The sound of your best friend’s voice calling your name in an airport when you didn’t realize they would be meeting you.
Not the second or third or 40th but the first hour of a music festival, when you are still hydrated, still willing to stand upright for music, pre leg cramps, pre hangover, pre getting hit in the face by someone’s moshing carefree Blundstone-clad foot.
Summer golden hour when the sun casts those sweet golden rays over half of everything, their other halves dramatically shadowed, and everything looks like a really great Instagram picture.
When your funky aunt gets Instagram and toaster filters pictures of her flowers and toaster filters every fucking thing and gives it that stupid white washed boarder and her life looks like an episode of Radio Free Roscoe and you get to, for a moment, vicariously relive those innocent early instagram moments of wonder.
That moment when you ask yourself what people did before google maps and then you realize that the answer is actual maps and this interests you so you get into cartography and spend time actually looking at where things are and realize that this interest/ability will probably help you actually remember where things are and you maybe wont need to use google maps next time when trying to get from point a to point b which you now realize are stupidly close together and easy to navigate and so when you walk to point b you realize all the cool little cracks in the pavement and delicate budding forget-me-nots and dog shit that you otherwise would have stepped on along the way.
The moment you recognize a beginning.
The moment when you find a chorus.
The moment when you find an ending.
The moment that needs nothing.
Not putting all of your positive energy into the vacation you’re about to go on, which is like turning a burrito into a split between a waterpark and a soothsayer therapist who can fix all of your problems and then being unfairly disappointed when it’s still a burrito.
Not falling in love, which is like eating 50 amazing burritos until you realize that someone has secretly put tiny shards of glass in the 51st and you wonder about the other burritos and whether you are slowly bleeding to death internally, and even if you’re not you start chewing slowly from then on out, forgetting how to devour.
Not blackout drunk hookups from sketchy George street dance clubs, where you think you are going to bed with a burrito and wake up next to a cold pizza pocket or a wanted criminal or a troubled husband and father of three who pretends that neither of you can hear his phone ringing repeatedly.
The first time you realize that you can fix your bike without anyone else’s help, which makes you realize that there are lots of things you could probably fix by yourself, including the toilet and the dishwasher, and that there are youtube videos to help and once you learn how to fix something you basically know for life how to do it and don’t need to get your quiet uncle to begrudgingly drive to your house and spend the day working away as you stand helplessly idle.
Sleeping for fifteen more minutes is exactly like a burrito.
Showing a song that blows your mind to someone whose mind it also blows is very similar to eating a burrito.
The first plant that you own for over a month – besides a cactus because they’re usually super low maintenance – that not only withstands your bare-minimal life support and neglect and evil cat torture and not only stays alive but grows a little bit.
Whoever made the decision to dye the water in that public swimming pool in Vancouver pink for a full month with dye that won’t stain your skin, and then light the pool from below.
Having an unexpected orgasm while being fucked from behind by a cute boy who likes you but not too much and who you can probably eat pizza with later and you’re not so into him that you get nervous but into him enough that you’d like to see him again and maybe have more pizza and sex but you won’t feel confused or wait for him to text you or lose any of yourself and you maintain the wherewithal for quick witty repartees when you talk to him in passing but can also choose not to talk to him that day and that’s fine too.
Lucid dreams that you can turn into sex dreams with dead celebrity crushes at their prime.
Not befriending someone who you just befriend so that you can constantly talk about yourself in a self-indulgent and cathartic way and not listen to, which is more like asking someone to sit still and watch you eat a burrito over and over again forever.
Not obsessively waiting hours for a text from your crush who is ambivalent about you, which is like centering your entire day around eating a burrito to the point that once you get it you’re so nauseated that you can barely eat it yet as soon as it’s over you start weeping pleadingly for the next one.
Not lying to someone who you like so that he/she will like you, which is like going for burritos with someone and saying you’re not allergic to them when you actually are allergic, and it all goes swimmingly for a while until your throat closes off and you are found out and suddenly there is nothing that you can say that they will hear anymore.
Aley waterman is a little girl who resides in the bustling metropolis of downtown St. John’s with her affectionate cats gus and Margot. She is spending 2015 completing an MA in English, working on an album with her band GALA, and weeding her backyard. Her interests are not limited to but do include burritos.
This is fantastic. I couldn’t look away and was a little bit sad when it was over. More, please.