Communist Daughter

I came home tonight and sat down in front of the lappy, as I usually do.

The only difference is that this time, I successfully connected to the internet.

I've never felt such joy.

And it's like I was a thirsty prisoner that had been thrown an Aquafina or something; the second I connected, I was like "omfg, no wai!!" and then immediately immersed into everything that I've gone without, getting as much as possible for lack of for what feels like forever. No joke, homies, I'd forgotten what it is like to have an endless source of information at my fingertips.

But, you know, there are many things I do not remember, and when I compare those losses to something silly like the internet, it pales in comparison.

I do not remember my first breath or my first words. I can't remember what I ate for dinner on my birthday when I was 12 and I can't recall my best friend's name in the fourth grade. I don't remember my sister's graduation or the summer between grades 9 and 10 and I don't remember the first time I ever drove a car.

I know these were all really great things. These are the things that make me feel sad for not remembering.

But then there are things that I choose not to remember. Good things, like the shape of my lover's nose, so that whenever we meet, I can bask in the luminance that is his face as if it were the first time, every time. I have forgotten, purposefully, the sound of the ocean and Bump's laugh, so that I genuinely appreciate them every single time, and not forget how astounding it is that I have these things. When you forget how good something is, you love it all the more when you have it again.

This, however, does not apply to dairy products, which I miss. Peeps, f'serial, I'm so sick of soy that I want to vom every time somebody says Silk.

I do not remember what it is like to have enzymes; I did not do that on purpose.

Siiiigh.