Tag Archives: life

Meal

It was a warm, quiet Christmas evening at the Art Box.  Or, for natives and residents of Thailand, just any other December night.  There was certainly more decorative lights and red pieces of flare than, let’s say, a September night.

With the population being primarily Buddhist, Christmas décor in Thailand was more a festive extension with the new year celebration that shortly follows afterwards.  For myself – being from the west – I did not visit Thailand because it was a mecca for Jesus’s birthday.  It was, in fact, the complete opposite.

I was here to escape home.

ex·​hale

The Art Box was an outdoor market in the Sukhumvit neighborhood in downtown Bangkok that gathered an eclectic collection of food vendors, bars, and gift shops.  I wasn’t alone, travelling here with my best friend, RQ, who we were then met by Gil, RQ’s cousin, who flew in from the Philippines.  We were frequent customers of the Art Box, particularly toward dinner time where we were ready to unwind from the day filled with visits to markets and temples, speeding on riverboats and Tuk Tuks, and admiring (then somehow ending up racing on the backs of) elephants.

The convenience of The Art Box was that it lounged around the corner of our hotel.  Its gravity were kind people, great food and art, and an energy that almost impossibly resembled the same feelings from when I’d spend my teenage years at a friend’s house solving the mysteries of how to talk to girls, and how to be a DJ (I was terrible at both).  Or hooping at the neighborhood park from the noon to dark, draining threes and airballing layups while avoiding jackers at the same time.  When a jacker did show up, it was a full sprint back with all my stuff in hand (wasn’t lucky every time) to the same house where we’d proceed with unsolved mysteries of how to talk to girls and how to be a DJ.  It even tapped into my roaring 20’s capsule, where there was nowhere else I would have rather been than being at my favorite bar in The City on a Thursday night with the boys.  No, I never became a DJ.  But I did reach half-decent levels with talking to girls.  The Art Box sparked a magical trifecta of these energies from various pockets in my life that had just enough of the unknown, anxiety, and danger that made it my kind of bliss.

Like the center of a multiverse where worry was non-existent in the dictionary.

But it wasn’t just this trip, this place, this moment that led to this decompression.  That Fight-Club-Tyler-Durden-just-let-go kind of moment, if you will.  Please allow me this opportunity provide some back story.

pre·face

For nearly a decade, I was in the mental fight for my life.  While very few people knew, I did not allow anyone to see or feel the extent of not only how completely defeated I was, but how much I actually chose defeat.  Like walking toward relentless speeding traffic with a blindfold on.  Doing the same thing over, and over, and over, and expecting different results.

in·​san·​i·​ty

It wasn’t until the second half of that decade circa 2014 – 2019, I decided to punch back.  I was rocked and brought to my hands and knees more than I could keep count and some days were too hard to answer the next round.  Some days pushed me three, four, five steps back while I only mustered one step forward.  But there was always a step forward, and that was all I allowed myself to control.  “I can’t win them all,” I convinced myself.  “But win some, and I’ll wise the fuck up along the way.”  I was content with this.

I travelled, a lot.  Some of it was for work, some of it had people on the other end of the destination.  But most of it was by myself.  Perhaps not the way I wanted it, but certainly the way I needed it during this time.

I took… things.  A lot (and I’ll allow you to piece together what you think that means – but I will say this – I’m sorry, mom).  Somehow I kept myself in enough fear of the things I took that I never fully succumbed to its hypnotism.  Staying scared saved my life, it’s strange hearing myself say that but it couldn’t be any more closer to the truth.  It was my darkest time, and while I wasn’t completely by myself, I couldn’t feel any more alone than I did.  Perhaps not the way I wanted it, but certainly the way I needed it during this time.

During this period I also became a runner and trained for dozens of runs, and on the wings of a miracle I was able to complete a full marathon.  Maybe this helped counter the things I took.

nope

But it made me feel like I was doing something healthy along the way.  What running did teach me was to fight back from a place I’m not comfortable in.  I’ll be the first to tell you that I am not built to be a long-distance runner.  I’m not light on my feet, I’m not skinny, and I’m not lanky.  My thighs and calves are the width of tree trunks carved to sprint, push, and lift heavy shit up.  On top of that, my L4 and L5 discs in my lower back are beaten to a pulp, running didn’t make this any better.  This five year period of running was, far and away, the biggest physical fight of my life.  But what was clear as day was that my running was less about my own health – no – and more about being in:

lim·bo

I was running from fears I didn’t have the strength to admit to, and chasing something I was never going to catch; end preface.

