Because I've never been one to come up with my own ideas, really.

I used to silently chastise myself whenever I stayed up until the sun came up. Especially in the winter, when the sun rose the latest. Through my basement bedroom window, I would just barely see the sunlight through the thick line of trees along the property line. Then, for the first time since midnight, I'd glance at the clock, realize I had to be to my hotel housekeeping job in just a matter of hours, say goodnight(morning) to the man I had been talking to all night via Yahoo Messenger, and fall asleep on my uncomfortable futon.

I couldn't sleep without the same two albums playing randomly and continuously, with Windows Media Player displaying those colorful lines and blobs that were supposedly moving to the music being played.

I was in love with him. I was so in love with this man. So much so that I didn't care how horridly tired I'd always be. I had graduated a semester early from high school, though nearly failed my AP World Literature class because of a combination of sleep deprivation and distraction. So in love with him.

And for what? What did we even talk about? At first it was it was about the tumultuous relationship he was already in. He successfully made me hate a woman I didn't even know. I'd talk about my best friends. About how one had a house just up the hill and we could see each other's bedroom lights on, or at least the computer screens. She always knew what I was doing.

The closest we ever came to a date was choosing a movie to watch at the same time, while eating food from the same restaurant. I got a small strawberry cheesequake blizzard from Dairy Queen, he a large. We watched some of Big Fish. I had to go because using the upstairs computer meant common interruptions from family. My dad had magically disconnected all phone lines (an thus internet. dial-up what what) from the basement for the very reason I was on the one upstairs.

I had a cell phone. One of those big, clunky Nokia ones that you could change the faceplate and button colors on. I had transparent neon green with red buttons. But, I was too scared and nervous to ever really speak with him.

So for what was this all for, really? Playing online word games together and the, eventually, frequent suggestively-themed chat sessions? Jesus. Fuck that. But I was young and I loved him.

I got sick. I blamed him when I was mad at him. He blamed himself when he was being melodramatic. Truth is, I just got sick. Blood issues. Vitamin deficiency issues. Ex-boyfriend issues. Everything sort of fell apart after I stood up from sitting at the computer to open my bedroom door for my mom when she knocked at it. I got as far as opening the door and hearing her ask what kind of sub I wanted from Subway before I fainted, fell backward, and got a nasty cut on my shoulder and bump on my head from the entertainment center that had gotten in the way of a smooth landing. I blamed him. He blamed himself.

It would end in a flash. Or, really, multiple flashes. A tug-o-war. First one pull "We shouldn't do this" and "You should be happier." Then the opposite pull "I miss you" and "I can't not talk to you." Shit. That's awful.

The last time we said goodbye came right around the time I was moving to the Oregon coast. I was leaving the day after my graduation ceremony and four days before my 18th birthday. Seriously. Still a dick move, Dad, but I forgive you for taking away my chance to buy lottery tickets and cigarettes with my real-life friends.

My brother took the time to print out label stickers for the boxes. While some of mine said "clothes" or "video games, music, etc.", after the first half-dozen well-organized ones, my ability to give a shit faltered. The rest were labeled "stuff" and were haphazardly filled with the contents of my dresser drawers. Some boxes were filled with stacks of papers that could've been mostly recycled, but I found it was easier to ship them off to be left forgotten in new house's basement storage space. (Yes, they're still there, and probably moldy because that's how Oregon works.)

A friend helped me pack a little bit. Sometimes she'd be using my computer to talk to him. They were friends, I guess. More like she spied on us. Or I used her to spy on him when he would talk to her and not me. God.

I still listen to music before and after I go to sleep at 4 a.m., but usually only after a long ffxiii session or night of post-procrastination essay writing. After all, I'm an adult now.

This is how I spend my Saturday night