Having a psychic for a mom is usually … well, it’s FINE. Mostly because she never tells us anything, for fear of steering her children’s lives TOO much, which, I’m realizing as I’m writing this, is actually pretty ironic considering she’s always trying to steer our lives in every other way?? Like, I rarely get the benefit of “study hard for that math test because it’s going to have this question on it about this type of equation that you do NOT understand currently” but I DO get the constant pestering about my love life, my career choices, “are you sure you don’t want to at least apply to some colleges?”

Despite this, this infuriating hypocrisy, the fact that my mom has visions of the future, which should be unbelievably cool and useful, except she chooses NOT to share them more often than she does … despite allll that, I still listen to her every. Single. Time. Even when she sends me falling ass over head into asphalt. I don’t get to be special like the rest of my family and I don’t even get to interact with their specialness in a good way. I’m always on the outside, face-planting into the ground.

LATER

Oh my god, oh my god, okayokayokay—

Maybe my mom isn’t totally cracked after all.

All right, so, yes, my wrist is a little messed up, but it’s more bruised than anything else (thankfully, not broken), and I’ll have to get new skates because my front wheel is cracked from when I went careening into the curb, but.

There was a girl.

At the urgent care, there was the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.

Firstly, she came in because she wiped out on her skateboard, so, like, BIG mood. Normally, I find skateboarders a little annoying, but she rides a longboard so that’s a whole other thing.

She also came in with a broken wrist—really broken—and we sat next to each other and got to talking about rollerblading versus skateboarding and it made me entirely forget about the pain in my arm.

“Are you a writer?” she asked, once we had gotten past the initial “broken wrist? broken wrist! same hat!” stuff. She gestured with her good arm (the right one, which immediately made me think how it felt like fate that we hurt opposite wrists, leaving our good arms still perfectly equipped to hold hands) at my notebook and ink-covered hand.

“Oh,” I said, “um, no, not really. I mean, yes, I am literally writing”—I continued when she lifted up one perfect eyebrow—“but I’m not, like, a writer. I’m just … journaling.”