RQ returned to Thailand in July of 2022, only to find that The Art Box just another victim to the pandemic that stole so much from us.  It’s now a under construction for a new high rise of luxury apartments, a sight all too familiar in The Bay.  Once a place that gifted me my biggest moment of clarity and escape weakened under the greedy patterns under my own home soil, thousands of miles away.  The best things in life are always designed to be fleeting.  This was a just a reminder.

iro·​ny; bitch

Travelling can never be bad for the soul, I truly believe that.  But this alone wasn’t the left hook that knocked out the other version of me that gave this version of me the win I was looking for.

It was a warm, quiet Christmas evening at the Art Box.  Or, for natives and residents of Thailand, just any other December night.  There was certainly more decorative lights and red pieces of flare than, let’s say, a September night.

For two particular Filipino women – Joy and Grace – both who worked at one of the food booths at the Art Box, it meant just any other work night. RQ’s Tagalog is fantastic. Mine not so much, and he decided to speak to them in our people’s native language. They also spoke English fairly well, but maybe hearing Tagalog greased the conversation enough to lean more genuine and less stranger danger. It probably also helped that this wasn’t their first conversation with each other. At first it was small talk – “hi, how are you, what a nice night it is tonight, How was your Christmas Eve, your eggplant fries with salted egg dust are so good!”

ma·sa·rap; de·​li·​cious

After a while their conversation began to pick up steam, with body language on both sides that resonated more than just your run-of-the-mill employee and customer talk.  I observed from afar, remembering to look up in between bites of eggplant fries with salted egg dust, seeing more smiles, more blushes, more giggles.  Then, RQ started to talk with his hands.  And when RQ talks with his hands, it’s a different ballgame.

“RQ knows how to talk to girls… I wonder if he learned how to DJ, too?”  A glancing thought.

Right at this moment my mind began to formulate ideas of what he was trying to do – as I’m sure you might be doing the same, too – though I assure you this story is nowhere near down that path.  The Art Box was closing soon, with other businesses wrapping their night up, and RQ came back with some unexpected intel to my ears.

“So, I invited Joy and Grace to eat dinner with us after they’re off work in a bit.  They said okay, but they’re shy.  Gil’s knocked out at the hotel, he won’t be coming.  Where should we go?  What do you feel like eating?”

I was hesitant to agree, since my interests here did not align with what I initially presumed were his.  But I can’t leave my guy hanging by himself, right?

“The ladies should pick, and I’m not picky.  I’m down for anything,” I said.

“Okay, I’ll go let them know, and we’ll just hang out until they’re done.  By the way, it’s not what you think.”  I am Jack’s current when it serves.

Joy and Grace were hesitant, I could tell, and that made it surprising to me that they agreed to grab a meal with us.  I still had my hesitations, too.  I was not yet privy to the bigger picture.

“So, you’re both from America?” Joy asked.

“Yes, we’re from California,” I replied.

“What part?”

“The San Francisco area.”

“Oh wow, that’s so expensive.”  We (more so RQ) learned that money was extremely scarce for them.  The way they described having the same shared meals for lunch – often that same meal split as their dinner – and never in any amount that fulfilled their appetite or required nutrition was enough to paint the picture.  The difference between their wages and mine was the size of the Pacific Ocean, so hearing this made me feel embarrassed that I ever complained about, well, anything.  But Joy didn’t say this with intent to make me feel guilt.  It was an honest reaction, one and I didn’t have any good reply or comeback to ease the awkwardness.

di·gress

“What’s another good place to eat around here?  What are you in the mood for?”

They hesitated again, and gave each other a concerned look before one of them provided their shared admission.

“There’s nothing here we can afford.”

RQ steps in, “Oh we’re paying!  Please, let us.  We wouldn’t ask you to pay.  This is nothing more than a Christmas dinner with kaibigans [English translation: friends].”

Still with hesitation, still with a concerned look toward each other, Grace shared, “What if you just run off after dinner when we get the bill?”  I mean, that’s a pretty damn valid concern, right?  At this point RQ and I were still just two creepy ass Americans trying to have dinner with them.  I assured them that’s not who we are, while RQ reinsured this in Tagalog.  That might’ve been the key in easing their anxiety as Grace said with comfort, along with a few steps forward, “there’s more restaurants down the block here.”

