Is there wi-fi in heaven?
I wonder if my mom had made it if I’d ever let her read my blog. Sure, my entire extended family reads it (thank you, Facebook) but there’s something about me grappling with my own sexuality and temperament that says she wouldn’t approve (or at least be fairly itchy). I’m not sure I would’ve wanted her to know I lost my virginity at eighteen under the influence of Bud Light to a playlist of the Used and Lost Prophets, years later to learn that the Prophets’ lead singer would be arrested for baby rape. Literally. Baby rape.
Then there’s my dad.
Luckily, he was around for my teenage-dating prime. Long, romantic walks home from drinking Mike’s Hard in the park at 9 p.m. Late night calls on house phones about MySpace and math class. Saying “I love you” and only thinking we meant it. He survived my first two break-ups and the corresponding weeks of wailing that came from the bedroom next-door only to wonder why none of my guy friends played any sports but nearly all of them played the guitar.
Mom was around for more of those but I eventually spared her the monotonous details (and breakup playlists feat. Taking Back Sunday). Five years later, I’m sure that the two of them wouldn’t want to read about the soon-to-be-convicted child rapist that set the stage for years of awkward sexual encounters and I’m certain my father wouldn’t appreciate my (very public) call-to-arms for eye contact post-one-night-stand.
Which leads me to wonder, what’s on the other side and what’s the view like from their window? Can they see me sleep through six alarms?
Can they see me masturbate? Did dad tell mom about that time I took the last train out of New Rochelle to take Molly at a club in a blizzard? Hi, family. Sorry about that. Can they see me well up somewhere on the subway because it’s raining and Bon Iver is playing? Can they see me sleep in beds with boys and steal their socks?
Can they read this?
Is there wi-fi in heaven and do they have the password? Let’s assume there is, they do and Jesus taught them how to type.
Hey guys. It’s me, Meaghan.
Sorry in advance for wearing the clothes you wore seriously in the 80’s to future ugly sweater parties. Sorry I get too drunk sometimes and spend half my paycheck on Starbucks. Sorry it took so long to clean out the house and for leaving the cat’s ashes behind by mistake. Don’t worry, we went back for them. They rode shotgun of mom’s shopping cart home in the rain Monday night.
Sorry I post about sex and drugs and Bud Light Platinum so much. I’ll try to write more about work and assignments and that time I got to see the president speak at P-TECH.
Michael, Neil and I just signed our first lease. I’m not counting college because you held my hand and paid my rent/bar tabs. Mom would remember Michael. He bummed cigarettes on Saint Patrick’s Day and sent texts you tried hard to understand like “Cannon” and “Swag.”
Dad, they don’t play sports but they’re definitely in a band.
I think you’d like the place. Both of you. Can you see it up there/can you make sure the Egyptian family is out by the first? I hope you had front-row seats to the lease-signing. The management company hasn’t redecorated since ’75, Neil rang six doorbells that weren’t really doorbells and Michael accidentally awoke a sleeping parrot whose cage was draped by a 101 Dalmatians comforter.
I’d say it went well.
Now that I’m an adult with an apartment and a credit score, who knows what 2014 will bring (besides probably mice). I’ll be sure to write about move-in and housewarming and what happens when we drink all the free wine our friends bring us. I’ll write about the new year and our new neighbors but most importantly, I’ll keep writing.
For my reader in Azerbaijan, and for you.
The young adult you (somehow) raised.
P.S. Are there KFCs in heaven and do they still sell boneless BBQ wings?