My eyes were tired; I rolled over in my bed, and stared briefly at the moon.

I turned back to face my fan; the 90-degree summer heat only dropped to 78 overnight, enough to make me sleep in shorts and a tank top.

My phone buzzed and lit-up its orangy color. Message from: Alex. I clicked to read the message, and it was some drunken rambling. "Oh boy," I thought, "what now?"

Our messages would go back and forth with when we would meet again, to what each other did that day or night. That was the summer I owed my dad 50 extra dollars for texting; it was 2004 afterall, when it was the "new thing."

Now I get texts about Sarah Palin, and how working and being an adult sucks. We text each other from the bars in our separate states, obviously bored with our own company.

On Wednesday I'll get a text about how the doctor's appointment went, and whether this time, he's really going to be okay or not.