This summer is already legendary. So legendary it needs to be commemorated with souvenirs.

I need someone to make me one of those T-shirts they sell at surf-shop chains that say “Summer Break 2013,” but instead of images of, like, sunshine and palm trees, mine would picture me in bed with a piping-hot Wild Berry Pop Tart and a glass of milk.

Or it could have a picture of me speaking on the phone with these words in bubble text: “It’s just that something’s not there anymore. I don’t want to hang out anymore. We don’t have anything in common, we never hang out, and when we do, it’s uncomfortable.” With this one I’d need a matching shirt for my former best friend, showing her response to my phone call: “That’s not what this is. It doesn’t matter if we don’t talk a lot. This friendship is us meeting up every once in a while to catch up. I thought this was going to be forever. You were going to be a bridesmaid at my wedding. We’ve been together for 10 years. When I left school there was a reason you were the only person I kept in touch with after high school. You were having a hard time getting along with girls there, and I supported you. I felt bad for you. Good luck ever finding anyone else.” Maybe up above that text, or on the back, there would be a picture of me sitting in my car in the Kroger parking lot, my phone on the floor, staring into the distance.

When I got home, my mother had gotten a text from my ex-best-friend’s mother telling her that the ex-BFF was very upset. This upset my mother. She asked me where my morals are. At this point I took the high road by making my voice as deep as possible and snarling at her that I was Satan. I could tell this did not go over well with my mother, because her response was “Is that how you really feel?” instead of the “Oh, I’m wrongly accusing you of having no heart, I’ll leave you alone” that I was going for. For my mother, the devil is real, making my impersonation even more obnoxious, and this incident probably harder to recover from. I can’t figure out an appropriate souvenir to commemorate this event. Matching mood necklaces so that we can read each other’s emotions in our next fight? A ceramic plaque that says “Maybe don’t impersonate the devil” that I can hang next to the one she already owns that reads “Together we can do great things. —God”? A sculpture of two google-eyed dried fish—a puffer and a crab—duking it out, with our names and “SUMMER 2013” written underneath? I can’t decide. I’ll probably just get a boob mug, because boobs belong to women and women are crazy and fight a lot. That’ll keep the memory fresh. (JK OBV) WISH YOU WERE HERE, ROOKS. ♦