Still haven't written you a letter... I don't know why. The good news is that you're going to come back from your mission in one year and read my blog, and you're not going to be mad anymore. ANYWAY. Back to me. Remember when we went to Missy's celebrity party as Kourtney Kardashian, Lord Disick, and baby Mason. Seriously, you are the best. Mostly because sometimes you scream sing in my car and put together a Facebook event called "The Beating of Matthew David Doane" after Alex and I catch you skipping madrigals to hang out with your cross country friends. All of these stories aren't exactly going anywhere, but when I watch Benji in Pitch Perfect, I always want to reminisce about quartet testing and choir auditions. P.S. remember when those solos were STOLEN from us, even though we practiced for weeks (refer back to scream-singing-in-my-car comment)? We would have done that Journey song plenty of good, Miss Frederick...
Anyway, I saw this picture tonight from the Christmas dance senior year and thought to myself, Ugh. Matthew David Doane. I seriously, seriously miss your pretty face. And watching SYTYCD with you. And then reenacting SYTYCD with you. I miss that, too. COME HOME ALREADY. Like, tonight. As an Easter miracle.
Tonight, I went on a drive around Draper and had this really good idea where I relive all of high school on this blog and share it all with you. I've got wayyyyy too many pictures of dumb things and dumb places that I never want to forget about.
And, I mean, aren't you curious about all of my old make out spots? Or the railroad where Rachael, Austin, Haley, and I basically got murdered on a night, most affectionately referred to as "KARAY-ZHEE Night"? I bet you can't even wait to hear about the time Emily and I duct taped a birthday present to my ex-boyfriend's car the night before his birthday when he wanted nothing to do with me... are you wondering what happened when his wretched family came out the door and I was standing in the driveway, redhanded? Well, stay tuned, my friends. The best days of my life, I tell you.
(Not in an Uncle Rico sort of way, but more like an high-school-was-weirdly-the-funnest kind of way.)
Well, he is one.
I mean, when in a legal meeting, you basically say "bring it"...
...you're a Class-A jackass.
When I called my mother just now to express my frustration, the language I used was slightly censored. However, I stand by my statements, unapologetically. Red heads aren't the only feisties in the world.
TEMPORARILY BLEACH BLONDE AND PERMANENTLY PISSED Y'ALL!
This clip is necessary.
Ugh Gavroche is the coolest.
VIVE LE FRANCE (or something like it)!
In high school, I was regularly scolded for reading books in class. Specifically in my math classes. Once the teacher noticed me following the lines of a book, I was called on to solve some ridiculous equation that I had no intention of remembering after graduation. While I completely blame good literature for my inability to solve math problems that extend beyond tens times tables, I blame math for encouraging my misplaced focus. It will be written to the man I one day marry: "You have to be good with numbers for the sake of our children". But then, if he's not, we'll just passively attack the beast together saying things like "been there", "done that", and "sorry we can't help you; welcome to our life", but we'll take those cuties out for pizza on school nights so they'll still love us.
Speaking of not focusing,
My dear sweet cousin, Mels, has recently informed me that I am the epitome of a hot mess. I was equal parts flattered and offended because at least she didn't call me a chubby mess, #amiright? She rolls her eyes and laughs when I ask her the same question multiple times within a ten minute time span. She shakes her head when I forget what street McDonald's is on and when I ask her to retell a story, bluntly explaining that I couldn't listen to her, due to the fact that I was checking off a To-Do list in my head. She does, however, show signs of irritation when I slam on my breaks at yellow lights after I've already sped up to try and catch it. But, you're jerked from your seat, caught by your seat belt, and, I mean, who doesn't that bother?
Also, I was going to clean out my refrigerator today, but didn't because I couldn't focus long enough. I picked up the bag of cuties on the bottom shelf, and the next thing I knew, I was peeling one and watching Alias. And then The Hills. And then seven Jason Aldean music videos on YouTube... which is particularly bizarre because I have a personal vendetta against Jason Aldean. I don't know what's wrong with me. All I know is that I could read act 5, scene 2 of Henry V over and over without tiring of it. I also know that most mornings, I wake up wanting to lie in my bed eating chocolate covered Banbury Cross donuts with sprinkles on them. Not just one or two, but the entire box. That wonderfully sinful thought moves to the back of my mind when I consider how doing such a thing is frowned upon in my culture. So, I usually just go to school and try to think about anything but chocolate covered donuts. I'm only ever successful on Fridays.
