Halfway to Halfway

Halfway through the semester is halfway to Christmas, which is halfway to going home, which is halfway to halfway. I say the word until it feels like swallowing mud; I start overpronouncing the “l” halfway through, and my tongue presses on the back of my teeth like a taut rubber band, and I’ve never noticed the absence of my permanent retainer until now but suddenly it’s gone, just like it was gone yesterday and the day before and the day before that, too.

So I lay back down and let the mud slide halfway down my throat, keeping my tongue against my teeth so I don’t have to taste it and opening my throat to pretend halfway is just bad tequila that will eventually feel better than it tastes. And I try not to choke on it, this halfway mudslide, but the honest truth is it’s easier to thrash and gag and spew up my guts compared to holding it in the back of my throat and waiting for it to trickle down.

You feel better after a good drunk vomit. You don’t feel good, but you feel better. So maybe I’ll throw up and relive my memories through the lens of the toilet bowl while my roommate rubs my back — I’m only halfway to living alone, after all, and he’ll point in the toilet and say, look, move-in day! — which feels like a lifetime ago, but was really only a halfway ago. And, somewhere in the vomit, I’m hugging my mother while somebody tells me that these will be the best years of my life. These are the best years of my life.

These are the best years of my life. I’m halfway to halfway through one of the best years of my life.