This is the difference between my grandma then and my grandma after that disease where you forget things. I don't remember the name but I hear it's hereditary. I roll my eyes to the left and think of beach days every day in grandma's backyard. I remember she could get down. I roll my eyes to the right and I remember her trying to kill my little nephew with a giant coffee table book because he was being too loud. My eyes look ahead as I remember nothing but finishing my cigarette. I am exhaling the last of it. I never understand why people want me to do anything with my life. I just want to want something, passionately. And a kind of fear trembles up from inside when you realize you don't remember what's it's like to be actually excited about something that wakes you up and makes you want to do something with your life.