I didn't sleep much last night. Maybe an hour or so. It rained all night and for whatever reason the rain excites me. It was a warm sub-tropical storm with decent winds and fat rain drops.

One thing I miss about the northeast is the weather. It's so different from how it is here in L.A. I mean, I was only in the northeast during the dead of summer, so I don't know jack shit the seasonal changes, but the summers there are intense in a different way than the summers here are. Here, heat is dry and scorching and you don't sweat so much as burn; there, it's not really hot so much as it is humid and suffocating. As soon as I stepped off the plane in Jersey it was as if I walked into a trucker's asscrack.

Surprisingly, though, I liked the humidity. I liked how the haze washed out the landscape and coated everything in a sweaty opacity. In L.A. the sun is severe and omnipresent, but in the northeast it's only hinted at; sometimes it pierces through the humid milky coating.

But, god, I had some good sex in that heat.

One day Rachel and I drove to Albany, NY so she could visit her mother. However, Rachel hadn't told her mother that I had basically moved in with her, so I couldn't really stay over at her mother's. I told her I was fine with staying behind, but Rachel didn't want me to have to hang around the apartment by myself so she offered to get me a room in Albany, not too far from her mother's. I agreed, but only if I could split the cost with her. So we left Northampton and drove about an hour or so to Albany. Right around the Massachusetts/New York border we were deluged by a really beautiful summer thunderstorm. Above us the sky was dark and it was raining so hard visibility was reduced to shit, but in the distance the sky was clearing and the sun was setting. A slow, blinding, hypnotic arc of golden sunlight flooded the atmosphere. As always, Rachel and I were silent. It was one of those moments you can't plan, that presents itself suddenly and quietly, and sears itself into your consciousness. I remember that day so vividly. It was Friday, July 15th. I was wearing corduroy pants, a black t-shirt, and my black Converse. Rachel was wearing a white tank top, shorts, and flip flops. She was bringing her cats to her mother's because they kept peeing all over the apartment and they were in their cages in the backseat, yowling and fouling—the car reeked of shit.

We got to Albany and eventually found the motel. A shitty haven for serial killers if there ever was one. Fortunately, there was only one pick-up truck in the entire parking lot, so I figured my odds of being killed were slim. The room was crap. Rachel asked me if I was sure this was okay. I said yeah, I'll be fine. She kept saying she was sorry for having to leave me. I kept telling her it was all right. I walked her to her car and we kissed and hugged and she told me she'd be there at 11:00 the next morning. I said okay. Then she kissed me again. Then she walked to her car and turned around. She stared at me for a moment before walking toward me and kissing me again. She said okay. I said okay. Then she walked back to her car and got in and started it and looked at me and pulled out. I watched her drive away before walking back to my room.

I tried to turn the TV on, but the bitch wasn't havin' it. I freaked out a little at the thought of having to lie in bed all night listening to the deafening silence of a seedy-ass motel situation. I mean, I've done a decent amount of traveling and I've stayed in some shitty motels, but this place was out of control. It was even creepier than the Motel 6 I stayed in in Kansas, Central California (most people tend to think of L.A. or San Francisco when they hear the word California, but California is a dynamic state and the central valley is mostly farmland, more akin to the midwest than to points west) with significant blood stains on the sheets. I mean, someone was probably dismembered in that bed and I didn't realize the blood stains until the next morning, after I had slobbered all over the sheets and pillow. Yeah, this Albany motel was more fucked than that. I could write an essay on the toilet alone. Anyway, eventually I realized that the TV doubled as a radio—something I wasn't aware even existed!—and I had to switch it from the radio setting to the TV setting. So, awesome, I could finally watch TV and veg out and forget about my immediate circumstances. But not quite. The TV doesn't like changing channels. Oh, it'll change, but only for about 34 seconds, then it will stick to one channel for three hours before giving you another window of opportunity to see what else is on. For part of the night I watched what seemd to be a Talk Soup marathon on E!. Then the TV felt like working but decided it hated me when I landed on The Weather Channel. So I spent the rest of the night watching Overnight Outlook.

I ventured outside to have a smoke and to wrassle me up a cold, canned beverage from the soda machine but was robbed when the infernal monstrosity gave me a goddamned iced tea instead of a Coke. I hate tea. But it was really humid out, so I drank it. The storms had ended and the sky had cleared out. It was still really humid, but not really hazy. I stared at the moon and dragged away on my cig.

I went back inside and a swarm of flies trailed me. I sat on my bed and watched TV and tried to ignore them, but the beasts began harassing me by nosediving onto my head and face! These were fat, stupid flies with a loud, insufferable buzz, more akin to a chainsaw than the soothing whir of your typical west coast housefly. These bitches were east coast, and needed to be dealt with as such. It was easy killing them: they would kamikaze themselves into a wall or unto ceiling, momentarily concussing themselves, whereupon I would seize the moment and crush them with my shoe. Turds.

I finally fell asleep around 3:30-4:00. But woke up a few hours later, to watch the sunrise.

I masturbated so many times that night, thinking about Rachel and all of the crazed, sweaty sex we had had that week. The sex between us was so intense and so possessive. We would fuck for hours; literally, until she physically couldn't any longer. After we broke up she told me that it was "too much." She said we are like soul mates, but that being in a romantic relationship was too much and that we are too alike. I understand that now. I understood it then, too, but I didn't want to accept it. Rachel and I understand each other in a way that is terrifying. We just see right through each other. We all play games. Every relationship is a game that we play to some extent, but Rachel and I couldn't really play each other. I always knew when she was trying to control me or make me feel insecure or whatever and I always let her do it. I let her because it's fun. Honestly, it makes me feel wanted when someone tries to control me. She only could because I let her. We were completely obsessed with each other. She would've done anything for me and I gave up everything to be with her. That's so much to deal with in your early 20s. I knew it would end badly, but I did it anyway. I'm too impulsive. And I would do it again.

I miss her. I miss talking with her for hours. I miss being around her for hours and not having to say a word. I miss her sitting on my lap and locking her arms around my neck. I miss the way she'd smile at me when we'd wake up in the morning. I miss holding her when she cries. I miss spooning her and running my fingers through her hair. I miss the soft plump of her lips; the glimmer in her blue eyes. I miss her New York accent pronouncing itself whenever she'd get excited or angry. I miss the glow of the afternoon sunlight in her hair. I miss the way she would always touch me, even when we fought. She never let me feel like she didn't love me, no matter what happened. I miss the feel of her dew-scented skin. I miss running my hands over the soft blonde hairs on her legs; her breath on my face. I need her love.