Plus, I'm having a major stress break out and am in the market for a new dermatologist because my other one can't fit me in until June. Annoying, but I guess it could be worse. At least I'm not desperate for a gynecologist... too far? Good. Three cheers for making you feel uncomfortable about me.
I went to a poetry reading today. It was the perfect day for one of those. It was grey today. The clouds sat at the top of the sky, taunting. Occasionally, it would spit, but mostly, it was just still and grey. These are my favorite kind of days. Attach poetry to them, they're basically flawless. The reading featured Michael Sowder, one of Logan's most well-known poets. Coincidentally, he is also a member of the English faculty here at the university. I met him for the first time back in January, at the beginning of the semester. It was at that English seminar that I'm almost sure I've already written about. Well, anyway, that day, I sort of, a little bit, totally became completely obsessed with Michael Sowder.
Like, smitten by him, even. One of the kindest, most genuine human beings, ever. And spiritual! I'm talking about a Buddha-loving-St.-Theresa-admiring-almost-became-a-yogic-monk spiritual person. But take a breath, everyone. I'm not changing my religion because of Michael Sowder, and I'm not going to run off with him... well, the former is definitely true. If he asked me to run off with him, though, let's be real: I might. He is a handsome middle aged poet who was once a successful lawyer, who ran a successful practice, who made a bunch of money, who gave it all up to enroll in grad school to pursue a master's degree in poetry, and who later escaped to India to spiritually enlighten himself and write sonnets... I MEAN?!?! If he asked you to run away with him, you'd do it, too.
On that note, I found out a little while ago that he was involved with another member of our English faculty. Her last name is not the same as his and neither of them wear a wedding ring. When they introduce each other to audiences, they use the other's entire name: Michael Sowder and Dr. Jennifer Sinor. They never, AND I MEAN, NEVER engage in physical contact, and they pretend that they're not involved, but everyone knows they are. I keep imagining them, sneaking behind the school during lunch breaks and sharing a thermos of espresso or something (real Cher Horowitz stuff). Every person in my department talks about their relationship. Like, my professors have brought it up, at least one time, in each of my classes. We're all just so obsessed with them. Michael Sowder and Jennifer Sinor are that mystery love affair that we all sort of hope to come in contact with at least once in our lives. Theirs is the kind that makes you want to keep digging until you find more, you know?
Today, Michael Sowder read a poem about the first time he ever met Jennifer Sinor. He went into detail, talking about some book he was reading while he was in grad school, and how he had to put it down, pick up the phone, and dial her number. Then, he talked about how, now that they're together, she doesn't let him call her sweetie in the halls. I looked over to Jennifer Sinor, who was also sitting in the front row. Her palms were over her eyes, and her bangs draped down, almost covering her hands. But she was smiling, so that's how I know she really was touched. After he finished reading the poem about Jennifer Sinor, he sort of just looked over to her and did this thing with his lips where he wasn't exactly smiling, but he was giving her an I-really-think-you're-wonderful sort of purse. And Jennifer Sinor took her hands off of her face and gave Michael Sowder the same look back. It was maybe the best moment of my whole entire life.
After he read the poem, he thanked her for being married to him and read some poems about the sons they shared.
At that moment, all of the mystery was gone and I wished that I could go on the rest of my educational career, and possibly my life, thinking that Michael Sowder and Jennifer Sinor were a romantic, secret love affair.
It also made me reconsider running away with Michael Sowder.
Austin: Court. You cannot go home this weekend.
Austin: If you go home, and I come there, where am I supposed to sleep?
Courtney: On my floor. Wait. You can sleep in my bed!
Austin: I am not going to sleep at your house at all. You're not even going to be there...
Courtney: Precisely the point. It'll be like a free hotel. I am seriously such a good friend.
Courtney: On another note, I just realized that 1) I'm wearing the same shirt I wore yesterday and 2) my pants are unbuttoned which is weird, and I'm wondering how long they have been like that.
Austin: Ugh. Get it together.
"It wasn't even that she was so pretty. She was just so awesome, and in the literal sense. [...] Margo Roth Spiegelman, whose six-syllable name was often spoken in its entierety with a kind of quiet reverence. Margo Roth Spiegelman, whose stories of epic adventures would blow through school like a summer storm: an old guy living in a broken-down house in Hot Coffee, Mississippi, taught Margo how to play the guitar. Margo Roth Spiegelman, who spent three days traveling with the circus--they thought she had potential on the trapeze. Margo Roth Spiegelman, who drank a cup of herbal tea with The Mallionaires backstage after a concert in St. Louis while they drank whiskey. Margo Roth Spiegelman, who got into that concert by telling the bouncer she was the bassist's girlfriend, and didn't they recognize her, and come on guys seriously, my name is Margo Roth Spiegelman and if you go back there and ask the bassist to take one look at me, he will tell you that I either am his grilfriend or he wishes I was, and then the bouncer did so, and then the bassist said "yeah that's my girlfriend let her in the show," and then later the bassist wanted to hook up with her and she rejected the bassist fromThe Mallionaires."
