Fall Down 7 Times, Get Up 8.

Tonight was...something. A little bit of everything. Fun. Draining. Fulfilling. It started out with Thai food, wine, and Captain Morgan, accompanied with an array of good music from Megan and I. She serenaded me with the Bangles' "Eternal Flame," standing on my bed, singing into my wooden flute, lovingly stroking my stuffed platypus, and strumming my Guitar Hero guitar. She's very talented. We played rummy and she told me stories about different artists, my favorite being Bon Iver.

Bon Iver took himself into the remote wilderness of snowy Wisconsin for three months without any human contact. He'd broken away from his band and his girlfriend and, upon reemerging, had written an album that drips with anguish. Sometimes you can even feel the chill of snowy winter in his songs, Megan says.

We talked about the 90's, Jappy's band, my strange dream about my brother John's black eye and Mike Tyson sitting on my friend who had a broken leg, pen pals, and love. Love is where the night turned melancholy. We took turns explaining the perfectness, the coincidences, the heart-racing moments that felt right. Then we pulled out the proof. We read journal entries until our eyes glazed over. "Oh, Kate," Megan sighs. There's barbed wire wrapped around our tender hearts now.

We all have our stories. Everyone has a beautifully tragic story.

For everything that's happened, I have few regrets. I loved wholly and I lost completely. Life has been shown to be a beautiful delusion. We place the truths where they fit prettiest and grapple with the rest.

Also, in the midst of talking, a lady bug flew through my window and landed on my hand. It had a lot of spots, which makes it an even luckier omen. (Or so Megan says.)