Friday night Judy and I were having a slumber party. Yes, it is possible to have a slumber party with someone you already live with. Just add: face masks, wine, deep talks. Eventually we ended up sprawled on Judy’s bed, reading through our old journals which were both hilarious and illuminating.

Things are different since the year Judy and I met in Paris and since the year we shared a tiny dorm room on 14th Street. The world, and our place in the world, has changed rapidly, a nicer way of saying we’re seniors now and are freaking out about it. But as I read through my Bridget Jones-esque writing from the last couple years, it became clear that some of the qualities that make me into the person I am have so far stayed the same.

Take this story that I wrote sophomore year as example:

Tuesday May 5th, 2015

Truth-telling, witchcraft, bread-and-butter

I stole Judy’s pen. I am writing with said stolen pen right now. The thing is this pen is exactly like a pen I had a few months ago. So really… whose pen is it? Maybe we just switched pens? Maybe she didn’t notice her number 1 pen was missing? Maybe she did notice and just didn’t say anything? I used this very stolen pen while sitting right next to her and she said nothing.

Maybe this pen has become shared property kind of like the little pile of hair ties that sits on the edge of the sink in the bathroom. Truthfully, I never intended for those hair ties to become shared property. They’re Judy’s hair ties. I only use them occasionally and only because my hair tie — which was blue so it had a distinction from the others which are black — went missing. Much like Judy’s pen has “gone missing.” Only I don’t think that Judy is now in possession of my hair tie because I asked her about it and she said she didn’t know where it was, so obviously somebody who isn’t Judy has stolen it and is using it. That same somebody probably switched our pens too.

I bet that somebody is a leprechaun or a small pixie. It’s my fault really. Everyone knows that small pixies eat warm-ish butter and yet I still leave our butter to sit out in the cupboard instead of in the fridge.

The thing is, I love toast. And putting hard, unspreadable butter on a piece of bread is literally the worst thing ever. So I leave it in the cupboard to get to room temperature spreadability. And before you start to think about possible unsanitariness I will tell you that you are wrong and that leaving the butter out is perfectly safe, thank you very much. Except for the possibility of a butter-eating pixie infestation.

—

I will never not desire room temperature butter. And it makes me happy that Judy and I are still friends, roommates, excessive tea-drinkers. That we still learn from each other, inspire creativity in each other. And that our new apartment in Queens always smells like lemon and toast.

Citrus friend.