February 26, 2013

Hey, sister. I love you more than Khloe loves Kim.

Remember that time Mom and Dad got us matching Gap sweatshirts, and we wore them like cray for at least three weeks straight? That was around the same time that this picture was taken, I assume. Circa 2005. It is a great picture, I might add. Anyway. That's not what this is about. This is about how we're celebrating your birthday today. I'm a big fan of birthdays, you know. But, I'm an even bigger fan of you.

1: Remember that time in Oklahoma when you were playing tennis in the driveway when Keith Mayner walked by and said, "Happy birthday, Amy..." and you said, "Happy birthday, Keith"? Your birthday always reminds me of that day. 
2: Remember that time during CaliVegas when we were riding Big Thunder Mountain and those boys behind us yelled, "NOT THE SIDEWINDERS"?
3: Remember the night I got my first kiss and you were waiting by the door and we silently squealed with excitement when I finally came inside? 
4: Remember how all of my high school friends openly like you better than they like me and ask to hang out with you whenever I come home for the weekend? They tell me you're the cooler version of me. I've never denied it.
5: Remember last summer on our way back from Mexico when we started watching that stupid Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson movie and couldn't stop because we secretly loved it?
6: Remember two weeks ago at the movie theater when you asked those two Indian Men where they got their Red Bulls and they didn't understand you because they didn't speak English and the miscommunication of the whole ordeal just sort of spiraled out of control as you kept trying to explain yourself and instead of helping you out, Becca and I just rolled on the ground laughing, instead? I mean, did it really matter where they got their Red Bulls? Was it worth all that trouble?
7: Remember how there aren't two sisters in this world who think their brothers are as funny as we think ours are? "I AM NOT WET!" --Jake Kearns, Spring Break, 2011.
8: Remember that time Mom & Dad took us to London and all you wanted to do was take the midnight walking tour of Jack The Ripper's murder sites? And, remember how it was maybe the coolest thing ever?
9: Remember how I always get mad at you when you gasp at something while I'm driving?
10: Remember how you're my partner in crime when it comes to torturing Daniel Alvero Herbas?

Dear sister.
Dear, dear sister.
Happy birthday. 
Julie and I think you're the cat's pajamas, the bee's knees, and all those other clichés that we hate. 
Thanks for being the cream to our Oreo.
"Love you. Mean it!"

Love, Kikks.

Dear love bugs:
Thank you for pulling me from my hole in the library tonight to attend that raunchy thirty minute dance party. I enjoyed losing my brain for a half hour and dancing with trashy boys I'll never see again. Doing that every once in a while is good for the soul... in an uncouth sort of way. Sorry that I don't do that sexy dance thing. I am not, nor will I ever be sexy like you. This likely stems from the fact that you were both on dance teams in high school, and I wrote for the literary magazine... which... I guess, is sexy, too...

Thanks for not saying anything about the extremely uncoordinated, scatter-brained way in which I grocery shop, and for not commenting on my obsessive-compulsive hand washing, teeth brushing, and hair washing. OH. And super thanks for double tickle-back-turns in sacrament meeting. I just can't go an entire three hours without a few of those. So, thanks for not being church prudes, you guys. Also, my favorite part of the week is when we have races to see who can get their church clothes off the fastest. And I'm not sorry that I am the reigning champ. 

I like the way you'd rather take a math test than write a paper because it compliments the way I that I wouldn't. You two are the left brain to my right, the butter & milk to my "match-and-cheese", and the "chocolate to my husband, Michael" (ha, ha, ha). 

I'm in love with you pumpkin heads, and there's no one I'd rather finish this last little college chapter with. Here's to one last year of Basset-Ball, T-Money, and Alba-Turkey. 

All my love, 

~*~Asian Girl~*~

E=MC2: Eternity=Mels, Cass, and Court. Togeth4evs.
In case you outsiders were wondering.

February 24, 2013

The weird story of how I was bewitched by the surprisingly charming Seth MacFarlane.

