January 30, 2013

Noteworthy Banter. Easily my favorite posts. Ever.

Kellie Matis (my dear friend, Emily's, witty mother): Emily. I called Courtney and Haley over here to stage an intervention. We're going to waterboard you, then, tie your hands up, put you in front of a television screen, and make you watch a slideshow of pictures of art history paired with heavy metal music...
Haley, Court, Emily: ...
Kellie: Sorry. That was too much. I've been watching a lot of Homeland...

Kellie: You've been the same since you came out of the womb. Your hair is just longer now.

Kellie: Why do you say that? What have you heard...?
Emily: Well, nothing. I'm just saying...
Kellie: Let's make something up, then! Spread it around!

Devin: That store's name is whimsy...
Court: So?
Devin: That's a dumb name for a store.
Court: Well, okay. If you had a store, what would you name it?
Devin: Not whimsy.
Court: Yes, I gathered that, but, I'm going to need some kind of an example.
Devin: Probably just something like 'Neon Explosions'.
Court: ...
Devin: It's in the early stages of development.

January 29, 2013


If any of you need help understanding the title, here you go, and you don't know me at all.

Dear Haley Allyson Richards:
You're the only one who points at my neck, chanting, "COURTNEY HAS A HICKEY" and that speaks volumes on our relationship. Granted, I can't remember the last time that happened, but it has happened, and it means that we're close. I'm sorry I that I didn't really like you in the eighth grade, but I'm glad we still claimed "best friendship" anyway. Thanks for not turning your back on me when I didn't hang out with you for a solid year. And thanks for being my friend sophomore year when I didn't have friends. And thanks for being my friend when my boyfriend broke up with me, and I didn't have friends again. You're always there for me. And I apparently never have any friends.You're like, the best friend a girl could ask for. Should I say friend again? Okay: friend, friend, friend. You mean the world to me, Haley Bailey. (P.S. I stole that nickname from Drake Eckholdt. He called you that during that week where I stayed at your house and we toilet papered his lawn just about every night. And while we're on the subject, I miss Hawberry House.) Thanks for supporting my Blake Ziser crush from sixth to ninth grade and for coming up with the code name "Strawberry Smoothie" so we could talk about him at lunch... no way he ever knew. I've loved the decade of school night sleepovers and I'm sorry for that time I thought you were flirting with Daniel, and I called you out on it (That was obviously Austin incepting my brain, and I cannot be held fully responsible for it. Suuuuch an awkward conversation...). You're my better half... the half that doesn't hate anyone, doesn't hold grudges, judge, or swear, and I love you for that, BabyHands (Ha, ha). I can't wait to make our husbands be friends, and arrange our babies' marriages. Here's to sixty more years of friendship, and happy friggin' birthday BESTY/BETSY!

P.S. Since I can't write it in your yearbook anymore, I have to say it here: 
Oh, please. You knew it was coming.

All my love in the whole wide world to you, Highly Reechahds,
(Australian pronunciation since you lived there...) 
             Coetney Kuhns.

Also, the following is the picture that came right after the one above. I saved it for last because it seriously kills me. Long live the San Francisco Art History trip... and how you chose to room with Chels, Kels, and Ockey. Emily & I are still not bitter about it...
...and here are all of the taglines of our friendship:
PSD: the good and the bad, emotion cookies, sexy pins, Misty Blue: Dorothy blah blah, Dobbie's knobby knackle knobs, S.S., He Who Shall Not Be Named, HELLA HELLA HELLA HOE, meatballs, "it feels like hooooome to me", Tim-Tam-Slam, Bieber Justin's Pizza Restaurant in Vegas, Las Veggies, ditching A.P. History for dove chocolate, french bread and Pepsi with Emily to talk about dumb idiot boys... or, PSDs, "Voldemort: Team Player", the sisterhood of the traveling sweatshirt and how I always made you be Carmen, how I was the president of Dance Co. in high school, and you didn't make the team until senior year (I am a better dancer than you are, obviously)(Ha, ha), our moms were roommates in San Fran and increased their own best friendship with Ann and Jolynn... the mom triumvirate plus one, salt in Kelsey's water at the restaurant on the wharf, Sambock Zarbuel and red head babies, "Come here! Lemme pinch ya!", Bobby Pappin, SCB (hahaha), secret parties in your basement with poker chips when your parents were out of town, Paco-Rolls, Pacosaurus-hands, Paco's basement for A.P., Paco's polyg-a-wife pictures in my room, how Emily called Paco Chris, and we never knew who she was talking about, 2Pac & Em, Paco makeouts, Paco black lips (Ugh, Paco. Come home.)(Sorry that that turned into a Pac love fest, but that's just the way that it worked out).

this has gotten remarkably lengthy... the point is, 
Happy Birthday, Haley Potter!

