Dear Jic, Grant, and Ron,
I wanted a tattoo. And it would describe: I am pissed off! The rest of my friends are getting jobs and acting as busy as I could possibly notice, and they got someone else to text or call, while I reread my college textbook. Business? I’ve got no certain goodie this year. It looked exactly like what I’ve always been afraid of: being 20-year-old in July.
There’s only three friends of mine left after graduation. I left my country, and now their internships are their new buddies. “You know college sucks!” I told Jic. He said he took one-year course in graphic design, righteously he’s getting calls from people’s birthdays now. He’s happily taking pictures and happily edited them. And people were happy in return, some. Jic laughed, seemed unusually excited, said, “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow then.” He added, “Call Grant! Tell him all of us should meet!”
For Grant I left him a message. He called, said, “We should go out!” Grant never showed up. One night I thought I’m still infatuated so… Ron’s excused.