-Jessica Chastain: Armani Prive. Love the Jessica Rabbit reference. So true.
-Amy Adams: Oscar de la Renta. A Peacock feathered fairytale in lavender. My favorite dresses always seem to be the pastels. Mila Kunis in 2011, Kate Mara's 2012. I was the biggest fan of this one tonight.
-Anne Hathaway: Prada. That pixie cut. The white dress. Stunning.
-Charlize Theron: Dior Couture Peplum-esque (Sam's fave).
-Jennifer Garner: Gucci. Nothing gets my stomach butterflies going like an Art-Deco-referencing necklace.
-Halle Berry: Two words: Gold. Finger. (which, actually, is rather appropriate.)
-Sally Field: I would wear that in a heartbeat.

Noteworthy, but not great:
-Octavia Spencer: Looks like a bubble bath with Zoe Deschanel hair. Weirdly, everything still sort of just works.
-Kerry Washington: Just, always pretty.
-Jennifer Hudson: We loved her performance dress more than the one she wore on the red carpet, right?
-Naomi Watts: Armani Prive... the cut of that dress is seriously the bee's knees.

-Kristin Stewart: Crutches? Seriously? Playing the Bella Swan card. Do we think that was on purpose, or not?
-Jennifer Aniston: Must be her go-to look. Because she constantly recycles it.
(Yes. This is actually real life. Did you cringe a little? I did. A lot.)
Not a fan: 
-Zoë Saldana: I don't care what Ross & Guiliana think. The belt was awful tenfold.
-Amanda Seyfried: Alexander McQueen. I mean, I just expected more. 
-Jennifer Lawrence: Dior Haute Couture: I know, I know. Geeez, I hated that dress. And the back necklace? And her, altogether. Funny, but inappropriate and ungrateful. UMADBRO?
-Catherine Zeta Jones: A bit too chesty. Yikes. Also, denied by the mani-cam & Ryan Seacrest all in the same night. Quality entertainment.
-Salma Hayek: YEESH. Literally, all I have to say.
-Sandra Bullock: Seen that dress on her one thousand times. And it was even an Elie Saab! Elegant, but extremely boring. I am so disappointed.
Both of her dresses tonight had neck embellishments. I'm convinced she was hiding a hickey.
"I will see that weird Oz movie for the sole reason of Mila Kunis being in it."
"James Franco is in it, too..."
"Yeah, but I have a bigger crush on Mila."

"Joseph Gordon Leavitt gets awkward in front of Dustin Hoffman. That could be the entire synopsis of a movie. And it would make millions."

(Talking about Amanda Seyfried)
"She is tiny."
"She has a size 7 foot."
"How do you know that..."
"One time, I delivered Ugg boots to her room."
"You've touched a pair of Amanda Seyfried's boots."
"Oh, no. They sent three. Sponsors of the *_____ _____ _____ sent three pairs. And I touched all of them."

"Whoever can find Helen Hunt's upper lip wins a prize. The prize is, ironically, an upper lip. So, let's hope Helen finds it first."

"Yeah. You can buzz your head when you're Charlize Theron."

"I photobomb Mick Jagger." --Judd Apatow

"Oh, look. Adele. In the exact same dress she wears to every awards show."

"Remember how Kelly Osborne says cleavage like 'CLA-VOjjjjj'?"

[Channing Tatum & Charlize Theron. DELIGHTFUL.]

"I thought that was Matt Damon in a fat suit. I am continually on Jimmy Kimmel's side."

(Regarding Shirley Bassey)
"Loved the Bond tribute... Until she came on." --Austin Daw

"Love that Liam Neeson. He could be a Bond."
"Maybe before he was Brian Mills... who is way more hard core than James Bond will ever be."
"Okay, calm down..."

"The next person to comment on how Anne Hathaway doesn't deserve that Oscar gets deleted from Facebook. You try throwing yourself at a role, eating only an oatmeal square a day."
"You love The Oscars too much."
"Damn straight."

"Remember when Helen Hunt told Ryan Seacrest she was wearing H&M and things kind of got a little awkward?"
"I'm just saying, it sort of made me uncomfortable."
"It probably made her feel that way, too."

[Seriously wishing J-Hudd would've worn her Dream Girls bedazzled number on the red carpet.]

"The VonTrapp Family Singers!"
"Zey ah GONE!"

[I have a new dream: Writing the script for the Oscars. Wouldn't that be the best job ever? You get to absolutely roast people and no one can really get mad at you for it because you're just the writer.]

[I have a theory that Amy Adams always plays a control freak because that's probably a lot similar to who she really is.]

