How many words is 500?

…when it’s a stream of consciousness in your head? Or a free flow of words, sharing your day with a loved one or venting about a nuisance to a friend? For that matter, how does 2000 words, 5000 words, 10,000 words truly come about?

Nate is at his happiest when he writes that many words a day.

Everything he is doing to try and make a life for himself, ultimately wanting to just publish and write. And help good people do good things. 

The permanent underdog supporter.

I think he’s carving his place quite nicely in the world, and although he sometimes feels like he’s swimming with his head barely above water, I think that he’s closer to the shore. Closer to the metaphorical beach he so wants to be at. The cliche – so close, but so far – comes to mind. I love him.

I wonder if I want to make it a goal to write 250 words a day, to start.

Or 500. I think the first would be more than possible; the second, probably, too. I mean, this is already about 235, 250, 2.5 pages of an 8.5 by 5.5 notebook would be enough, for the 500.

I think the harder goal would be to get it somewhere, to push it out to the world.

A year ago, everything was up in the air for me.

The roads weren’t even clear, and now, they are still flexible, but carved out a little better. At a minimum, I like the direction and the people that would be traveling the roads with me. A lot.

A year ago today, Nathan and I were making Marty and Chris play cards with us. We also made shish kebabs, and Nate introduced me to Gumballhead, and a few other beers. I can’t remember if I introduced him to Boulevard that night, or a different night…hm.

I also met with Marty’s dad’s referral that day – that’s how he ended up in the car. He was also getting ready to go back to school, and being notoriously down for an adventure, asked to go with to NW. Indiana. He’s more allergic to cats than I am, and allergy medicines don’t seem to work as well for him. I can’t remember when the storms that day started, but at some point it got bad, or at least, windy. According to Nathan, the power on his mom’s side of the street doesn’t go out usually when there are power problems in the city. But that night, they did.

On that trip, I finally got to see the legendary blackbird Café that Nate so frequently bragged about on all forms of messengers and communication. The iced tea really, although delicious, may have been slightly exaggerated. The vibe, personality, kindness, and camaraderie of a non-hipster (well, maybe a little hipster) and legitimate coffee shop was a surprise. I think the fact that it looks and feels like a super small version of downtown Columbia, but with fewer elitists and sorostitutes, made for my instant fondness of Valparaiso.

Northwest Indiana had everything I really needed at that time.

A place that was close enough to my family in case of emergency, but far enough that I could start paving my own way in the “real world.” Indiana had so much potential: potential that all seemed to pan out for the best, especially when it comes to Nathan, and turning tables for my mom.

If you had whispered in my ear last February when I met “Finn”, and his formerly-alcoholic, former co-worker that I’d end up, in about exactly a year, in a wonderful relationship (we’re never breaking up), actually working in a degree-related field, and living in Indiana, I would have doubted so much about that. I was still recovering from a surgery, had just chopped off all of my hair (over a foot!), and was reeling from not graduating in December.

I had also only stopped in to say hi to Brad Best out of procrastination, and appreciation for him following his apparent stress level the previous semester. As far as I was concerned, he was the insanity-sanity that kept my brain from exploding atomic firebombs onto everyone in my capstone the previous semester. So, when he asked if I’d be interested in some similar work as a freelancer, with an old coworker and friend of his, I hesitantly agreed. I expected it to be the same as when we did a scope meeting the previous semester for YAYA at Big 12. Well, I was wrong. It was a graduate school night, and Quentin’s was packed.

Poor Nate had to buy so many drinks and risked his life teaching me how to play darts. I’m surprised I made it there that night.

I hadn’t really shaken the previous semester, and still had the flight/burrow instinct ingrained. But, when I texted Brad (purposely late, mind you), and instead of canceling, he told me to come out and join, I was stuck. I mean, it was literally right around the corner. And I can 100% say that I don’t regret it.

And a year ago, I was pretty apathetic about baseball.

And to be perfectly honest, I’ve come to realize that I really don’t care about the Chicago Cubs. And baseball really bores me.

I really do care about Nathan, though, so I guess in some twisted, backwards form of logic, I do (maybe) (sort of) care about the Chicago Cubs.