Historical Method: Amorous Mnemonic Devices

I'm typing, and she's pretending to sleep. Sometimes she is sweet like that.

Doing things like this (for months on end) has reshaped and arguably ruined my social method. Like every fucking entry of my tangible and infrequent diary (hidden at a less-than-secret location, andmostassuredlyreal), I have to change. This might be it, but I doubt it.

REASON FOR DOUBT:
Out loud, I read the story nailed, framed or thumbtacked, taped on my wall of my room. I realized that this was the secret narrative that connects the extremely disjointed and ridiculous events of the last four years. Love, almost love, secret love, made love, and their less reputable counterparts had left artifacts that I put on display between the owl, space ship, hen-with-kittens (all of which, while wonderful additions to the four rooms I've lived about in the past years, don't hold the same weight as these tchotchkes of affection and skewed friendship).

The three Polaroid pictures of farmland from south-eastern Wisconsin. The postcard from Dar Es Salaam. The coloring book page of the robot which was anonymously submitted for so long. The letter I never sent. The prom picture(s). The most wonderful felt pennant in the world. The only existing picture of me and her when we were together that I let go through the wash in my wallet. The ceramic hippo I was going to mail her until I saw a picture of her in love. The envelope with the galactic diagram drawn on back. The homemade Valentines. The insincere (but handmade!) birthday plaque that just looked too nice. The map of the moon we stole together the last night we were in our element. The note left on my laptop with the hearts and the signature dinosaur.

This has been by no means an ideal way to relate to the world, nor to remember a youth from, or to not be thought of as a terrible bastard. It's an awful sign when your mind begins to categorize the events in your life like this.

I remember when I got my tattoo because I fell in love for real real the same night.

I also remembered the day when my dog Indigo Jones died because that was when I got the the level "Surface Tension" in Half-Life.

These aren't actually things you are supposed to say out loud, much less put on the internet. BUT this is another method in which I remember how I was that doesn't involve being liked by a girl, getting a tattoo, or pushing my way through a game.