AND FOR ONE-DOLLAR AND SEVENTY-FIVE CENTS, YOU CAN UPGRADE TO AN ICEE.

Ahh. The slow and meager tinkle of coins, drifting by daintily on the River of Concessionary Delights.
Working. It's been, to my surprise, pretty tolerable thus far.
Apparently, my Teenage Mutant Ninja Film Crew Trainers told both of my Mighty Morphin Power Managers that my skills went far beyond the realm of Karate Fountain Drink And Popcorn Kid. I have surpassed even my wildest of functional dreams. That is, of course, nothing close to the case, but, regardless, I can't help but feel grateful that people recognize me not as the dumbass I tend to be, but as someone eager to make just a sliver over minimum wage.
And yes, there is break room buzz over the fact that I am leaving next Monday. Some workers are, how shall I put it, piz-issed. Fo' shizzle.

My little brother graduates from high school tomorrow morning. I earnestly didn't know how that was going to come to fruition, but I'm glad it has. I am proud of him, be it in some remote corner of my brain, spreading rapidly through my heart, and presenting itself somewhere along the lines of my hand smacking the back of his head for being so lazy all along. Like I said, proud. Lovingly proud.

I want to take this summer to investigate a new side of myself. Not new by any conventional standards of the word, but more of a gentle tugging on the facets of my personality that I've utilized as needed without going too in-depth so as to risk exposing them as genuine traits.
I want to be funny once again. I feel like I've lost that part of me in the last two years, and something has to be said for my relative unawareness of its gradual disappearance. I don't know what to say about it, but I'll be damned if I don't try to come up with something radical in the next few months.
I want to write again. Not infrequently, like this, but write sustaining words that take me deeper into the realities I've yet to explore, invigorate my neurotic grammatical structure, fascinate the person inside me who used to cling to the written word as scripture in its own right, partisan or non, with wings on either side. I want metaphors to jump off the page and strangle thoughts out of me 'till I face nothing more frightening than the thought of saying everything I have ever wanted to say. I want to feel that shred of textual genius within me, whether thoroughly conceited or not.

For some reason, this evening has left me feeling far less hopeless than similar pitch-black skies would have otherwise dictated. It shouldn't surprise you that I am smiling. It feels familiar.