This is going to have to be done in parts. Because it's too long. But I really want to write it down because I'm starting to forget about it, and that is a problem. When it all happened, I wrote stuff like this and this. Vague, stupid, little puzzle pieces. I just sort of feel like a good story deserves to be written down, and that's exactly what all of this is.
And I feel like this blog is a story book blog, so I'm allowed to write about it here.
I thought of this all tonight, completely out of the blue, and couldn't toss it from my mind.
CAUTION: I am using names. It might be dangerous, but hey. Sometimes journalism is messy. Ha! "Journalism".
I didn't remember exactly what it was that he wore, but I remembered being fond of it in the first place. It was sweet and sort of peppery, but not. You know, the thing about writing the way something smells is difficult, and I'm never going to be able to describe to you exactly the way I remember it, so we'll just leave it at that. It was peppery.
And the designer, oh. Who was the designer? One time, my friend, Kelsey, told me, but I can't remember it now. She said she knew because she asked him once, back when she had a crush on him, sophomore year, and he told her. It might have started with an 'A', but maybe it didn't. Anyway, if you smell a cologne whose designer's name starts with an 'A', maybe you'll know the peppery smell. Maybe you won't. But he wore it, and I was a fan.
After graduating high school, June 2010, I was relieved. I remember that feeling like it's stenciled to my palms.
I was late for that activity they had on the patio of my high school... the one that's all cliché and "Call me this summer". I had to work a shift at the hot dog stand because my manager was full of herself and refused to work Thursdays.
At the doors, I reached for my wallet, attempting to pay the five dollar fee to get in, when the vice principal interrupted, demanding I change my dress-code-violation-shorts before entering. I nodded and hopped the fence around back by the bleachers, avoiding any sort of fee or authority. As I came around the building, there they all were: the people I'd known since, basically, infancy. Caitlin Johnson still had red hair, though now, weirdly, she was balding. Shelby Dixon was there, too. The summer before she transferred from our rival high school, we toilet papered her lawn and wrote "WELCOME TO HELL" in shaving cream on her front porch steps. We promised never to tell anyone that, but I guess I'm sort of breaking that promise by pasting this proof to the internet. Oops. Sam Lloyd had been smart since the first grade. I noticed him to my right in a tight-knit circle with his Model UN club, exchanging numbers. Lily Wu brushed past me in a hurry. This last year of high school was the first time I'd realized she didn't have a twin. There had always been only one of her. She was just Asian and everywhere. I waved to Blake Ziser, the boy I'd had a crush on for a solid ten years. From ages six to sixteen, I was pretty sure we were MFEO. We were in the same classes, same church events, ran with overlapping groups of kids, and our parents knew each other. We were always good friends, Blake and I, but up until about two years ago, when I confessed my angsty once-upon-a-puppy-love story to him in a letter, I had no idea that he'd once felt the same. I stopped writing him after that because the thrill was gone, you know?
After I waved to BZ (doesn't that sound like the sort of character that would be in The Outsiders or something?), I spotted three of my best girlfriends. We found each other junior year and bonded over ditching school, driving up Cottonwood Canyon, and binging on French bread, Dove chocolate, and Pepsi when we were depressed about our stupid lives. Today, they stood in a line, waiting for me to come over. My year book was in Emily's hands.
"So, we got this for you," she said.
"Good. I was going to tell you to do that since I was going to be late."
"Look inside it. We already had a few people sign it," she smirked, a laugh escaping her lips, "Well, we had one person sign it..." I tilted my head. "Don't be mad. We passed him, and couldn't resist."
Suspiciously, I opened the book. Inside, I found a messy inscription that I recognized instantly. It was from the same hand that had previously written me love notes and stuck them in my pockets. This note, however was cold. Staccato almost.
Have a good life.
It hung flat on the page, but it hurt heavy. After all that time: the lemonade ice cream, the children's books in the library, his confidence in me to listen while he told secrets about himself that no one else knew...
"Oh," I laughed, but it wasn't real. It was a laugh like powdered sugar: pretty and suffocatingly light. "You shouldn't have."
"But we did," said Haley, "and you're probably mad, but you shouldn't be. Because it's good for you. Maybe it'll help you see how pathetic he is."
