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It's been a long time since we played. When we first started playing on the street I was still in college and the older brother Daniel in middle school. Now he towers over me and plays on his high school's varsity team. They made it to the state finals on Saturday. I had half a mind to go cheer him on, but it's on the other side of the city, an hour and a half away by car.

To temper their good news about the state finals I tell them I'm moving to New York again soon.

"For good?" the younger one Mal whines in disbelief. His curly hair reaches midway up my torso now. "Can't you stay forever? Or at least until I graduate high school?"

I laugh. I'll be in my thirties when he graduates.

"I wish," I say when I manage to catch my breath, which is not a full untruth. Of course I'd rather be in New York, but I do wish some part of me could stay behind and kick around with them forever, in the same way I wish I could still cut class with friends or rehearse with my old ensembles. Alas, I can only be in one place at a time, and this is not the place I need to be right now.

"Did you get a new job? Where will you stay? Won't it be dangerous?" I know Daniel's grown from the kinds of questions he asks now. Their image of New York as a crime-ridden slum makes me wonder if they've ever actually visited.

Mal asks the harder questions. "Will you visit? Can you send us mail?"

"I'll try. Of course I'll write." I mean it. I always write, even though the postal service ate the postcard I sent them last summer. Judging from the way Daniel and Mal use their dented mailbox as a goalpost, I'd be surprised if anything I send them ever shows up.

I've watched them grow up in front of my eyes these past few years. When Daniel and I play ones¹ we know all of each other's moves. I know he'll step over and cut right before even he does, and we've both learned to keep our legs closed to avoid getting nutmegged. Even if his teenage ego has inflated a bit too much for my liking, I'm going to miss him. He and his brother seem to get taller every time I see them, and I know they'll be grown before I know it.

I'm not a Kendrick fan but this is far and away the best diss I've ever heard. Kendrick's high-pitched voice inflections shine through. Over six minutes and three wildly different beats he rips Drake's biracialism, reputation as a deadbeat, and inauthenticity, all in rhyme.

I can't choose which lyrics to point out — they're all good! Just listen and admire the wordplay.

Amidst all the carnage, you get the sense that Kendrick's not even trying. He raps,

I make music that electrify 'em, you make music that pacify 'em
I can double down on that line, but spare you this time, that's random acts of kindness

and later,

We ain't gotta get personal, this a friendly fade, you should keep it that way
I know some shit about n- that make Gunna Wunna look like a saint

It's lyrical homicide. I really hope this rap beef doesn't end here, because I want more of this.

The other songs in this beef up to this point:

• First Person Shooter (Drake ft. J Cole)
• Like That (Future, Metro Boomin, Kendrick Lamar)
• Like That REMIX (Kanye West)
• 7 Minute Drill (J Cole, later deleted)
• Push Ups (Drake)
• Taylor Made Freestyle (Drake)

But I haven't even started. It's not that I don't think I'll enjoy it; I've read five of Murakami's books already. What keeps me from starting is the prospect of failing to finish before I go on vacation or move.

Logically, that fear should push me to read more. Reading a thousand pages in three weeks isn't impossible, especially when I don't work full-time and the pages contain prose that goes down easily like Murakami's. Instead, my fear has done the opposite, paralyzing me and preventing me from starting at all.

I don't know how to get over myself. I open the book to the first page, start reading, and then, inexplicably, put the book down and do something else. In my avoidance I've already finished Michiko Aoyama's What You Are Looking For Is in the Library and made headway in Banana Yoshimoto's Kitchen (thanks Amy and Misha for the recommendations!). But I'm still stuck on the first page of 1Q84.

I'm like this in other areas of my life too. Right now for work I have to figure out this complex query to join tutors with their pay rates from various different tables depending on a matrix of conditions. It's not an easy task by any means, but I could probably figure it out if I sucked it up and worked patiently on it for a few uninterrupted hours. And yet, I keep pushing it off. The inertia sits on me like a boulder, rendering me inert.

I think some variant of this happened at my previous job. I'd put off tasks because I dreaded their thorny challenges and the uncomfortable feeling of being stumped. Of course, procrastinating only ever compounded my problems and made them more stressful when I finally did get to them. But I keep repeating this irrational behavior time and time again in various arenas of my life.

When I was a senior in high school I chose a Montaigne quote to go under my headshot. He who fears he shall suffer, already suffers because he fears. I don't know if teenage me was really more fearless or just less self-aware, but I find it incredibly ironic how much that quote makes a mockery of the person I am today.

Yesterday my parents took me shopping for dress clothes. My wardrobe is woefully lacking in the formal department, and even though I only need to be in the office a few days a week I don't like feeling short on clothes I like. At a store that specialized in fitted mens shirts, the salesperson on duty listened to what I needed, took one good look at me, and came out of the backroom with one that fit just right. There's something so satisfying about seeing someone do anything that well.

Formal wear is so silly to me. Who decided that formal pants need to have their pocket open sideways instead of upwards? Or that a button down collar is more casual than its other collared cousins? Or that a certain texture or fabric is more formal than another? It’s all such nonsense. Sometimes I can't believe we can't just all agree to drop the farce. Why does it really matter what any of us are wearing?

I saw this little shelf in the Lululemon dressing room yesterday. The thought of spending one week's pay on a pair of trousers certainly gives me the heebie-jeebies, so I think they have me covered on that front. (I didn't buy the pants.)

In a week's time I'll be en route to Tokyo for the first time. I'm very excited — it's been on the top of my travel bucket list for many years now. I've watched so many hundreds of hours of Japan travel content that I wonder what it'll be like to experience things in person that I've already seen vloggers do many times.

(I only have a mere few days in Tokyo, but if you have recommendations for things to eat/see/do, please send me an email! I'd love to hear them, and file them away for next time if I don't get to them this trip.)

_{^{Our cash came in!}}

_{^{From a celebratory brunch with my friend: a market hash and a decadent cinnamon roll}}