I have this thing with thirteenths. I wouldn't call them lucky for me, but I would call them… monumental.

The past five months have been long and bizarre and I have yet to figure them out. The first thirteenth, June, I kissed a boy I wasn't really planning to kiss. The fact that I'd been dating someone else for a year and a half up to that point made it all the more unsuspected. But I'd see the decline of the latter relationship coming for quite some time; it just took a little push (or a little kiss) to get it to fall off that hill. Then, right around July thirteenth I finally gave up on the former.

August thirteenth I saw the end of my life in sight when I nearly drowned in a scuba diving mishap. We were thrown up against coral reefs trying to make our way out of the sea, and I killed hundreds of years worth of growth by stepping on the pieces. I still have the scars from where coral entered my skin, fighting back against me as it were. One of those scars has something growing in it. I might be coming up for surgery soon.

September 13th a boy kissed me, and this is the one that really blew me away. My surprise was even greater than it was in June. He was an old, old friend I'd admired for a very long time, and I wasn't ready to kiss him without caring for him more. October 13th we parted. The shock is actually quite faded now, but I'm still writing poems about that one.

… I wonder what will happen today.