I sit outside now. Under attack in hidden courtyards tucked behind fire escapes. This is my social life. On the weekends I’m under the trees of the cascades, blanketed by stars, hope and dirty nails. On the weekdays I’m bound to the kitchen and grounded in stress while deciphering saas acronyms and wearing my old fuzzy socks for comfort despite the heat. Testing my new mason jar cold brew infusion while flexing my quarantine homesteading. In the evenings I’m cornered in the patch of grass behind the dumpster with neighbors, playing “what’s that arterial assault?” & debating the boom-tis of a firework vs. a boom-clk of a gun. We know the difference by now. I raise your plywood Whole Foods to my neighborhood Starbucks that just burned for the 3rd time this week.

I’m in the park by the water talking about the meaning of life over Mexican blankets. We’re at the beach discussing collective emotional breakdowns live on Instagram stories with a random bumble date never to be contacted again. It’s a warm Tuesday sitting on the hood of your car in an empty parking lot while old music crackles from the frayed aux cord and we pour 7-11 boxed wine into plastic cups. I’m in a lawn chair perched on the edge of a grassy knoll shaking mason jar cocktails and discussing the afterlife like I’m the emotional bartender.

No, I don’t know what September holds. Nobody does.