Just before sunset, when hungry golden arms of light stretch across building tops and cast long & desperate shadows on the sidewalk, I drive out to a parking lot in St. Johns to meet a girl whose initials are, aptly, M.O. She’s a proper hipster queer, whose hair is architecturally dissheveled, and who lip syncs to the Butchies in the car. We cross the bridge together, and hold hands all the way down Highway 30 until the city sneaks up on us. When she gets out of the car, the radio stops working. Everything about tonight seems to have some significance.

I’ve so begun to cherish the worst decisions I make. I don’t need any epic masterpiece of a love story, and neither does she. There’s something worthwhile in a girl that doesn’t quite fit, like pressing your tongue against a loose tooth. Something fulfilling in the ache of contortion. Something fulfilling in the ill-advised breakups and even worse relationships. Getting caught staring. Every so-often I remember that I’m 24, and I get so grateful to have as much time and latitude as I do.

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