Old friends
LAST NIGHT was a riot. I had to hold back sleep over dinner because it's not every day that I meet my good friends, Paul Velasco, who now lives in New Zealand, and Jeiel Guarino, who gave me one of my favorite books to this day, Jerry Bridges's Trusting God. Manong Ralph also tagged along. Basté Julian also dropped by. He spotted us from the outside; he was walking, holding hands, with his girlfriend.
It's funny how, after six years of not meeting together, save for the occasional emails we send each other during the downtimes our lives, we still laugh at the same things, usually at the same time. Paul still calls me "contemptuous," a word I haven't heard in a long time and one that makes me feel nostalgic. I remember raiding his room at Yakal's East Wing 2, where I was greeted by fresh underwear hanging to dry; they smelled of Downy. I'd also take over his writing assignments, shooing him from his desk, and taking his laptop—"Let's include this paragraph," I'd say; and Paul would get worried, thinking his professor wouldn't believe he'd written the piece. Oh, I've missed him. He has lived in New Zealand since graduation and goes crabbing once in a while.
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It's funny how, after six years of not meeting together, save for the occasional emails we send each other during the downtimes our lives, we still laugh at the same things, usually at the same time. Paul still calls me "contemptuous," a word I haven't heard in a long time and one that makes me feel nostalgic. I remember raiding his room at Yakal's East Wing 2, where I was greeted by fresh underwear hanging to dry; they smelled of Downy. I'd also take over his writing assignments, shooing him from his desk, and taking his laptop—"Let's include this paragraph," I'd say; and Paul would get worried, thinking his professor wouldn't believe he'd written the piece. Oh, I've missed him. He has lived in New Zealand since graduation and goes crabbing once in a while.
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