Nate. You forgot the index. We used to talk, remember, often, when we lived together, of the index and the importance in finding obscure and hilarious myspace pages about the music Giants of Our Age, namely the king of Minnesota Southern Rap, The 'Tola. I would remind you often, "Nate, you're walking around with that unindexed look in your eye" and you'd perk up and order your mind numerically, or alphabetically or sometimes both, a complicated LoC type struture replete with internal ordering systems-within-systems and hilarious origin stories of whales and justice and a sun-bleached afternoon when we made love on the beaches of the World. Which we didn't, but I let you tell people we did because it made the story better, and I would always blush and tell people you were a liar and after a while I took it further, for the authenticity of the story, so I would blush and then I would spit and yell and go outside and they would "calm me down" but I didn't really need calming, I was just giving a show like you had betrayed me with your insinuations. This is my confession, Nate, you wondered that evening why I had attacked you, far from civilization in the Coastal Soybean Corporation lot, near where the trees were to be felled, we stopped them brother, we stopped them and I'll never be as proud as that day when they turned around, I punched you, I hurt you and your jaw was loose for days. I saw you try to hide it, but when the lights went out and I could only make out your profile against the moon-lit blinds, you would hold it, you would nurse your poor jaw and then talk like an ESL student in the morning, but it was all for that story, the beautiful one with the beaches and your indexing system, to preserve the authenticity of a broken-hearted lover left.
Remember the indexes, Nathan, remember them always.
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Nate. You forgot the index. We used to talk, remember, often, when we lived together, of the index and the importance in finding obscure and hilarious myspace pages about the music Giants of Our Age, namely the king of Minnesota Southern Rap, The 'Tola. I would remind you often, "Nate, you're walking around with that unindexed look in your eye" and you'd perk up and order your mind numerically, or alphabetically or sometimes both, a complicated LoC type struture replete with internal ordering systems-within-systems and hilarious origin stories of whales and justice and a sun-bleached afternoon when we made love on the beaches of the World. Which we didn't, but I let you tell people we did because it made the story better, and I would always blush and tell people you were a liar and after a while I took it further, for the authenticity of the story, so I would blush and then I would spit and yell and go outside and they would "calm me down" but I didn't really need calming, I was just giving a show like you had betrayed me with your insinuations. This is my confession, Nate, you wondered that evening why I had attacked you, far from civilization in the Coastal Soybean Corporation lot, near where the trees were to be felled, we stopped them brother, we stopped them and I'll never be as proud as that day when they turned around, I punched you, I hurt you and your jaw was loose for days. I saw you try to hide it, but when the lights went out and I could only make out your profile against the moon-lit blinds, you would hold it, you would nurse your poor jaw and then talk like an ESL student in the morning, but it was all for that story, the beautiful one with the beaches and your indexing system, to preserve the authenticity of a broken-hearted lover left.
Remember the indexes, Nathan, remember them always.
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