[I maybe shed some tears over Anne Hathaway's win & acceptance speech. Maybe.]

[Oh, good news: now Adele is wearing the other dress she owns.]

[Kristin Stewart should've just stayed home tonight.]

[Proof that Adele could rule the world: Four Grammys, approximately two dresses that everyone swoons over every time she wears them (EVEN THOUGH THEY LOOK THE EXACT SAME) and now an Oscar. Seriously.]

"Jennifer Lawrence doesn't deserve an Oscar. No way she wins."
(Then, she does win.)
"Well, she did trip. So, now I guess she deserves it."

"Did Meryl Streep just pick a wedgie? That's going to be the header of a 'Stars: They're just like you' segment in Us Weekly."


[Daniel Day Lewis. British guy who wins the most prestigious award given to an actor by playing a beloved American president. Amazing. Love him.]

[I just want Halle Berry to be my aunt. My Aunt Halle Berry.]

If you actually read this far, well then, I think you should win an Academy Award.

February 23, 2013

Oh, Miss Cordelia Drexel Biddle, I thought I knew you well.

Remember how when you were a little girl, you watched The Happiest Millionaire over and over again because "Sister Cordie" was basically your name sake, and when she waltzed on the terrace with Angie Duke, you did, too

Just me, then?
And, let's address the elephant in the room, okay?
Clearly, the dimple obsession began here. I mean..................
Dimples of the John Davidson variety really just sweeten my tea.
Also, just John Davidson in general.

Dear Ashley Heather: "Biddle Bible School" sweatshirt over church slip and singing in the mirror. 

February 22, 2013

Do I look like the type of person who would be excited about the Superbowl?

This is my self portrait.

1// I call it the "Top-Knot-More-Often-Than-Not". 2// I start to fall in love with people* fast, and easily. 3// I wear red lipstick and kiss boys that I shouldn't. 4// Puffy sleeves and Peter Pan Collars. 5// I can't draw hands. 6// Those are green pants, and I really do own a pair. 7// Black T-Strap flats. I've envied Caitlin Craig's for at least three years and decided I should put them on myself, here.

*people: dumb idiots and kittens

Artist/Editor's Note: I made myself skinnier than I probably am, and I made my hips wider. I mean, as long as it's imaginary, I might as well give myself the butt I'll never have in real life... Can I get an amen?

February 19, 2013

I am impulsive and brunch's biggest advocate.

Yesterday was Presidents' Day.

It was a beautiful little holiday, and I took the liberty of celebrating an extra day because I felt just that good.
And yesterday, I felt so good that I decided to be an adult and make a purchase. 
So, I bought this gorgeous button-tufted sofa for the unfurnished apartment that I move into in a few months. 
I even rented a truck, drove it from Salt Lake, and decided that I should do adult things more often. 

I've got my eye on an iron bed frame...

Also pictured: 
Brunch at our favorite restaurant in the city: Original Pancake House on 21st and 7th.
I harassed my cousin's husband, Dan, continuing tradition, 
and I'm only half embarrassed to admit that I can eat scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns and an entire plate of banana pancakes in under twenty minutes.

I got a new toy. 
Adobe Illustrator, Photoshop, and design are extremely exciting and everything I've ever dreamt of.
Digital doodling... we were meant for each other.

February 17, 2013


I'm not sure if you know this about me...

...but Awards Season is, perhaps, my most favorite season of the entire year. It helps me get over the post-holiday blues that I often suffer from, even in February. And you probably don't know this about me either, but the Us Weekly and People red carpet issues, the ones that come out post Academy Awards, well... the day they debut on grocery store shelves, I buy a bottle of Martinelli's, draw a bath, and read in silence for hours. It is quite the ritual. In the words of my dear, older sister, Amy (who I'm positive I've adopted this habit from), "I've been doing some extensive research" and have come to this decision: I am going to the Academy Awards next Sunday. 

Okay, no. I'm not.
But if I were a multi-million dollar A-lister, this is the way I would go:

Wearing this sparkly Elie Saab. He is consistently my favorite designer every year. Never lets me down:
This dress is from the brand new 2013 line. And it is lovely.
This natural smoky eye, pulled back hair, and a pale pink lip:
These Jimmy Choos:
I discovered them a few weeks ago and haven't been able to get them out of my head since:
And obviously, my dashing date for the evening would be this guy:

I mean, those dimples, right? 

