whatever brilliant pun of a word combines cardamom and armageddon.

I’m keeping it short because I found out about twenty minutes ago that I had to write an entire play. I think I’ve written about 55 pages out of a desired, I dunno, finished product. So, of course, I will equip myself with the 99 cent bag of Cheetos from CVS and one of those Monster Rehab Energy Drinks non carbonated and flavored with Green Tea so that it tastes exactly how last Sunday morning felt.

Today, I had my first holiday party of the Holiday Season and it was with a bunch of the RAs. We had festive Indian Cuisine and a box of chocolate-covered animal crackers that apparently came in the mail without a sender. The host of the party figured not to worry because they were only cookies, except in reality, they were delicious cookies, and so I am quite thankful that she decided to take treats from a no-name sender.

We had a gift exchange. Secret Snowflake. Because saying ‘Santa’ is prohibited in NYU Residence halls and because it would insult so many people. The alliteration works the same though. Last year, I had gotten my dear friend, Naf, a burned CD of the XX and Bon Iver. They were the only bands that I knew of at the time that were considered to be remotely chill-new-wave-hipster (!?!), and so of course it made sense to talk about them incessantly. The CD case was padded though, as I had covered it entirely with about 40 individualized packs of various teas.

This year, it all came full circle. She was my secret snowflake, and she gave me this:

SAMSUNG

She had given me an assortment of nine different spices, individually wrapped, with notes on the back on how to appropriate use them all (Being a witness to her Sri-Lanken cooking skills, I promise you she really does know how to use them). I’m almost afraid to use them. Sometimes the overwhelming charm of novelty outdoes the practicality of usefulness. It’s like all the playbills I keep in my bottom drawer. Or the Stuffed Giraffe on my bookshelf. It’s a plush toy, it isn’t really stuffed. It could be so easy to get rid of it all. It could be so easy to just use the spices. They would have served their purpose and having them out and preserved and safeguarded in their little plastic bags and on display in my bedroom would only do to give my space but a fraction of a fragrance. Either way, it’s a spectacular gift. It feels welcoming, overwhelmingly welcoming on the behalf of all that is all, to recognize that someone took the time to prioritize a couple of minutes to write tiny notes on post-its taped to the back of plastic bags. I suppose it’s the recognition that I’m holding onto. I suppose it’s the idea of preserving an artifact of a moment when I was in somebody’s mind.

Time to write a play!

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thoughts.

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