I can feel the anxiety slowly melt away from Joy and Grace with each step.  RQ has that type of voice that can do that.  After two long city blocks we get to a quaint, well-lit court.  Forgive my memory here – there was restaurant blah, restaurant hmm, then the third option was Korean BBQ, and you can see their senses drool over Korean BBQ.  Before making this final decision we studied the menu alongside the entrance door.

“I think this is it, you can’t beat bulgogi!” RQ exclaimed.  Joy’s anxiety kicked back in like a sudden gust of wind.

“This is too expensive.  It would take months of work to have a dinner here.  We can’t eat here.  I can’t accept to eat here.”  I was halfway around the world, maybe this shouldn’t have been a surprise to me.  For me, it’s without question the cheapest Korean BBQ restaurant if this exact place were rooted in The Bay Area.  For Joy, this restaurant is the most expensive place that she’d never dare to walk in.  There’s struggle, then there’s third world struggle, and seeing the latter at ground zero you easily start taking less things for granted.

“Joy,” I said as I pulled out my wallet to hand to her, “You and Grace are not paying tonight.”  Two thoughts immediately came to mind.  First thought was, “I wish I knew how to say that in Tagalog.”  Second – “if she takes my wallet, gives me a right cross/left hook/leg sweep/curb stomp to the nuts combo and sprints off in what would have hoodwinked me into the most massive twist of my life up to that point, then Buddha, let me willingly take this L.”  A few days prior I rode piggyback on a man while riding a motorcycle, only to find out after we got to our final destination that he was missing his right eye, and his left eye wasn’t holding on too well either.  Suffice to say I was feeling lucky, and this was no different with attempting to hand over my wallet to a stranger.  After a moment of stand still, RQ sneakily and smoothly opened the door encourage them in.  Joy did not take my wallet, but my offer still stood.

Nothing shuts people up better than good food.  And soju.  But we did not shut up – we spoke comfortably and fruitfully for hours as we ate and drank like we were royalty.  Regardless of where anyone is from, people find common ground on challenges, ideas, and endeavors.  It struck a chord with me to hear that Joy sends money to her daughter in the Philippines without receiving a receipt of gratitude.  Every phone call between them started with her daughter saying “did you send the money yet?” even before “hi mom” was seemingly formulated as a thought.  “But that’s my daughter.  And I’ll always send her support,” Joy said with a few tears.  Before getting her work visa and permit in Thailand, Grace worked tirelessly in Macau trying to earn enough money to replace her dad’s boat that was completely wrecked in a storm back home, with the only piece of the boat her dad was able to salvage was a splinter of its former self the side of his hand.

As I process their stories and emotions my mind began to race through endless avenues.  Some new, mostly old, but even going down these familiar roads I noticed a shift in my mind’s eye.  Still in the driver’s seat, but thinking less about the control and more about the ride.  That Fight-Club-Tyler-Durden-just-let-go kind of ride.  Even after absorbing their heartbreaking stories, I knew they were better off than me and it had nothing to do with money.  Sure, money can solve an abundance of problems, and solving problems makes you happy.  But in order to solve problems you need to have purpose.  Something these two women have – which I completely and utterly lacked – and finally understood what I envied more than I could ever describe on this warm, quiet Christmas evening.  Or, just any other December night in Thailand.

Our conversation slowed and settled in sync with our buzz, plates empty but our bellies and minds full of good. We kept our promise and paid the dinner tab. If I could Michaelangelo the shit out of this moment I would paint the looks on their faces – soft, kind, with more than enough belief that worry was non-existent in the dictionary – and everyone would have called it a masterpiece. We walked back toward the direction of our hotel, where their bus stop was conveniently nearby. As their bus approached we gave each other a hug, and I knew we would never see Joy and Grace again. But the memory of them will continue to serve as a beacon of truth that life isn’t intrinsically designed to be cruel.

Joy and Grace safely got on the bus, RQ and I went back to our hotel, and we called it a Christmas night.

It’s taken me four years to share this story. I’ve often wondered if this was something RQ practiced on a regular. Maybe it doesn’t have to take place on Christmas or any other holiday, or in another country – but the way he quarterbacked this entire dinner out of thin air has always made me believe that this wasn’t the first time. He denies this notion in his signature nonchalant manner that only makes me believe the complete opposite. This is a debt I owe RQ I can never repay for a lesson in purpose orchestrated through a simple meal with two other perfect strangers that led to the most important night of my life.

The very last night I chose defeat.

pre·​vail

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Chorus

There’s a song in my head, I’m not sure how it goes yet.