So, now that I've spent three hours of my life dreaming of dressing for a party I will never be invited to (unless by some miracle, somebody hires me to write a film that by another miracle becomes Oscar nominated... then, I guess I might be invited. Don't laugh. I'm allowed to dream...), I have come up with this great idea:
It has recently come to my attention that there are a whole lot of people who read this blog.
And, it shouldn't come as a surprise to know that I read your blogs, too. 
because this event will be on my mind all week, I would love to read your thoughts on it.
What would you wear to The Academy Awards? 
Please blog it. Get it out of your systems. Do some "extensive-reasearch", and show me the money! 

Ready? GO!

February 16, 2013

I am grateful for presidents.

Let's take a break from the silly story that is my life, okay?
I have set the next three days aside, specifically, to lie in bed reading my books (my favorite, currently, is Mindy Kaling's killer memoir. I'm recommending it to everyone I know), and watching Portlandia on Netflix. I have a comedy crush on Fred Armisen.
I have also seriously considered restarting Grey's Anatomy from the top... for the hundred thousandth time.  
There is just never a time in my life where Merideth Grey doesn't speak to my soul.
She gets me. 
Don't judge.

In a few less words, I'm disappearing from all of the world. 
Because I triple deserve it.

Happy Presidents' Day weekend! 

February 13, 2013

The before and after effects of January 31st.

     When I sat beside him, he'd clap too loud, and I calmed him down. I'd hold his hands together until they were silent, and even got butterflies in my stomach when he stopped at once, wondering if with even the smallest, most insignificant touch of my hands, he felt those stupid butterflies, too. It didn't matter where we were--the Art Gala on campus, a poetry reading downtown, or cuddled up next to one another, watching a movie--he was a pinball, I, the player, his containment. Occasionally, I would submit, letting him play the games. In auditoriums, the city library, or anywhere else we were supposed to sit still and be quiet, we would shamelessly flirt, the way boys and girls do. We kicked back and forth in a series of leg banter, and I would mess up his perfectly quaffed hair a number of times. His reflexive reaction to that bit was quick and slightly pathetic, which massively encouraged me. Most of the time, though, he was a nightmare of wiggles to sit beside, and during a large majority of whichever event we attended, I pleaded with him to keep still. I was irritated when he'd fidget, and he knew that. He would look over to me with that ridiculously personable smile, the one that said, "Just remember how adorable I sometimes am", and after that, I would. I would remember. I knew other people didn't see it in him, and I even knew why. He was a tornado of emotions, couldn't keep focus on serious matters for too long, and was a big, obnoxious box of chatter. I was aware of it all, and still didn't shy away. I was good, and a driving force that he'd told me he needed to stabilize him. I couldn't be scared of any of those things because he needed me, which was a problem, considering I didn't need him in the least. However, all of that still didn't change the fact that even when he drove me to my wit's end, I was on his side. He had quirks that charmed me. Like, the way we'd argue the architectural differences that made The Vatican a Baroque phenomenon, rather than one of the High Renaissance. I hated that I couldn't change his mind even though I was right, but loved the way he fired me up. He was an impetuous blend of chaos that I couldn't restrain, and that's what I love the most about him. Present tense.


     The other day, I sat next to him at a Chorale concert put on by the Arts College. He fell asleep within the first twenty minutes. No jittering legs, no whispers in my ear. Just silence from the seat next to mine. I looked over to see him curled up, arms crossed tight across his chest, wool coat still buttoned to the top. I wanted to wake him up, wanted to play back and forth in the dumb, annoying way that had become so normal. Instead, I watched the way his head nodded, hurt that he didn't even think to rest it on my shoulder. Things were different now. Got it.
     The non-touching, non-flirting clause that we'd penciled into our brains felt bizarre, but was a stipulation of the friendship we'd both agreed needed boundaries. Feelings were one-sided. Well, they were one-and-a-half sided, which was something I was uncomfortable with from the beginning. Then again, the thought of my own feelings developing had never been a threat that had even entered my mind until I made the stupid decision to be myself, you know. The one that forced me to be honest. I hate myself for that. I hate honesty. Sometimes, I just wish I could be like "Lie to me!" and then everything would turn out the way it should. But that's not exactly the way it works. And why would we want that in the first place? Do we want to be loved and adored because it holds weight in a series of mundane activity, or do we want it all because we care about the other person? Do we care about every aspect of the other side, whether they drive us to insanity? Or, do we only care about them when we have control over the way they lie in our arms? I've yet to find a solid answer for that one. Which probably explains why I am still writing this series. Ha! Series. That makes this whole thing sound like you all actually care. Maybe you do, maybe you don't.

