleep, I guess.

I'm just sayin.

PS,

Here's Dustin:

What do I know about blogging?

Nothing.

But I've always wanted to try this blogging thing out.

Here's my problem: it seems that a crucial component of having a blog would mean I would need something to write about. Right? I think so.

But we'll try it anyway. Who knows, maybe this 19-year-old college student can come up with something interesting to put into a blog...I guess I'll start this off with a story, just for kicks. I'll tell you about Dustin. The real Dustin, not the Dustin I made up in my short story, because I said a lot of things in that story that I just made up. Fiction is like that, ya know?

So Dustin, to the best of my knowledge, got into a severe ski accident and now he's brain damaged. He lives in a group home somewhere in Missoula and he has nothing better to do than to call and ask DJs to play him songs. He requests three things total: Mozart, Miles Davis, and Technine. I don't know exactly how Technine spells Technine, but I think there might be a "9" somewhere in there.

Dustin only requests Mozart between the hours of six AM and nine AM. He's even harder to understand early in the morning, and pressing the phone to your ear as hard as you possibly can actually doesn't help you hear better. We have a record for him, The Best of Mozart, but I only play "Eine Kliene Nachtmusik," or however the hell that is spelled, because it's the only Mozart song I am familiar with, and it's the only Mozart song that isn't 23 minutes long.

So after you play Dustin's request, it is important that you brace yourself for his next call, so he can thank you for playing the requested song and then say your name over and over and over again. If this makes you uncomfortable, well, try to avoid the "721" number. And then you brace yourself again because, trust me, he'll call again. And he'll request Mozart again. Two more times. But I don't ever actually play it again. Sometimes, he doesn't even have his radio on. Sometimes he does.

The DJs at KBGA have very differing opinions of Dustin. The girls tend to think he is adorable, and play his ridiculous requests with giggles and smiles. A lot of guys just get annoyed with him. Robert, a music director, told me that the theme of Star Wars was the most played song on KBGA for a good two years because of Dustin. I guess that kind of thing gets a little old.

So you do the best you can for Dustin, but sometimes, there just isn't time to play his songs. Even if you know he's the only one listening and you feel a little guilty for it.

Sometimes, Dustin asks you how you are. He asked me if I go to church, and told me how much he likes it there. I wonder if he judges me. Sometimes, he'll rant incoherently about how the meteorologists predicted rain for the night before, and it never happened. These kind of things are important to Dustin I suppose. He's always thankful, but I've heard he can get mad, too.

He calls the station forty times a day.

In DJ training, Clark, the program director/nicest guy in the entire world, held up the KBGA handbook, and he said, "Dustin is just as much apart of this station as this handbook." I would argue more so, but that's just because no one actually reads the handbook.

During Radiothon, KBGA's week of pledging, Dustin's mother was the first person to call in. She donated ten dollars.

Clark goes to visit Dustin, and he took a picture, a glossy blurry print with black sharpie underneath that says "this is Dustin!" and taped it in the studio. Dustin doesn't look anything like he sounds. His voice is extremely low and deep, and slow and he sounds mentally ill. But he looks more like a hideous middle-aged female. I mean that in the kindest way possible. He wears tie-die and his eyes point in opposite directions. Clark said that when he talks to you, he looks down at the floor, and then jerks his head up occasionally to look at you. Clark does a good impression.

Dustin is protected at KBGA. On his Mozart record, there's a note that says the record was dropped of specifically for him. "A big thank you from Dustin!" It says. "He started crying joy when he found out someone left this for him." There's a note above the phone that has his number written on it, and it says below "For your protection, (not so you can be a jerk)." His phone number is written again on the actual phone.

I hear he is an artist.

I always wonder who left the record.

Just sayin.