Dear May, I know I may not be the best roommate. I may not turn down your bed and put a mint on your pillow or serve you breakfast in bed. I may not be tall, dark and handsome and be able to spoon with you at night, but I assure you I am cool, though not as cool as you.
-Text to my phone at 11:17pm, Monday, August 31, 2009
This made me smile. No writeup in the world, no matter my imagination or how much time I have, could top this flash of genius. Also, I can’t write when I’m feeling guilty.
Check out her blog. My roommate does some pretty cool stuff. Because she’s pretty cool.
I promise to come home. You don’t have to thank me when I come into your room in the morning and start spooning you. It’s the least I can do.
A Little Thinking 
Speaking of texts, was that you, a couple of months ago, who texted me from the 917 about me being on Facebook now?
Because I responded to it, moments before Metro North horked me back north under your bedrock a couple of weekends ago, and I never heard back.
Ray, sometimes I don’t get all my texts. I was aware you were in town for the game, but I had just returned from a camping trip that pretty much wiped me out.
I’m sorry I missed you and what could have been a fun last hurrah before I get out of Dodge.
No worries- just wanted to be sure I had the right name with the right cell #. I don’t think that train even stopped at 125th Street if I’d wanted to get off it.
Two weeks from tonight may be a final chance- if certain stars align, I’ll be on the Lower East Side, communing with (and possibly reading for) a Last Chance Saloon audience of Met fans before we all, I dunno, head over to the nearest bridge for a communal jump.