January 28, 2013

I'm to the point where I can spell iambic pentameter without looking it up. Check that off the bucket list.

I don't think I'm stupid. Maybe that's a bold statement
to be making, but I really don't consider myself an id-
iot. It is a blanket statement, though. I still can't change
the oil in my car, and would have no clue what to do 
with a flat tire. So, maybe I'm sort of stupid, though not
understanding mechanics is basically out of my hands, and
doesn't bother me all that much. When it comes to 
Shakespeare, though, I'm seriously worried. Just when 
I think I get it, just when I'm on the Antony/Octavius
 side after battle, they praise Brutus's name, and I start to 
reevaluate my life again. It's a brutal, bitter cycle. And 
now, I'm tackling this beast of a play. Is it pathetic that I 
can't do it alone? This is me, en medias res, beginning my 
play-reading ritual: following the words as Librivox recordings
read in each different character's voice in my ears, and I hurriedly 
translate Shakespearean language into dialogue I can
understand. I've never felt so dumb before. Good thing
the language and iambic pentameter are beautiful. They
make up for all of those hard words and complex metaphors.
Don't let my complaining fool you. This class is my most
favorite one, and I never want it to end. I love the stretching
I am constantly feeling, to expand my knowledge of the 
written word. Dissecting language sure is fun.
Hey, Antony & Cleopatra: 
This is the part where I make you my bitch. 

January 27, 2013

It's a Sunday, and I forgot to go to church today. Meaning, I slept right through my alarm.

I have to write an 8 page memoir by tomorrow morning, 

but all I can think about is how people use the words domestic and domesticated interchangeably. I can't stop laughing every time I read or hear it.

"I made some cupcakes this afternoon!" 
"Wow, Sally. You've recently become extremely domesticated!" 

Isn't that funny? 
I love the sweet spirits who don't think vocabulary, as a whole, is important. I feel the same way about people who spell crying like this: crieing. HOW DOES THAT MAKE SENSE IN YOUR HEAD?!

     I also can't stop thinking about a small, grey kitten I bought in Smithfield last spring semester, and how it was too young to leave its mom. I really hate myself for taking it away from her too soon. I think about how hard that must have been for the little guy... under the constant love and care of his mama. Never having to worry about meals or not being loved.
     On Monday, I was supposed to return from Draper to Logan. The time came for me to say goodbye to my adorable mother. I packed up my duffle bag, kissed her on the cheek, but couldn't walk out the door. We ended up making dinner and watching four hours of Downton Abbey. 
     I miss her today. And I hate myself for living so far away from her. (Ha! SO far away.) 

Valentine's Day is my favorite holiday, second only to Christmas (and my birthday... but really, those are just jumbled together, anyway). I hate it when people hate Valentine's Day. It's like, can you not just be a happy person? If nothing else, can you at least appreciate the candy aisle? On that note, you should all know that my lovely party is happening this Friday, rather than the next. I know you're all dying to come. 

Another thing. A last thing: 
     Being brave is hard. It wasn't hard a while ago, but it also didn't get me very far. Maybe that's the point of bravery, though. Maybe if it's easy, it's not real. Maybe if it's hard, it's good. You can't be brave for brave's sake, because what's the point of that? Maybe if it takes time, it's worth it.
But maybe not, too. 
It's all really just a roulette of trial and error, and I hate that. There's a certain element of negative space here, and aside from Barbara Hepworth, that is never a good thing. 

I probably could've finished one of my pages by now...

P.S. Sorry that this blog doesn't make sense anymore. It's basically like a jumble of a thousand different things going on in my head, and I can't control the type vomit that projects from my fingers (that was gross imagery. I apologize.) Maybe it will get back to normal soon; maybe I will get back to normal soon. 

January 23, 2013

A few items of business, pertaining to my life. Also, come to my celebration of love, please.

It is so cold. Like, -16 degrees, cold. I'm not going to say that it is so cold that people in this town are starting to look like popsicles. I won't say that because it's cliche. But, if I were going to say something cliche, I would say that it is so cold that people are starting to look like popsicles. I'm usually a big fan of the winter, but this year, it has betrayed my trust. Please go away, cold? Please, with a cherry on top?