"No," I breathed, ignoring the last bit of her response, "I'm not mad, I'm just wondering how you got him to do it. He hasn't spoken to me all year."
"Haley did it," McKenzie blamed. I believed her. Haley and Daniel had remained friends the whole time. Haley was good at that. Sometimes, Emily and I resented her for it. This was one of those times.
"I just went up to him, told him it was yours, and asked if he'd like to give you any last words."
"Haley, we're graduating high school, not entering the afterlife," I tried to make a joke.
"Well, it was either that, or nothing at all. Because I guarantee he won't have anything to say to you after this week." Ouch. My breath caught in my chest. "I'm sorry. I just know you. And I knew you never got closure, so this was the best I could do."
I scratched my head, tangling the hair in the bun on top of my head.
"Thank you," I swallowed, "that was thoughtful."
"Are you going to go talk to him?" she asked.
"What is there to left to say?" She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. I felt as though anything that I might've said would've made me appear to be still attached. Which, I was. And I was pretty sure he knew that. "I'm going to go over here," I motioned to a patch of grass where others stood.
I traded books around with another group of friends, laughing at inside jokes and inappropriate jokes, too. As the last of my classmates filtered out, I stood with two boys who'd been in my English class that year. One of them, Connor, I'd known since the sixth grade. The other boy, I knew by association, mostly. I mean, we talked, sure. Occasionally. Usually about the classes we shared. He had always intrigued me, though, and we'd been in the same group of friends all throughout high school. Same dance groups, the same Friday nights at Marcus Peterson's house... His name was Hayden. Hayden was handsome and a baseball player.
"Sign my year book, Court?"
"How could I not?" Connor was witty, intelligent, and a touch pushy, but I had always liked him.
"So, Mrs. Wolverton... how happy are you to be done with that class?" He was personable and good at making conversation.
"I can't even put it into words." It was a college-level English class that I didn't get credit for because I got sick with Mono. She could've worked around it, but she didn't. Mrs. Wolverton was that teacher.
"Seriously. Me, either. What about you?" Connor looked at Hayden, and I did, too, ceasing for a minute to write my farewell.
"It was okay," he said.
"You've got to have more of an opinion than that..." I pushed.
"Well, truthfully, other than that time she yelled at me for interrupting her, I really didn't mind her class." I handed back Connor's book and retrieved my own.
"That is a bold-faced lie."
"No, it's not!" he laughed, "it is the honest truth." We both smiled shyly. Connor gathered his things and moved on to another cluster. With him gone, the empty space between the two of us got quiet and lovely. I swept the hair in my eyes out of my face and looked up. "Hey, since we're just standing here..." he handed over his book.
"Of course." I signed something that today, I'm sure, would greatly embarrass me. It was something that probably had to do with that English class and the way we exhausted the subject there on the lawn, though, I distinctly remember his message:
This is my good friend, Jake. I regularly send him SnapChats of me brushing and flossing my teeth, which are things that are embarrassing tasks to perform for an audience, but they are also things that I am extremely good at. And I was always taught to share my talents. This picture has nothing to do with anything, but here is my good friend, Jake.
I have a problem.
It's a problem called, "I-am-obsessed-with-wanting-to-be-Natalie-Holbrook". And I'm not kidding. But, then again, who would kid about that? No one, that's who. If you don't have any idea what I'm talking about, do yourself a favor and go read this thing. Then, if you need more, come over here and read all of these. You are A) not going to be sorry and B) going to thank me later. I promise. I have thought a lot about this over the past few years of my blogging life. I think we could be great friends, NTFR and I. I'm serious. She's the coolest thing I've ever read about and her little Huck... oh, he gets me. I can only dream of having a baby so delicious.
That's pretty much all I have to say.
Except for these last four things:
1) I'm in Arizona for the week and it was 80 degrees today (eighty!).
2) My brothers made me watch Duck Dynasty tonight and it was probably one of their better ideas.
4) Sean kisses weird. That's basically the only thing that I hated about The Bachelor this season.
3) The Kearns children, deprived of soda pop their entire lives, have been brought to binging on the stuff as adults. I only noticed it tonight as Mike, Ben, and I all ordered Dr. Pepper at dinner. Also, Ben wore a Mountain Dew shirt today. I commented on it and he informed me that it was to remind him to drink his daily dose. And if that doesn't address the issue...
*Did you notice that those numbers are out of order? GOTCHA.
I capitalized all of that because I wanted you to read it like I was yelling it at you.