I don’t think another cup of coffee, or tea, or vino will get me there.  Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds does wonders… um, so I’ve been told.  But as it turns out this is not easily available at your local Walgreens.  I also don’t “know a guy.”  I assure you, this is a good thing.

Every time I’m at a loss for words I find myself increasing my reading and listening.  My take is that if you bombard eyes and ears with enough words you’re bound to run into the right ones.  Everything from comics, podcasts, music of all genres and eras, The Athletic.  Novels written by Japanese writers translated to English tops my list; Haruki Murakami, my favorite writer, receives my highest recommendation.

Silverchair, a 90s Australian band said in their song Tomorrow:

You say that money
isn’t everything

But I’d like to see you
live without it

This might be the realest shit I’ve heard all year.  This is not the song in my head, but I’m a little closer than before.

Southeast Asia is my favorite place on the planet.  My beautiful people are from this region, and I have adoration for all the other countries I’ve had the pleasure of visiting, and certainly the others that are awaiting a pushpin on my map.  I’m a glutton for southeast Asia’s genre of cuisine, and I can still remember the slight taste of regret that came with trying the spiciest green curry at Chatuchak Market, so spicy I could smell the burn.  I learned quickly that fresh coconut and several slices of water apples provide soothing relief, making the experience all worth it.

You can say a little bit of pain was followed by a little bit of peace.  There’s a song in my head, I’m not sure how it goes yet.  But it tastes something like that.

Take two of your fingers – pointer and middle – and place them along the windpipe of your neck so you can feel your pulse.  Count the beats of your heart for ten, thirty, or sixty seconds, it’s your choice.  Your time interval doesn’t matter here, because the results remain the same –

We all have a finite amount of beats in our heart, and those are x amount of beats you just counted will never be returned.

In our own ways I believe we’re all afraid of time.  It’s secured firmly in the realm of the unknown – we don’t know what, where, why, how, and when things will happen.  Sure as hell terrifies me.  So our desires make all this more comfortable to digest, Right? In other words –

What do you want?

Take a step further. Our attempts to fulfill these desires then make those heartbeats mean something a little bit different, even something a little bit more.  Undoubtedly this spectrum covers the simplest daily glasses of water to earning strenuous qualifications to be in control of a NASA rocket ship. In short –

Did you try to get what you want?

  • I need fresh air
    Go outside
  • I want to try Indian food, I’ve never had it
    Eat at a local Indian restaurant
  • My favorite band is in town for a show!
    Attend their live concert this weekend
  • What does Canada look like in autumn?
    Buy a train ticket to Toronto
  • How does it feel to be in flight?
    Jump out of a plane and skydive

This can be viewed from a mathematical equation: x/y = z

x = amount of tries
y = amount of desires
z = batting average

Baseball will pay you nine figures if you’re successful inside the batter’s box 30% of the time.  Sounds like a deal of a lifetime when you are allowed a 70% fail rate.  And there seems to lie the chorus of the point – a life filled with trying is a lifetime well spent.

There’s a song in my head, I’m still not quite sure how it goes yet.
*Swings*

But it just might sound like you.

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Fonzie

It’s the night of June 10, 2019.  I’m watching Game 5 of the NBA Finals on my phone as I board a plane to Paris with my Golden State Warriors cap on, absorbing all my anxious yet hopeful sweat.

Kevin Durant ruptured his Achilles in the second quarter of this very game.  Not only is he out for the game and the rest of the series, he’s out next season as well.  We’re down 6 with 2:31 left in the 4th.  With the Raptors up 3-1 in the series, it’s win or lose the championship.

You can’t find more accurate words for this than “emotionally taxing”, other than “fucking emotionally taxing.”  Probably.

If you’re a fan of the NBA you probably know the rest of the story – the Dubs find a way to pull out a win and force a Game 6 back in Oakland.  The flight from San Francisco to Paris is approximately ten hours long.  Suffice to say, a loss here would have made this the worst flight of my life.  With the help of the Warriors, no one else was happier on that plane than me, cheesing harder than provolone sitting in seat 30D.

Well, no one except for the big burly man that took seat 30C, who laid his head ever so gently on my right shoulder and slept like a big ass baby well over half of the entire flight.  Dude didn’t even buy me a dinner or a drink, or give me his name.  He just Paul Anka’ed (1) himself and took my shoulder for his pillow.  But I didn’t care.  The Warriors won that night and was fully convinced we’d win Game 6 in Oakland, consequently forcing Game 7 back in Toronto to defend our NBA Championship and seal our 3-peat (we didn’t).

