Don't Drink the Ocean. Just Rub it in Your Wounds.

Matt Smith,

I feel like this email that you wrote me is a "break-up email." Only, in this case, you're breaking up with someone you're not dating and only with the idea that you might have lived in the same city with them. Um. All I can say is, I don't want you to break up with me. You can't. As aforementioned, we aren't dating, and you're still my friend. Only now, you're my friend in Seattle.

Maybe after all these years, I can finally drop the "Smith" from your name and just call you "Seattle Matt." Or perhaps the other way 'round. Not that I think I should drop the "Seattle" from your name -- I never called you anything to do with Seattle before that I can recall, even that one time you looked just like the marketplace at Pike Place. I don't know really. "Matt Seattle" sounds like a building, or a superhero, or a superhero shaped like a building. I suppose I'll just have to flesh that one out when we cross that bridge. Or when you cross that bridge. Or the many bridges that you'll inevitably have to cross in order to get to Seattle.

I can't say I'm happy about this choice of yours... this West Coast thing. Nope. Can't say that at all. I can say that I'm happy a choice has been made. Choice-making is totally underrated, as far as I can tell, and more people should be made aware of their ability to make choices. Better choices. Faster choices. Quicker than I can say, "What size?" kind of choices. The point is, you should know how thirsty you are before you order a drink, and you should know that you need to move suddenly, throwing caution to the winds (or to the suburb cluttered Northwest), and then do it. So. Don't get too thirsty. There's only saltwater out there. And coffee. And I think there's an ocean, too.

I will miss you. I miss you already.

Love,
Meredith