This weekend, I have become more and more in love with my friends. Like, college friends are good. Great, even. But these high school people... I'm seriously obsessed with them. Literally the funniest group of humans I have ever known. (Special shout out to Ray Pierson who, under a unanimous vote, was awarded the title of our funniest friend. Today, in church, I told her that I wanted a baby, and she just nonchalantly suggested, "You should make one". So, HEY RAY!)
I can't even describe the ways in which they've helped me grow. They've saved me so many times and I owe a great deal of my happiness to them. And OH, they make me laugh!
Like that time Rachael and I watched Chase shatter the picture of Henry B. Eyring with his elbow in 9th grade seminary... Or the time Austin ordered Calamari at a restaurant in 10th grade and passed it around the table, making us all try a piece... Or when Colton invited us to go see his horses one afternoon senior year, and we all dressed in plaid and cowboy hats... Or when Rachael started calling me Courcano... Or when Carter started hanging out with us in high school and we made fun of him for going to catholic school even though he was a Mormon like the rest of us... Or when Rayo started going by Rachel (a joke in and of itself)... Or when Austin & I kidnapped Kenzie during 2 period junior year to drive to Park City and ended up watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer instead of going back to school... Or when we moved T-Hatch's car in the middle of the night at one of our sleepovers and she yelled at us in the morning... And how our friendship with T-Hatch was never the same after that... Or "The Path" behind Missy's house... Or "Stranger Pictures" at lunch, or DJ Stick Boots and canyon drive freeze outs... Or that time we were all in the same Foods II class and Missy almost failed it...
The point is that there are too many of these moments to count, each one dear to my heart. So.
I know we didn't get top-of-the-class grades, I know that none of us were good at sports, and I am fully aware that we're a gossipy, GOSSIPY, clique-y bunch, but I'm seriously a fan of us. Let's be best friends forever.
P.S. Colton bear: thanks for coming home from your mish. I super love you, ya big cutie.
I had a conversation similar to this one this evening.
It started with something to the effect of,
"When he placed his hand on my waist, all that ran
through my mind was, 'Suck it in! SUCK IT IN!'"
That pesky little snippet folded into my skin, and
made itself at home. I can't stop thinking about it.
Naturally, I tried to be Liz Gilbert, offering words
of wisdom, dripping with encouragement, but ended
up referencing this clip instead. Because there's no
point in trying to be like fake Liz Gilbert when you
can have real Liz Gilbert tell it to you,
I think it's sick, this thing we do to ourselves.
Often times, we're in the presence of beautiful people,
smart, intelligent, worth-something-people who admire
us equally, and it is all we can do not to beat ourselves up,
check marking each of our imperfections,
waiting for someone else to notice them, too.
Here's the thing: Anyone worth knowing isn't looking for
On the same subject, but a different note,
I'm seriously obsessed with Liz Gilbert. To make words resound like hers...
dream big, right?
"There is a wonderful, old Italian joke about a poor man who goes to church every day and prays before the statue of a great saint, begging, 'Please, please, please let me win the lottery'. Finally, the exasperated statue comes to life and looks down at the begging man and says, 'My son: Please, please, please buy a ticket!' So, now I get the joke. And I've got three tickets."
(If you don't drool over her writing, you've got issues. And bad taste. I'm serious.)
Last night I was having some serious feelings of inadequacy. Do you know what I mean? Those little things are the pits. They're dangerous and absurd, but they are real. I was upset and not in the mood to speak with anyone about the way I felt, though, I knew there was one person who could make me feel loved and I knew that I could speak to him. I got down on my knees and prayed, the way I've always been taught to do.
I am so grateful for The Atonement in my life, for its ability to heal me in both simple and complex ways. I am thankful for the two people in Heaven who wait patiently for me to come unto them for help. They live to ease my burdens. I am glad I have knowledge of that.
After I said a prayer, I opened my scriptures and found a small index card that I'd written in high school. On it were verses from Alma, chapter 37. I particularly liked verse 37:
"Counsel with the Lord in all they doings, and he will direct thee for good; yea, when thou liest down at night, lie down unto the Lord, that he may watch over you in your sleep; and when thou risest in the morning let thy heart be full of thanks unto God; and if ye do these things, ye shall be lifted up at the last day.
I can't even remember how I found the video above, but I know that it was no coincidence.
If you feel inadequate, watch this video. Jeffrey R. Holland leaves no room for you to be left feeling unloved. Also, watch this one. And this TED Talk is fantastic, as well.
You know how people are always like, "I can't keep a journal because I forget to write in it"?