Spoiler alert: I do. I still care.

February 12, 2013

We called him Sparkles, later shortening it to Sparks, because that's exactly the way he was.

     On December eighth, I was invited to my friend, Cait's Christmas party. I bought one of those turtlenecks with festive clipart and wore it under a black dress my mother had given me in high school. I paired the ensemble with white tights, and black Mary Janes. I was going for a classy-but-still-tacky-looking '90s kid. I tried to pin a ridiculous red bow up in my bun, but decided against it, as it made me look even younger than I already did. 
     She said he would be there, the boy I had had a massive crush on from day one of the semester. I remember the first time he introduced himself to the class. I knew his name from the beginning, and maybe that was creepy, but it was true. And he would never have to know that, so what did it matter, anyway?
     I told her I would bake cupcakes or cookies or some other domestic thing girls bring to a holiday party, but eventually, the "real me" took over, and I shamefully gave into those sugary, thousand-calorie, frosted cookies from the grocery store, which is a thing the "real me" had a tendency of doing. I remember kicking the door open with my foot, making somewhat of a noisy entrance, and almost dropping the plate in my hands. As I brushed off the embarrassment, I was greeted warmly.
     "So glad you're here!" my curly-haired, adorable red head friend, Cait, dressed in her annual Christmas party gold-trimmed sweater, welcomed me into the living room with open arms. We'd been friends since the summer before our Freshman year, when I cyber-stalked her and found out we were basically the same person. As I came in the door, I noticed a tall, well dressed boy sitting on the couch. His Christmas sweater was a grey cardigan, and immediately, I was filled with the regret of taking my own party attire so literally. The white tights I wore were absurd, but I was grateful for the judgement call that left the red bow on my bathroom counter.
     There were a plethora of people whom I didn't know, though I'd been around them at previous events hosted by Cait. They were all cohorts of our university's music department and most of the time, I had no idea what any of them were talking about, as conversation usually revolved around decrescendos and atonal chord value. Cait and her friends were musical geniuses, studying tonal patterns in their vocal performance emphases. The only thing I had to contribute was the fact that I'd been in piano lessons, basically since the day I was born and onward until high school, but hated them so much that I've since blocked out all of the musical knowledge that I must have obtained. I crossed the room, this time, quietly, and set my dishonest store-bought goods on the kitchen table. When I returned, my roommate, Cassandra, whom I'd brought along with me, sat on the floor. She often went by Sam, a nickname we made up early in our friendship as we were harping on the fact that Cassandra was way too long of a name. I sat next to her. 
     "Do you see that boy?" I motioned with my eyes, to the couch where he sat.
     "The one with the wide-rimmed glasses?" she whispered, mid celery bite. It was interesting, the way she'd identified him. Didn't I always seem to be referring to "the one with the wide-rimmed glasses"?
     "Yeah," I answered, "that's the one I've told you about," her eyes widened. 
     "He's wearing a plaid shirt," she smiled. I was starting to think I was becoming predictable. 
     "Don't they all, though?" we laughed. 
     "He is super-cute fashion." For some reason, instead of just saying, 'He dresses nicely', Sam always insisted on using this tagline to describe the boys I was interested in. I never understood why. It was absolutely against every rule of grammar I'd ever known, but she wouldn't have realized. She was in her fourth year of school, about to graduate in the accounting program. "Why on Earth are you over here, then?" she asked, "Go on. Talk to him!"
     "I can't! I don't know him!" 
     "Court," she began, "you know his name." It was true, I did. I knew his name, and a few basic things about him, though we'd never spoken a word. I was nosy that way. "Go." I stood up, and inched closer to the couch, every step further encouraging a shake in my legs. I tried not to make direct eye contact, but was interrupted in so doing. 
     "I know you. You look familiar. Who are you?" he looked up, motioning for me to sit beside him. Immediately, I was intimidated. 
     "No," I started, "I don't think so." I avoided eye contact again, though I did sit down. 
     "Yeah. I see you all over campus. I know you, I just don't know how." 
     "Hm..." I breathed, strategically, figuring out my next move, "Well, I don't know who you are." Oh, that's great, Courtney. Lie. 
     "Darrin's class. I do know you!" Now, I just felt like a jerk. 
     "Oh, you're in that class?" Pathetic. 
     "Yeah! How do you not know that?" 
     "I sit in the back. I never pay attention to anyone," it was a bold-faced lie, but knowing him now, hearing it must have stung. He was the star. He shouted obscure answers that no one in a class of over fifty knew. Every exam, he was top of the class. One would have had to skip every day to miss that he was in it. Of course I knew who he was. "Also, I'm late. Pretty much every single day," I said, looking down, slightly embarrassed.
     "Yeah, I know," my eyes raised to meet his, "I sit in the front. You walk past me. I remember you. Red lipstick. You always look ridiculously put together. I've noticed that about you." No one had ever said anything like that to me before. I wasn't the kind of girl who walked into a room inciting a firework show in the minds of my male counterparts. I was just perpetually late, and no one had ever cared about that before.
     "Oh, I don't know about that. I'm sort of a mess. All of the time." 
     "Well, you certainly don't look like one." I smiled a small, dumb smile, and probably blushed. I do that a lot, and sometimes people comment on it. That is something I'll never understand. 