Let’s rewind some.

It’s the night of August 22, 2017.  I’m on a business trip, and Minneapolis is a frequent destination.  After back to back long days, I decided to take in a ballgame at Target Field with the Minnesota Twins hosting the Cleveland Indians.  Granted, I’m a Giants fan, proudly being the only one in this house donning my black and orange baseball cap.  But, I love baseball wholeheartedly, so I’m all for in any chance I can get to lay my eyes on live ballgame and my lips on a beer and a hotdog.

The stadium is a few thousand away from an officially packed house, with small patches of empty seats here and there.  The seat to my left remained open for the entirety of the game, and to the right of me what I assumed to be either a Twins or Indians fan.  He didn’t have a hat on to confirm this, nor did he react in a way where it was clear he was rooting for one over the other.  I played a simple game of roulette – he was either going to be black or red.

“I can’t believe Bartolo Colon is still pitching in this league,” he says toward me, attempting to jumpstart a conversation.

“There’s always a market open for a former Cy Young winner (2),” I replied.

“Even if their weight is equivalent to a sumo wrestler?” he says.  “His jersey is barely tucked in!”

“Look at it this way, he’ll stop all grounders up the middle with his gut.  He can win a gold glove with that thing!” I said.  We share a laugh.  We exchange names, his is Jason.

Well, you know who I am.

“So you’re a Giants fan?  Are you from here?” Jason asks me.

“I am, I’m actually here on a business trip.  I live in SF.  Just decided to catch a ballgame since I had the chance to.”

“Yeah I had to figure you weren’t a local.  I live in Vegas,” Jason replies.  “I’m also here on a business trip.  Same, decided to catch the ballgame, except I’m a Dodgers fan.”

Remember that little roulette game I played in my head earlier?  This is when the ball lands on 00… on a completely different roulette table from across the room next to the penny slot machines.

What are the odds that, out of 30,000 mid-westerners, two guys on a business trip from the west coast end up picking two seats next to each other and happen to be opposite fans of one of the most heated rivalries in baseball history?  I’m actually sure Sabermetrics has this answer to the decimal, but I’ll make an educated guess that it’s not very high.

“No fucking way!” I say laughingly.  This beer is well engaged with my system by now.  “God, what are the odds? This is funny.”

You should understand that since I was a child, I’ve grown to feel within the fibers of my being that the Dodgers were the ultimate, hated enemy.  The Joker against Batman.  Thanos against the Avengers.  The root of all things evil, like inserting mayonnaise in between your peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

The Dodgers are that mayonnaise and they ruin everything that is joyful and pure on God’s green earth.  Why oh why, Jesus H. Christ, did this guy have to sit next to me?!

I’m totally kidding.  This is a rivalry I respect and love.  I’ve met highly savory Dodger fans in my life (like the Pantone294 crew [3]) and Jason is this description.  He even bought me a round of beer, and I later returned the favor.  We talked baseball for the rest of the game, hoping to see a line drive bounce off the stomach of an unfazed Bartolo Colon.  We talked work, exchanged numbers with the chance of doing some business in the future.

Let’s rewind again, sometime in August 2011, when rideshare services did not yet exist.

On a similar type of business trip to Minneapolis, I called for a cab.  The driver’s name was Muhammad (4).  He ended up being one the most easiest guys I’ve ever talked to.  He knew I was from out of town before I even explained the reason for my business from the Giants baseball cap I had on.

Every time I asked the hotel to call for a cab, by sheer luck Muhammad ended up being my driver.  This happened for 3 days straight.

My ride was anywhere between 20-25 minutes to my destination, so it’s safe to say that I spent well over an hour of conversation with him in a span of a week.  It’s worth noting that I was in my mid to late twenties, and was absolutely convinced I knew everything.

I didn’t know shit.

But in these conversations with Muhammad were some of the most insightful takes on life. Multiple windows were being revealed, and both oxygen and light were being absorbed for the first time from various angles of my mind that I never thought existed.

The truth is, I still don’t know shit.  But I learned how to keep learning from Muhammad.  On my last cab ride I paid him substantially more than the meter read, though I assure you he was worth way more than I could have given him.

This is not about having lucky caps, or meeting the most pleasant strangers in the Minneapolis.  The point is this – you may be able to choose your own seats in life, but you’ll never be able to pick the people that end up sitting next to you.  Them doing so – whomever they are – proves that they’re on the same boat.  So do yourself, the people next to you, and the rest of the boat a favor – be Fonzie.

