Yesterday was the best day ever. I am a person who has lots of "best days ever," and this is partially because I have a lucky and have a good life, and partially because I’m not afraid to make extreme statements like, "This is the best day ever."

I’m also not afraid to say other extreme things like, "My favourite colour is purple." "My favourite spice is cinnamon." "My favourite sound is bibimbap sizzling." I think this because I am comfortable with being incongruent five minutes later, or a year later, or whenever I feel like it. These extreme declarations have less meaning to me than some people, but still, I mean it. I just know I can change them later because I am a walking contradiction.

For example, it is equally likely for me to drop the F-bomb or say something profound about my Uncle Jesus, and sometimes I do it in the same breath. Yes, I censor myself around certain people, and I think that this is okay, too. I want you to "catch" me making out with someone I don’t know, walking into church, buying a six-pack, using Styrofoam, and reading a book about Uncle, and I want you to catch me doing it all at the same time because I want you to know- I’m bumpy.

So, yesterday was the best day ever. I got up early, and aced an exam. I wrote and wrote, and my handwriting was pretty at the beginning and messy at the end, and I made connections to different theories and sources, and my grammar was correct. I was proud. Then, I met my friend at the library. He is someone who honours his friendships. He actually makes time for people and he listens to them. He also notices if you’re not doing the same thing in return. Anyway, I saw him. And I could tell that he likes me, and it felt good. And I wondered if my friends can tell that I like them....

We walked to his neighbourhood and laughed and bought a tomato and some other things. We ate a sandwich with his homemade bread, and it smelt good. He gave me some juice in a slanted purple cup. Then we set to work, making pastry dough with an entire pound of lard. I am good at making pastry dough. We made cinnamon things and blueberry things and we made a mess, and some of our things were pretty, and some looked like slugs, and some had blue fingerprints on them. And maybe my life is like that messy kitchen, with slugs and slants and fat and fingerprints, and some very pretty things.

We cleaned the kitchen. He washed and I dried, and I put things back in the wrong places, though I think I’m getting better. Some more friends came over, and we went to the Korean restaurant.

I love the woman there with the soothing voice, who is careful to bring us food that we like, that sizzles, and that is vegetarian when it matters, and not, when it matters. And she could perceive that we were celebrating, though none of us really knew why, and it turned out that we were celebrating our "good friendship," and she commented on my hair and my long absence, and I wanted to flirt with this woman, because she made me so happy. I was surrounded with beautiful things. And I really liked the picture with the persimmons, even though I don’t really like persimmons, unless they’re very mushy and eaten with good friends.

Then we took our crazy carpets and went to the hill. My stomach hurt, and my neck hurt, and I felt a little dysfunctional when we got to the hill. But all of that disappeared with one slide. I promise that this happened: I was physically hurting before I took off. And then, as soon as I let go, everything in the world felt significantly better, and anything that hurt went away. Let go.

I went down backwards and on my stomach with my arms behind my back, and we fell and we spun and I won the Farthest Distance Contest.

We went back, and ate some more pastry and some cookies that were German and smelled nostalgic. And we smelled. Like sweat and garlic and matted hair and cinnamon and having fun in the magical snow and winter gear that has been in the closet too long.

And then I went home. My hands were full of things, and I was running up my sidewalk, and I fell...full-running-force, hands occupied, on the sidewalk. My whole front was wet and snowy and desperate. And it hurt at the end of my perfect day. But the pain made the fun a bit more acute.

My bed was my hero like never before, and as I fell into a wholehearted sleep, I could see the sparkled, purple-coloured cinnamon magic floating in the spaces around my bed.