I don't think I've ever said anything like that before. I mean, this shouldn't come as a shock to you. I write just about every thought I ever have down in one notebook or another. Whether it be the black book I keep bedside for jotting random middle-of-the-night fragments down, or for the small details I feel should be kept safe in another book, information privy to only the man I one day marry (insert adorable audience approval, here).
I have several notes on my cell phone as well: baby names, grocery lists, passwords, seemingly insignificant thoughts from my brain, lines from books, lines from professors, as well as from the unknowingly poetic minds of people I don't even know the names of... sometimes I even write down conversation snippets of people I stand behind in line at the grocery store. I'd like to share some of these with you now:
"Lately, all of my prayers begin with, 'Dear God. When you put another man in my life, please let him not be an idiot' and then, we usually have a conversation about the men in my life, who are, in fact, idiots."
"I will always remember what it looked like as I watched you watch me walking away."
"Because Friday is often a cry for help."
"Sometimes making a mess is all that makes her happy." (Isn't this one beautiful? It was a Facebook status update of a girl I went to middle school with. She has a baby girl and was actually making a remark on how sometimes, the only thing her little girl wants to do is empty cupboards, banging around pots and pans on the kitchen floor. It revealed complex truths about my own life. Sometimes, I want to make a mess of it for no reason at all. Sometimes, that just makes me feel better because it means I'm getting somewhere, and it means that I'm not standing stagnant.)(This is why I have a hard time deleting people from Facebook, even if I rarely speak to them. Every once in a while, they actually say things I can use.)
"I saw Cassiopeia tonight for the first time this year and decided to have We Found Love play at my wedding because I'm sometimes equal parts trashy and classy. And I feel like Rihanna is, too."
"One day, someone is going to look at me the way Don Lockwood looks at Kathy Seldon. He's going to think I'm quirky and laugh when I embarrass myself, and we're going to be twisted together in a happy sort of way."
"And then, I wondered if I only liked him because he was tall enough for me to stand next to, while at the same time wearing heals."
"He was pernicious."
"You, with your honeyed words."
--Emma Morley, One Day
Elusively. Doesn't that word just sweeten your tea? I wrote it down a while ago because I thought there couldn't be a prettier word. The sound of it reminds me of a snake that's so slippery, you can never quite catch it. It's an onomatopoeia and I reeeally liked that.
"Loneliness is character building. It is also a bitch."
"Oh, you should see your face."
"Whats the matter with it?"
--Cary Grant to Audrey Hepburn in Charade
"Imagine a day where you forget how to fall."
--Sarah L. Thompson, Imagine A Day
"Love and hate are two horns on the same goat, Eugenia. And you need a goat."
--Kathryn Stockett's The Help
"Look at that arm chair, just dirty with age."
"There's something pleasant about his mouth when he speaks."
"You want clean hands and clean fingernails. Why? Because nice boys and nice girls have clean hands and clean fingernails. Nice boys and nice girls have nice manners, and are very clean."
My british professor last semester walked around the classroom barefoot, wearing champaign dress socks. I always tried to write about that, but never found the proper place to do so because I wasn't sure what else I had to say about it. I realized, though, that maybe nothing else needs to be said. It gave you an intriguing image, so it did its job, I think.
"Four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence. How long does that take to write?"
Another professor told the class, all 340 of us, that he didn't have his wallet on him, that it was in the backpack behind him. I couldn't stop thinking about the possibility of us, all 430 of us, running to the front of the room in pursuit of the wallet. We could be a mob! And we could easily dominate this guy. He's pretty small. The man wears pants that are too big for him and has one of those chords that attaches to your glasses and wraps around the back of your neck. He wouldn't be able to protect himself against a bunch of money-hungry students. After all, he was only one, and we were 340. And after I had that thought, I decided I should slow down with all of The Walking Dead catch up that I've been doing lately.
"One day, I'm going to get rid of all the pens in my pen jar that don't have ink in them anymore." (This is another one of those things. Doesn't it say so much about the way we live?)
By the way, I wrote my article regarding an interview I had with one Dr. Jixun Zhan. We talked about Biological Engineering, gene cloning, scientific research, and oddly, I had a fantastic experience. I think I'll write for the newspaper more often. Mostly because it's part of my job, and I don't have a choice, but also because I really do enjoy it.
"I didn't wash it off," he turned to me.
"You didn't wash what off?"
"Your lips," I looked away as he spoke, "I couldn't do it this morning. It was all too good. So, I didn't wash it off." I didn't know what to say, as I sat close to him, rejected and wanted simultaneously. It was a contradiction, one that I'd taken part in creating. One that made me furious and hopeful at the same time.