I spent $34.00 on a set of Biolage shampoo & conditioner. I felt like it was a necessary purchase, considering the fact that those bottles run at about $28.00 a pop. So. Before you think of judging someone (me, in this case) you ought to consider a side of the story that you don't understand.
Plus, it was two liters of Biologe... BIOLAGE!

A person that I'm rather fond of offered to make me dinner last night, and I turned him down because I was scared that that would lead to other serious things. I'm becoming fickle, and I don't understand how it is happening.

On Saturday, I got pulled over for drunk driving. 
I absolutely was not drunk, so, what does that tell you about the way I drive...
Let it tell you whatever it wants to tell you. I didn't get a ticket, so suck it!


 I am having my annual Valentine's Day party on February 8th.
This time, co-hosted with Caity Caity, Shady Lady, because we are in so much love with the upcoming holiday.
There will be doughnuts, sprinkles, Parisian macaroons, orange soda, Frank Sinatra, and a cozy apartment.
Make my holiday and come, won't you?

January 21, 2013

"We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is full of passion."

"So, avoid using the word ‘very’ because it’s lazy. A man is not very tired, he is exhausted. Don’t use very sad, use morose. Language was invented for one reason, boys - to woo women - and, in that endeavor, laziness will not do."

January 20, 2013

Dear Posterity:

I haven't forgotten about you.
In fact, you're overtaking my mind, as of late.
I could choose to focus on other things, I guess...
kick you from my mind,
but you're just such lovely thoughts,
and I hope you never leave.
Your mother would just like to tell you that good things are to come. I can feel it in every inch of me.

On another note, I would like to reassure you, nay, comfort you with this diamond of hope for your future:
your names will never be bizarre, manufactured, utah names. Because your mother is a traditionalist.
And chances are, your father is, too.
So, you've really got that going for you.

Hope to be snuggling you soon! Relatively soon, rather... there are a series of events necessary to your happiness, prior to your existence, and they sort of all have to do with me.               

But don't worry. Your time will come, little one.
                                                                                                                                            Love, Mother.

January 19, 2013


A playlist, of sorts.

For your dreamy Jim Sturgess fill: 
For the times you're in the car, and the driver is high on a 5 hour energy shot: 
For your closet obsession with Ke$ha: 
For your dad. And for knowing every word:  
For the bizarre happenings in your life that make you want to die:
For me, a patron of pretty piano music, Mat Kearney, and my girl, Ingrid:  
For an inexplicable adoration of Natasha Bedingfield, and high school nostalgia: 
For Megan Settles, and how I miss her like cray: 
For my favorite Midgy, who leaves for the Ukraine in two days: 
For remembering the importance of integrity: 
For Aaron Tveit before he was Enjolres. And for having an ongoing three year long crush on him: 
For the Alva C., and how more often than not, I miss it:
For the cutest Cameron Brock, and the spring semester of Freshman year, one of the best:  
This song.
And, lastly, my favorite. One for the life I'd like to lead:
This song. 

If you're not convinced that my music taste is widespread and diverse, let this post persuade you of such sentiments. 

January 17, 2013

Confessions of an Insomniac.

Okay, I'm not an insomniac...
But today, I fell asleep on my bed at 5:30 P.M., which was not my brightest idea.
Because here I am at 2 A.M., wide awake, and ready to party.

Today, I wrote a poem about how often Austin Daw chooses Carter Monson to sit shotgun over me. Then, it led to another stanza about how they both would treat me like a girl if they would sometimes remember that I am one.

Speaking of Professors (we weren't speaking of professors), I went to an English department meeting today, and the weirdest thing happened. You know how in movies sometimes, there are girls who fall in love with their sixty year old teachers? Well, that didn't happen to me, but my lit professor from last spring walked in the room, and all I wanted to do was bond over Eudora Welty, and discuss the allegory in Young Goodman Brown. I decided that I have bizarre crushes on people who know a lot about words. It especially freaks me out when they're the balding, middle aged people in charge of my grade.