     The rest of the night, we talked about a lot of different things: how he wants to be an Art History teacher, how he lived in New York for a while, his obsession with horses and his dog. I watched his interaction with Cassie and Cait, comparing it with the way he treated me. (Girls do this, you know. Even though they probably won't admit to doing it, they do.) Occasionally, he'd put his hand on my knee, or interrupted someone else to ask me a question. He was clean cut, Jude-Law-good-looking, and his hair had a way about it that made me think of Humphrey Bogart in Casa Blanca, which upsets me more now than it ever did before. Mostly because I am increasingly aware with every viewing of the movie that Rick and Ilsa will never run away together at the end, and that speaks volumes with stinging resonance in my own story. 

(More to come. I've still got a lot in my brain.) (Sorry if you hate me for this,) (but this is still my blog.)

February 8, 2013

My Skinny, Blue Genes. Part I.

Please bear with me as I write my life away for the next few days. The only way I can ever get things out of my head is by writing them down. Hence, this entire blog. But mostly, just these next few posts. I hope you enjoy reading them more than I enjoyed experiencing it them.

     The painting on the wall tilted slightly to the left. I paused in the hall for a minute, cocked my head, and stared. My eyes focused in on the colors. Bright, vibrant yellows tiptoed over dark grey and navy blue, though at the bottom of the canvas, the dull pigment overtook the warm rush of gold . I stared harder, remembering how the frame of the painting had become so askew. I closed my eyes, tensing my fists until they went numb.

     It was Thursday, and it was cold. I usually liked the cold, though, that tolerance faded when the heater in my beat up SUV died, suddenly. We took his car most places because he refused to let me drive mine until it was fixed. Most days, the inside felt like an icebox. I appreciated his chivalry when it came to things like that, but was pleased when the heat had been restored, and I was in the driver's seat again. I had less boring taste in music, and whoever drove the car got to DJ. That was the rule.
    We stopped at a gas station south of town. I lifted the nozzle and began to fuel the tank. Ten dollars, twenty dollars, thirty, forty... stopping at fifty-four with a thud, I twisted the cap back on and climbed into the seat, turning my face to look at him.
     "What?" he asked, shifting his gaze from the window to me. I reached for the chord to connect my iPod, "Oh, no," he begged, "none of that girly stuff you like." I smiled. He threw his head back in a silent fit.
     "Oh, stop. You're going to love it," I pushed the plug in and cranked the car into drive.
     "I am not so sure about this..." he began, "When you don't respond to my tantrums, it's usually because you're hiding something that you know I won't--" my fingers twisted the nob that regulated sound, and the words of the song flew out of my mouth with familiarity.
     "'There were nights when the wind was so coooooold...'" I gripped the steering wheel for drama. "'and my body froze in bed if I just listened to it right outside the window...'" my voice was loud and obnoxious, and my eyes were on the road. More often, though, they were on him, pulling for a reaction. He sat lifeless in his seat as we drove. Arms crossed, eyes straight ahead. I kept singing, unwilling to lose the music battle. I was tired of submitting to whichever emotionless Black Keys song he'd have played instead. "'There were nights of endless pleasure! It was more than all your lousy loooooove!'" 
     "'BABY, BABY! If I kiss you like this...'" both my jaw and my brow lines lowered. I couldn't believe he knew the words. He turned to me, smiling. "What? You think I don't know this song?" Surprised, I took my hands off the wheel, steered with my knees, and began applauding.
     "That was impressive! You completely threw me off guard."
     "Good. Now, can we change the song?" I blew the speakers louder.
     "I finished crying in the instant that you left! And I can't remember where or when or hooooow!"