"Oh," I swallowed. He smiled a smug smile, absent of insecurity and dimples. I hated him for lacking both of those things. "Well, I did." His face went dull.
"Yeah. Last night. Just after you left, actually." I shifted my weight to the uncomfortable side of the sofa. He twisted his hands together. Even I could feel the weight of what I'd said, though I refused to feel guilt. He snuck his sweet poison under my skin and I had to actively remind myself that I was the victim, here.
"I really like you." My bones shrank a little as he spoke to me.
"Yeah, I know," I breathed deep without catching an ample supply of air. My lungs felt as though they'd been punctured with a ten inch needle.
"You have a pretty pair of lips. And I like to kiss them."
"Please stop," the control had slipped away long ago, and I knew what would happen if I sat there, drinking in those charming words.
"I'm just so on the fence, Court. You have to understand that," he placed a hand on my knee and for a minute, I let it stay there.
"You've got two choices. I told you how you could have me. Right now. How I would be there, how it would be just you and me. I told you all about how deeply I cared for you, and it didn't take more than a minute for you to make your decision," I shook him off like a mosquito, "so, please stop. You hopped the fence and ran."
"You don't get it, though," I paid no attention to his cry for sympathy.
"You should have left. You should have stood up, zipped your coat, and walked out the door. That would've been the right thing to do." I rose to my feet, feeling feverish. "I don't care what your excuse is, you should have been honest with me. You should have told me how you felt, or, didn't feel, as it were, and you should have walked away from me," I placed both hands on my hips, holding in the tears, "and if you were a decent human being, you would've left out the forehead thing. And you wouldn't have kissed me goodbye like you'd been doing it for years. You should have stood up, like the man I thought you were, pulled yourself together, and left."
"After I left last night, I felt the worst I'd felt in a long time," he ran his fingers through his hair and I couldn't help but think about how that was my job. "I don't know why you don't understand. You're not easy to walk away from."
"Oh. Well, that's great. I'm honored to have been the main event of your horrible night," I felt a tear collect in my eye, but refused to let it fall. "And don't tell me I'm hard to walk away from when you're in the process of doing it."
"I didn't mean it like that and you know it," he pointed with his index finger. It was harsh and accusatory. "Will you be quiet for one minute while I explain myself?" I said nothing, but lifted my wrist to dab my eye. He got close and I felt stupidly safe. "You are the greatest thing that has happened to me in a long time. One of my best friends. As I walked to my car last night, I was angry with myself, thinking of how I had to hurt you. It literally almost made me sick. And today--"
"Do you think I'm going to feel sorry for--" his right hand covered my lips, paralyzing me. It felt pathetic and wonderful.
"I'm not done yet. Please, may I finish?" I waved my hand giving permission to proceed. I actually did want to hear what he had to say. "Thank you. Today, I thought I was making the worst decision of my life, telling you how I felt," it was a bit dramatic, but he's all fireworks and stunt shows, anyway, so I didn't feel like it was necessary to call him out, "but I knew that you deserved more than me. And after our conversation this afternoon, I felt even worse. Every word I said went through my head over and over. And every time you spoke back, those words ran through twice. Like knives. I didn't think you ever wanted to see me again after it all unfolded."
"It scared me to death." He went solemn, putting his hand over his forehead, beginning to lose color in his face. "I can't lose you, you know." I tried not to show the roll in my eyes. Mostly it was mental. And if I could've done it without letting him see, I would have. "I cannot lose you. It's too hard to think about."
"Well, like I said. I gave you a choice."
"...and, like I said, I am on the fence about it." As the words rolled from his tongue, I felt tense. It was in my legs. Joints that weren't supposed to stiffen did.
"You do not get to be 'on the fence' anymore." My fists balled up and got cold. "What does that even mean, anyway? Does it mean that I hang around, letting you experiment with me for a while? Do you want to test me out? Is that what that means? Because I'm not interested. I know plenty of eighteen year olds that might be, though, and you've got ten years on them. You can use your experienced, 'sophisticated' witty banter as bait. I bet they won't even fight back." It was harsh and a little mean. But it was real, honest, and put him in his place faster than any other words I'd said before.
"I've always liked the way you fight back. You've got a backbone. Did I ever tell you how much I liked it when you kissed me?"
"Seriously. I am, in no way, cavalier with my kissing kudos."
"Maybe that's true, but you're clearly cavalier with your kissing."
"Well, I'm just saying. I like the way you kiss me."
"I can't do this. I've got to go. Please leave."