Last night, there was a boy in my bedroom. And he was on my bed. There weren't any chairs. But calm down, we were reading books. Well, he was reading his. I was thinking about how the whole situation was weirdly identical to that scene in Teen Witch where Louise tries to put the moves on Brad. I wasn't putting any moves on anyone, though. Mostly because I was afraid that he had seen the movie, and would get suspicious of my intentions, which actually more resembled this scene from Teen Witch... (Just kidding.) (No, I'm not.) but also because I was supposed to look like I was reading. Which, as previously stated, I wasn't doing. A lot went on in my bedroom last night. Just, none of them involved putting the moves on Brad. Even fewer involved Brad putting the moves on me. During this time, I was also thinking about how it might be beneficial to learn some spells.

This morning, in my non-fiction writing class, a stupid boy, creature of the sea, disgusting vermin, raised his hand and said that he didn't like Charles Dickens... that victorian writing was "verbose and unnecessarily delineative". So, I  picked up my backpack and beat him over the head with it, screaming, "UNCULTURED SWINE!"

These are all very real and true.

Well, most of them.

That last one was slightly over-exaggerated. I didn't hit him with anything. I did, however, do that thing with my judge-y eyes, prior to making a comment to the teacher about how people should put less focus on thesaurus-izing every word they use, and more on becoming educated, cultured members of society who don't feel the need to say words they can barely spell, just to improve their rhetoric. He gave me judge-y eyes back, and it was a blood bath of optical proportions. I don't think we'll be study buddies this semester... or, any semester at all. Let this be a lesson to all of you: don't mess with Charles Dickens, or there will be consequences.

I am tired now. Good night.

January 15, 2013

Sort of like Miranda Kerr, just without the angel wings, and I'm not married to Orlando Bloom... yet.

     A few weeks ago, a bag full of pastel colored, lacy lingerie sat in my room at my parents' house.
When I got sick of not knowing where it all came from, I finally got brave and asked a question that could've made for an awkward situation.
     "Mom?" I yelled down the stairs, "Can you tell me what this bag of sinful lace is doing on my bed?" (Okay, I didn't ask it like that, but I think it adds something to the story, right?)
     She came up the stairs, and peeked into my bedroom where I held the bag of goods. 
     "Oh, yeah. Grandma sent that to me to give to you. She thought you might like it." I looked down at the contents of the bag again, exponentially confused."Oh, don't be silly," she continued, "she said she thought you might be interested in some of her old vintage delicates. She would be thrilled if you would take them back up to school with you." 
     "I see, mom. And... for what purpose, exactly?" 
     "I don't know. Just do it. She sent it all the way from Colorado, and you might as well."
     After the embarrassment wore off my face, I took the bag home and made my roommates watch me host my very own fashion show. Less Victoria's Secret, more frumpy, hilarious, and over my sweatshirt.

I am still unsure of why LaVonne Davis deemed me worthy of these precious heirlooms... I am also unsure of why Nance Kearns didn't question the situation at all. 

The point of this story is that my grandmother thinks I'm a harlot, but a classy one. 
So, that's at least good.
Feel free to make your own judgements about me and the cesspool of iniquity in which I live.

January 14, 2013

Noteworthy Banter, Volume III

Amy: Is that a sock bun?
Melodey: Yeah!
Amy: I tried doing that to my hair once. It didn't work. Maybe because I used an ankle sock.
Melodey: Yeah... that definitely would do it.

"She is a devil, but also an angel."
"She's a freakin Dan Brown book."

Court, (while reading the label on a journal at Barnes and Noble): 'Every day is Earth day'.
Haley: That is true. That is so, so true.

"It smells really good in here. Or, maybe it's just my hands... Yeah. It's my hands."

"I feel a little bit like I'm still in high school. Except now, I sleep with a boy."

Dad: What show should we watch, girls? Sexier Holiday Hair?

Melodey: They're showing Pitch Perfect in the ballroom on Wednesday.
Court: Or... we could just stay here... and watch it in our basement.
Melodey: Yeah. And also, after we do that, we can die alone.
Court: So, what time, Wednesday?

Janie: I used to like him. We used to be really good friends. But then, he went on a mission, and after he came home, he started righting all of his wrongs with everyone he used to hate. Which, I guess is good. But now he's nicer than he used to be. And that's just annoying to me.

