I found a piece of paper, it didn't sound like glass.

I took the laces out of my boots. I can get in and out of them more quickly, but my socks get pulled down and my toes squish.
I kicked a piece of ice all the way across campus, down the hill, but I abandoned it on Rt. 32 because I got scared.
I heard a few kids screaming as I crossed the road. They were drunk, and I knew one of them by face. The larger male shouted, "Show me your titties."
I mocked opening my jacket.
"What's up playboy?", he said as we passed. We slapped our hands together and he went shreiking off into the night.
As I walked the street to my apartment I would tense up and his calls, expecting at any second to be attacked from behind, paranoid at what I could not control.
I walk the suburban jungle.
I walk it alone.
The cold is comforting, in a way. It gets to you, and you shiver, but then realize that you are not cold enough to die, so you will be fine until you get home.
The cold and the drunk made me think about what it is to be who I am.
Am I my brother, to a degree?
I sure felt like him tonight, when I saw that crowd.
I felt like him and I'm not sure why, but I did, and in a way it made me realize who I am, and that thile I am chris mastellone on this campus, I am chris mastellone, son and brother, everywhere else.
I miss having an established identity that I don't have to work for.
I miss family.
Maybe that's why I stole that orange hat tonight, with the bird on it.
Maybe I'll give it away as a joke.
I don't want to get up tomorrow, just want to sleep.
And write.

-ccm