"What are you going to say after I've said something like that? You're seriously going to just kick me out?"
"I'm going to tell you that I'll miss you, that I've never met anyone who makes me so angry before. I'm going to look at you, for the last time, and tell you that I hate that I'm not what you want," I was breathing regularly and pretending not to ache. "With regards to your last comment, I hope you've got a good memory. Because that's never going to happen again."
"What about the way I'm on the fence?"
"It's not really any of my business where you're sitting if I'm not waiting on either side, is it?" My eyes were angry and heavy on his. It was what I wanted to say, though not how I wanted to feel afterword. With that, he stood up, zipped his coat, and reached for the door handle, which is also something I thought I wanted. Before leaving, he leaned into me, routinely. I barricaded myself behind the door like a survival tactic. Wasn't that what I was trying to do? Survive this blow?
"Okay," he nodded. The smile was gone now. "Well, for what it's worth, you're so wonderful." It was sincere and left me catching swallows in my throat. He ducked his head and went out into the snow. I said nothing, but closed the door and tried not to remember him leaving, which is both literal and a metaphor. One sentence shouldn't be both of those things.
It has been nearly three weeks since I've seen him. I'm beginning to forget the sound of his voice, the blue in his eyes, and the laugh lines on his face: all things I have at one point found endearing. Occasionally, I catch myself thinking about the science of it all. One poison injection causes disease, and often, a person doesn't come back from that. Even more often, though, it just takes a while to do so. Science is certain and experimental, which, unfortunately, means it is a terrifying game of poking, prodding, and fighting to rehabilitate. The point of it all is that it teaches lab rats about the danger. But it also teaches them about safe zones, and that's useful.
This song has never meant much to me before, but I think now, it means a little more.
I'm supposed to interview three Chinese professionals, international biological engineers with PhDs, and write an interesting story about them in under eight hundred words, absent of flowery images, large words, or anything I'm interested in at all.
I am looking forward to the way in which it pushes me.
Or, at least that's what I keep telling myself to keep from running away, all together.
They're ones that look like this. Meaning, tonight. I like tonight.
2 goods & a bad:
Good: At the beginning of the semester, I was asked to be on a campaign team, which I was terrified of. However, it turns out I am an incredibly decent person and decided I could do my part to help out the campaign, as it was something I believed in, anyway. Even more so, it was to help out a person I believed in. After knocking a million student housing doors at dinner time, attending numerous meetings, spray painting banners on the coldest night in January, and bombarding my friends and family with social media election blasts, Fiefia 2013 is now "a thing" and I am so proud. And seriously, I wish you could all meet Doug. I'm pretty sure he's the nicest human on the entire planet, and he sings like an angel. Watch this. But that's not why I voted for him. (I am an informed voter, dad! Promise!) I guess you could watch this one, too. He's just the best man for the job and he gets things done. He took home a victory tonight, and it feels good to have been so involved in it. Also, I got to attend some pretty wicked dance parties, which are not things I'm usually partial to, but I have to say, I thoroughly enjoyed them. And, I mean, while you're at it, you might as well check out this vid. Can you spot my mad dancing skills?
Good: There's a boy in my Survey of American Culture class. His name is a secret, but I've had a crush on him for a while now. Today, in the library, I walked past him, and he did a double take. It gave me some serious butterflies. I mostly think he's wonderful because he looks like a blonde Mark Wahlberg and before class sometimes, I catch him reading novels and making notes in the margins. He likes literature and one time, we shared a book in class. Can you say "MFEO"? (Jack's Mannequin, R.I.P.)
Bad: A grievance I would like to share with the inter web right now:
The drive-thru girl at McDonald's that works the late shift...
she could seriously use a lesson on how to fill up a fountain drink. I mean, really. She fills my Diet Coke up only 2/3 the way. It has happened twice this week. Next time, there will be words.
I drink too much Diet Coke...
Good: An extra good because I'm just feeling like I need another one to cancel out the horrific DC ordeal:
I just finished a conference call with Austin & Carter. It began with Austin not talking because he wanted to "Regina George" Carter. It didn't end up working because I A) didn't know what he was doing and B) didn't have anything to call Carter out on. Regardless, it was maybe the best conversation I've had all week. I miss you cuties like craze. See you in San Diego! hashtagspringbreakwithallmyfavoritepeeps
It is time for this blog post to be over now.
By the way...
if you know anything about blog alignment, layout, template, or any of that, please, pretty please with a sweet pea on top, shoot me an email.
Because I'm a technology idiot, and this blog is looking pretty rough lately.
Help me, smart people.