(DISCLAIMER: We have issues with the one-armed girl on the bachelor. We don't like her. Not one little bit.)
Martina: Do you know what I was thinking about earlier? She can't possibly make it to the finale. What's he going to do? Put the engagement ring on her right hand? She doesn't have a left hand, so it can't go there.
Court: She's going to turn this whole one-armed tragedy into a story of overcoming people who tell her that she can't do things like zip-line. And then, she's going to zip-line.
Melodey: He's taking her on a date where they have to hold onto ropes, and fall off a building?! That's just cruel. What if her good arm slips? He would feel like a such a jerk.
Cassandra: Remember that time Sean reached for her hand to help her up from her seat, and then he just awkwardly sat there when she couldn't reach back? Hahahahahaha...

If we hear one more thing about how she can be fun, even without an arm, we might stop watching.
No. Nevermind. We won't do that.

January 13, 2013

One time, I saw this done at an art gallery.

So, I tried it out on myself. Sometimes I like to be an artist.

I've thought long, and hard about the degree that I'm working towards.
Most of my thoughts follow this format:

"Oh, neat. When I get out of school in a year, I will have a little piece of paper that tells other people that I know how to word my sentences."

And then, I usually feel sorry for myself, and then I get over it, and then I think about how little I care which degree I have, as long as I have one, and I never have to go back to school ever again.
(Apparently I need a lesson on how run-on sentences shoot a writer's credibility.They're never going to give me that certificate... crap.)
I'm not very good at reading my work out loud for a room full of people, or talking about it in great depth. Or, really, in any depth at all. 
Typing it, and publishing it on the internet, however...
I guess I don't have a problem with doing that. The proof is in the archives of this blog.

This semester, it has been made perfectly clear that I will be forced to write things down, make mistakes, expose myself to people I hardly know, produce a whole lot of nothing, and turn it into a piece of writing worth reading.
Good writers write what they know. So, here I go?
(Good poems don't necessarily rhyme... but I've never considered myself to be any sort of poet. So, I guess I'm allowed.)

Here's to being raw; here's to pursuing refinement.
I have needed a New Year's resolution for two weeks now.
Guess I found one. 

Also, I feel like I should say something about the racy images above.
And, I'd like to say that I am not naked.

January 11, 2013

A thank you note:

Thanks for cooperating, Universe.
Sorry that I was a sore sport earlier this week. It was definitely uncalled for.
I got a little scared, and I think I wussed out prematurely.
Thanks for giving me a second chance. 

I feel like another sort of thanks are in order: 
Thank you for boys with plaid shirts, and cuffed pants,
who come with me to poetry readings on a whim, and pretend to want to be there...
ones who don't have dimples, but who sometimes wink at me when it gets too quiet. 
I've never seen this variety before,
and I sort of really like them.
But really, just the one.
Yeah. Thanks for that one.
He knows lots of stuff.
And is ridiculously good looking.
There, I said it.

I don't know what's happening, but this is fun, and I feel weird.

January 8, 2013

True stories, and some stuff about school.

I guess this is what a college student looks like. Also, for your information, that dimple on the side of my face is my most prized posession.

I am feeling like school is going to take over every spare second that I had before this semester. 
With a new Shakespeare play assessment due every two weeks, I'm in for a few all nighters, I'm sure.
And now that I have complained about that class on every social networking outlet possible, I feel that I have adequately expressed my feelings on the matter.

Other true stories are these: 
-My poetry professor's name is Brock (Just Brock. DO NOT CALL HIM PROFESSOR, OR ELSE).
-Brock is a very uncensored poet and a carbon copy of James Taylor. The whole hour yesterday, I couldn't help but wait for him to bust out his guitar and serenade us all with a little Fire and Rain. Well, to be honest, I couldn't help but hope he would do that... maybe tomorrow.
-There is a good looking boy named Daniel in my Shakespeare class, but since that worked out so well the first time, I don't think I will test it again.
-My Survey of American Culture professor reminds me of a sixty-four year old Forrest Gump, and I'm completely smitten by him.
-I have come to some judgy conclusions about my department's faculty. There are two styles of English professors: Librarianesque, and men who wear Keens. Librarianesque teachers are usually women dressed in black turtle necks, who accessorize with pastel shrugs. The men who wear Keens... please refer to my James Taylor teacher, Brock. He loves him some Keens.
-The Bachelor is fantastic this season. Is it about love? Definitely not. But when has it ever been? By the way, Sean Low? Awful choice. Bring back Arie.
-The employees at McDonald's are starting to know me by name. I haven't decided yet whether this is embarrassing or an accomplishment. 
-The first 13 books that I bought today for school cost me a grand total of... are you ready for this? 97$!! Praises be to the used book gods. 
-Remember that girl who punched me in the face on the first day of spring semester last year? Well, she's in my class again. This morning, she sat beside me and has no idea who I am. And I'm sort of offended because it's like,
She's still a trip.
-I think I'm one of those people I hate. My face says it all. Yesterday, a girl read her poem aloud in class. It was long, terrible, abstract, and angsty. I hope she wasn't looking at my reaction after she read it. I need to work on that. Or, perhaps, she should start producing some quality poetry. Then, I wouldn't have to make those faces. Just saying.
-I started watching Downton Abbey. Lady Mary's dresses are off the hook. 
-I'm still living out of my Christmas break suitcase. I'm lazy. Get off my back, you organization nazis! ---Speaking of Organization, when has "Professional Organizer" ever been an actual title? Raise your hand if you think that girl on The Bach should get kicked off just because her job isn't real.

