Almost three in the morning, and I still can't sleep. I'm currently in Boston accompanying my sister. When they saw each other, she started to cry and I didn't know what to do so naturally, I cried too. It reminded me of the time I met with Jonathan in front of the Flushing library. What would I do if I could not cry? There just isn't much to do besides crying where there is this sense of sadness that lingers and refuses to go away.
I'm about to finish Mark Haddon's A Spot of Bother (excellent book, but it does not compare to The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time). A part of it reminded of this time in seventh grade when a group of us were sitting at a table listening to an audio tape. My feet were overlapping Manny's for whatever reason, and the entire table accused me of liking him. So trivial now looking back, but at the time I did cry so much that Warren thought someone had slapped my cheeks. One time I puked inside my sleeves and in my hands because I was too afraid to puke on the streets. I was afraid of what people might think. Why do I care so much?
Mom thought Christmas was an appropriate day to show me this clip that she had recorded of children in Kenya- children dying from starvation and disease. Needless to say, I ended up bawling (because that is what I do) and when I was done crying, I finally started to pack for Ghana. I am not expecting to save children when I go to Africa; I am not that naive or idealistic. To be completely honest, I think that I am the one who is going to be saved.
I'm ready for Ghana. NINE DAYS.