     His head rested on my shoulder, his arm stretched across my waist. We sat on my leather couch, in that pitifully cold basement, watching late night television the way "those people" do. I had come to the conclusion that we were becoming a part of that demographic now. He wore a button down flannel shirt and sleepy eyes. I watched as he tried to keep his eyes open and wide on the screen, but as I stroked back his hair, he drifted a little further into sleep; he drifted further into me. Minutes later, he perked up and migrated to the other end of the sofa, pulling me along with him.
    "Come here," he began, "I know how much you're hating this." I was confused. Mostly because I was doing the complete opposite of hating it. He outstretched his legs and nestled me into the space between the curve of his body and the edge of the cushion. "You hate this couch," he stated. It was true. I'd complained about it practically every night.
     "Yeah, well. It's fine," I laughed. My face settled into the nape of his neck and he held me tight. His arms came together across my back and he brought me in close. It felt like a spot I was familiar with, one I'd known before. The scruff that he'd been working to grow for weeks brushed the side of my face. I reached up, placing my left hand on his cheek and looked up at him. "I don't like scruff," I wiggled, "but I really like it on you." The first kiss on the line of his jaw.
     "You don't?" he looked down.
     "Nope," the second on his chin, "but on you..." his eyes closed again.
     "Only on me?"
     "Yep," third, the soft space below his ear.
     "Oh," he exhaled.
     I thought about my next move, and the way it would change things. I wondered if I should even be the one entertaining the act in my brain. It shouldn't have been my move to make.
     I ran my fingers through his hair, which, I'm sure has become a signature move of mine by now, and the deed was done.  There were fireworks, cliches, and my hair fell out of two elastics, but he did the forehead-kiss-thing, and that was the monumental downfall of us. Or, the people we almost were, rather.

February 4, 2013

Shame on me now.

Today, I read a poem about a telephone chord whose curls were tightly wound. 
And then, I felt like my own chords have been too tightly wound, and rightly so. 

They say there's a Taylor Swift song for every emotion. 
And though the scholarly side of me, the smart, deeper, more brilliant side, hates itself for doing this,
I'd like to revise such a statement:
There is a Taylor Swift song for every boy I have ever come across.
I have years and years as well as albums and lyrics of evidence based back up.

Today, I branded a boy with a song.
He wears wide-rimmed glasses, owns some of the best plaid shirts I've ever seen, and uses the word ravishing to describe the way I sometimes look. 
But he's dimple-challenged, would rather have dogs than babies, and hates sticky jam hands. 
So, we needn't say more than, "Next please!"

Am I doing a good job at hiding how sad I am about the whole ordeal?
I was hoping the T-Sweezy dub step would mask it. 
You tell me... effective?
The worst part is that I did it to myself. Again.

February 1, 2013


I've never come out of a store with only the things I had intended to buy. For instance, Wal-Mart is seriously a death trap. I go in for the sole purpose of buying a new tube of mascara, and come out with two packs of highlighters, my weight in post-it notes, and three bags of whichever seasonal candy lines the shelves.

Things changed today.

Today, I went into a store, and came out with exactly what I'd intended. With ONLY what I had intended... One package of socks. MONUMENTAL DAY, PEOPLE!

There were other firsts that were had tonight, but they're secrets, and I'm not sure I even understand them yet.

They're overwhelmingly wonderful, though. You can know that.