Glad I got those things off my chest. 

"This cake is too important to me."

In ten years, where do I see myself?
Married to Nicholas Cage, and having his babies, of course.

Actually, that came out a little wrong. 
I am going to explain myself now. 

On Christmas Eve, I needed a gift for a White Elephant exchange that my family had planned. I picked up this movie without even really thinking about it. New Year's Eve was a blur... something to do with a chest cold that made me feel like my lungs were closing for good. Also I went to bed at ten (party animal UP. IN. HERE.). I missed the entire charade, but that ended up being okay. I kept my present (Does this make me selfish?), and then, I watched it. And after that, I seriously reevaluated my life. Remember all of those times I wrote about a career, moving to New York City, curating for a museum, writing about it all, and becoming Carrie Bradshaw?

Well, I don't exactly want any of it anymore.

Some time within the last three weeks, a switch went off. I can pinpoint that exact "sometime", see the snapshot of that moment, clear as day. I wish that I could tell you all about it, but, I can't. Because it is too good. Too fantastic, and wonderful. And, like a birthday candle whose wish must never be spoken aloud, it will remain a secret. But you'd better believe that I wished on all twenty-one of my candles this past December!

Today, I was talking with a boy. He is a very nice boy. Very nice, indeed. He looks fantastic in cardigans, (fantastic in anything, really) and this afternoon, he expressed open mindedness to bow-ties (I know.). Anyway, in the car, we were talking about things we want out of life... it was a heavy topic, but a valid conversation. His answer was not the same as mine, though it may have been not three weeks ago. 
I gathered my thoughts, made new ones all together, and came to the conclusion that happiness of the J. Crew variety can only get me so far.
I want Jack Campbell's foyer bombardment in hot pursuit of chocolate cake, and to laugh so hard that said cake comes out of my nose. I want it in a small house with trees lining the sides of the street. I want tiny humans. Lots of them. And I want it all forever.

What do you do when the world cooperates, and you don't know that you want it to anymore?

January 6, 2013

Whenever my dad leaves on a trip, I watch this happen.

I've witnessed it one hundred thousand times. It never gets old.

They spend their empty nester days cruising to San Juan, jet-setting to Rome, exploring Monet's gardens in Giverny, and bringing me home impressionist souvenirs.
37 married years, 7 children, and 11 grand babies later, Nance and John are still in major love.

I want to be them when I grow up.
But really, who doesn't?

January 5, 2013

Two people: young, dumb, and not in love at all.

I think I wrote five different blog posts tonight. 
Somehow, this was the one that I deemed worthy to post. 

The other day, in the car with Austin, I started panicking. 
Everyone got married over Christmas break. 
So, in casual conversation, I tried to slip in a 
You know, all reminiscent of Julianne Potter.
He said no.
And after the awkward silence, the extremely loud awkward silence, 
we bought some sour gummy worms, two large Sprites, and went to see a movie.
We bounce back fast, I guess. 

Tonight, I called him, excited to hear all about his night, but not even seven minutes into the conversation, we were talking about me, and sorting out my silly problems. 
Multiple times, and through some glossy tearful eyes, I tried to steer the conversation back on course, hear all about him,
and just as often, he swerved back the other way, and we were figuring out what to do with me again!

So, this is all to say:

Dear Austin Daw,
Thanks for being a class act. 
I really, really love your skinny guts, and when we FaceTime in the middle of the day for no reason at all.
Also, sorry I made fun of you when you told me you cried in Parental Guidance...
You're my
best, best, best, best, best friend.
And I don't want to marry you, either.

Love, love,