Cutting berries at the kitchen island to Counting Crows in underwear.
Dancing to "Ain't No Mountain High" at the Beverly Hills Montage.
Feet up in the back row of the blackbox, hospital bed on stage.
Festive trainride to the Walnut Room. My mom's gloves.
Standing at the basement green lockers, red, getting screamed at.
Opening the garage after my dad had visited. New lightbulb.
Corner of my boss's office, scanning papers in the dark after close.
Lavender spilling her guts about love, sun blinding us. Chais in hand.
Legs across Bisque's lap. We whispered throughout Insidious 2.
Pumpkin cake wafting into living room ghost story night.
Rora, Ro, and me. Catfish buffering on the trunk in front of us.
The nerdiest kid high kicking in improv warm-ups.
Dizz running out of her house to hug me as Jamin vined behind her.
Power-walking past the tan houses at 6 AM Wednesdays.
Running a five down the lake with Bex in 100 degrees. College mems.
Two-man improv sets in my bedroom with Shells about ghost abortion.
Kevin Smith's book on airplanes. On couches. Late late late.
"Not my fault, the fault of the earth, and the sweet scent of your hair."
Inspecting the haunted house wall paint. A clown cackling behind me.
Leftover pilaf on the balcony. People partying below. Bikes chained.
Jillian Michaels to Orange is the New Black.
Blasting Frozen under my fur hood on Black Friday, northside.
The very real "Was Titanic good?" debate with my Screenwriting kids.
Everyone in playwright's workshop stumbling over the n-word.
Peeling myself off the sticky sheets, stumbling into doorless bathroom.
Opening the email from The Program after standing up from Jillian Michaels. I called up the stairs to my dad, "I got in." He yelled back, "To what?"