And you know what Fonzie (5) was like, yeah?

— – —-

Footnotes:

1  Put Your Head on my Shoulder – written and performed by Paul Anka (1959)

2  Bartolo Colon won the Cy Young award in the American League in 2005, with the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim

3  Check them out here

4  The most common name in the world

5  Cool

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Compass

Structured Query Language, or SQL (pronounced ess-cue-el) for short, is the standard language used to find and extract data from multiple tables of related information from a database. In simpler terms, this is how it works:

You spit your game and slide in the DMs by way of love letter in this nerdy ass SQL language, and if your code is correct, engaging, and heartfelt, you’ll achieve a ‘swipe right’ and get the data you’re looking for. Most of the time, you’ll continue to take the data on breakfast, lunch, and dinner dates at Excel where you can manipulate and breakdown the information in order to find insights in what is happening (and not happening) in your business or organization, city, state, country, so on and so forth.

This is 75% of my job – writing SQL queries to help find quantified answers to questions looking for measurements of quality. Within the last two months, I seemed to have broken through several layers of wall, and I’ve written more meaningful queries during this time than the last two years prior to, and I’ve finally figured out why. It wasn’t by way of books (though I have been reading a lot of books about Big Data… and um. Daredevil), a changed diet containing nothing but superfoods, or the limitless pill.

My mathematical writing has reached new highs, because I’ve been too much of a coward to write the final love letter to my cousin Angie, whom my family and I lost earlier this July. She was young at the age of 46.

Today, I have at least enough courage to find a way to stop writing code, and start writing emotion.

Writing SQL queries can be very difficult, but it’s easy for me to digest from this specific vantage point – it’s either the right answer or it’s not. I always found comfort in my math ability and patience to solve for x. So it made sense that I was too chicken shit to face the problem of why Angie died way too early – there was or never will be a right answer.

I was primarily raised and influenced by women, with my mom leading the way. With her were my grandmother, two aunts, and literally a dozen older female cousins. It was my own Lady Avengers team that watched over me, and Angie was a cornerstone during my developing years. She always seemed to be around during some of my most endearing memories, likely because she helped create them rather than simply being present, even though being present already goes a quite a long way.

Dropped off and picked up from school? Angie was there.

Running around the arcades and reloaded me with coins? Angie was there.

Sea Life Park in Hawaii, Disneyland and Universal Studios in Los Angeles? Angie was there.

Watching horse racing at Bay Meadows and Golden Gate Fields, and making sure I always had hot dogs to eat? Angie was there.

Hanging out at her mom’s dry cleaners in Hillsdale? Angie was there.

Sprinting to the Baskin Robbins ice cream parlor across the parking lot from the same dry cleaners? Angie was there.

Protected me during the 1989 earthquake in Foster City? Angie was there.

Flying back and forth from Honolulu and South San Francisco? Angie was there.

Flying home to California after visiting the Philippines without my mom on the same flight back?

Angie was there. She was always there.

And you know what’s the most beautiful thing about this? I was never the only one. Angie was there for so many other cousins like me, and generations of nieces and nephews after. She was the magnet that helped keep so many of us together. And now more than anything else I wish I could say the same back to her, that I was there for her, especially during her time of need. But I can’t, and I feel like shit that I can’t do anything to fix this. I can’t make this right. I never checked in, I should I visited more, I didn’t do enough. Time always runs out, and my lone diminutive brain – let alone the quintessential mathematical minds of the world combined – won’t solve the stoppage of time.

This is going to happen again. I don’t know who, I don’t know how, and I don’t know when. Hell, it could happen to me, and it could be an hour from now. I don’t know the answer to death, I nor anyone else can stop this or the constant feelings of grief that come with it. All I have is this love letter. It’s not the right answer I want, but at least I know I’m not wrong.

Angie, my beautiful cousin, my guardian angel –

I will never be graced with the amount of time I need to express how lucky I have always felt being around you, and with you. Without trying, you showed me how to live, how to love, and how to chase fun, and for that I am eternally grateful.

On my wrist I wear a clock, but in my heart I have a compass. For the time I have left on this earth I hope that, somewhere in paradise, you’d do me a kindness in allowing me to dedicate pieces of my life adventures to you.

From all corners of my heart – I’m sorry, I miss you, and I love you.

Forever your Balong,

– Mike

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