Day 24

New game:

Make up a formative memory about us.

Like the time you and I were in a slump; watching reruns of undergrads on repeat.

And maybe it was the fact that all they were our age, or the frustration that no matter how many times we finished the only season there would be no new episodes; we were suddenly compelled to do something drastic.

So we packed my '98 Hyundai Accent with road food and cd's and decided to drive until sunset.

Between sips of red bull and hand fills of muchy mix, we bathed in the nostalgia of when burning your own cd's was a novelty. All the while criticizing our questionable compilation skills. "Five whose line skits. Five?! Alot of these jokes are sight gags, why are you putting them on a cd?"

By dusk we had miscalculated the distance to the next town and so had to unceremoniously trek back to the last gas station we'd passed, on foot.

And all the while neither one of us fought, nor did we complain about the inconvenience of the situation. After all, where did we have to be really?

After filling up our jerry can with petrol, the station attendant kindly offered to have his son drive us back to our gas-less transport. We thanked the man, but declined his offer. The sun was almost completely set, and we didn't want to rush the view.

On the way back we started singing the words to a song from our shared youth, but neither one of us could remember the words.

So we made them up.

And to this day, those would be the words for both us.

The trip home was mostly made in silence. Backtracked by the soothing gravel of Johnny Rzeznik, emoting from my old goo goo dolls cd.

We both sang along to Iris. You hummed along to slide. We both wanted to skip over January friend, but didn't say anything in case the other wanted to listen to it. 

That night I knew I had to leave my home town.

Years later when you would ask me why, I'd just smile and say: if I could have told you why, I probably would've stayed.