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I just burned my hand on our dilapidated toaster oven trying to heat up soy sauce for my triumphantly plump pot stickers. The burn is the shape of a backwards Idaho, or a rather deformed boner. It hurts.

I feel empty, but too tired and hazy to feel bad about it. I'm listening to Ani Difranco and it's reminding me of my sister, who has begun her adventurous college journey. Just call me shameless. I miss her. I miss playing dress-up when we were younger and arguing over who was the pioneer and who was the indian. Do you remember Operation Neptune? Do you remember the huge, empty cardboard refrigerator box that we constructed as a tunnel between our two rooms? Do you remember sneaking in there at night with magic markers and flashlights and drawing inside of our cave until Mom heard our uncontrollable giggles? I miss that old picture of us eating bell peppers fresh from the garden, me wearing my favorite Thumbelina dress, shadowing you and your charming smile.
She was my beautician and sexual education professor. She taught me how to wear discreet makeup that Mom wouldn't notice, and decorated my face whenever I asked her to. She drew me diagrams of erect male reproductive organs when I was little and didn't understand all the hype.
When my heart was broken for the first time she wrote a song for me on the piano and sang it to me when I was sad and mopey and lingering over confusion.
I miss walking home with you and singing The Proclaimers. This college education better be worth it....