April 30, 2013

A letter to the girl I once was, from the girl she's now become.

Hi, there. 
Me again. 
Checking up on you.

Dear you. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen year old you (or, me, rather):

Stop trying to fix everyone's problems. People aren't fixable. Fix yourself. That's your job. You're going to get into a nasty habit of being okay with everyone's problems and trying to be the mediator in it all; you're going to try to play the saint one too many times, and I'm trying to help you out by telling you it never works. I have pulled that trick from my sleeves too many times to count on two hands and guess what... I've got nothing to show for it. Listen, you're great. You're helpful, sweet, naïve and innocent. Stay that way, but don't let anyone walk all over you. And hey. If you want to quit your job, quit! It'll make you feel liberated for a little while and you won't miss it for at least a year. If you want to kiss boys, do it. If you don't, don't. But don't not do it because you're scared. Being scared isn't an excuse; it's a cop out. Don't be the girl who cops out. You're better than that. You're better than cheap trash-talk and boring books. Don't give into either of them. Judge a book by its cover. That's the human way. Let boys tell you when you look stunning. Let them use adjectives you've only read on the pages of your novels and make them laugh. Believe yourself and talk to whomever you choose. If you've got something to say to someone, scream it! Okay, not if it's like, something little... but if it's big? Like big, wonderful could-be-somethings, say them! Make those somethings your things and don't be scared.

Did you get that last one? Don't be scared. 

April 29, 2013

I need love this week. Can I say that? Is that embarrassing to admit? Just make me smile or something. I need that.

There's an ancient proverb that goes something like this: 

"A shower fixes everything."

Tonight, I had a shower.
It was one of those where you turn off the lights, set yourself down on the floor, let the water splash over you, cry, cry, cry some more, and feel the upset wash away.

But, do you know the best part about those showers?

When you've cried it all out and there's no more juice left in the machine, you pick yourself up, flip the lights on, dry off, and go to bed. A day begins again the next morning, sure. And it's probably going to be just as hard as the previous one, but you've got a new chance to try to find the good in it. Which is actually another proverb I'm a big fan of: 

"There is good in every day."

These proverbs have come from my mother, who, despite our differences, told me tonight that she loved me forever, and I think that's something. Especially because I am stubborn when it comes to her, the way she's stubborn when it comes to me. We're alike. People tell us often. She's the good in my every day, and I hate it when I forget that.

Speaking of good, 

You're the good in my every day, too. Thanks for keeping my spirits up. I wouldn't have gotten through this week without our group text vent sessions and your love for me. You people are my home. Is that weird to say? I don't care. Doing it. 

P.S. you'd better believe this is happening right now.

April 27, 2013

Show me how big your brave is.

When I have daughters, they'll know this song by 
heart because I'll sing it to them every day to ensure
they know that their mother finds great importance 
in a person saying what they want to say in rich, 
unabashed honesty. 

April 25, 2013

And I can't even remember what he was wearing.

"I haven't seen you since Valentine's Day."
"Hi, Court," 
"Hi. How are you doing?"
"I'm well."
"What are you doing?"
"Selling my books back." 
"Well, I'll see you around?"
"Guess so." 

A conversation that says too much with so little.

April 24, 2013

Things that have to do with stuff:

  • My legs feel like seven ton boulders have been dropped on them. But really, I was just walking around a lot today, so that's why they hate me right now.
  • If I have to edit another one of my poems, I am seriously going to kill myself. How am I supposed to publish these things if I even hate them myself?
  • Every night of my training, they feed me dinner... sirloin, loaded mashed potatoes and unlimited Diet Coke... Tonight, I ordered a medium-rare kabob because I am a carnivore. Also, this job might be making me curvier. Homegirl likes her steak.
  • One of the itty bitty nineteen year old hostesses pushed me out the way tonight and yelled "move". I have sworn to hate her for all eternity. 
  • I work with a man who looks about my dad's age. His name is Milt. He says things like "Look at you go, sweetheart. You're just showing off now." It might be sort of against the rules, but it's just so dang endearing. I love you, Milton.
  • School can go to Hell.
  • Blonde Mark Wahlberg (whose real name I know, but shall not reveal here) and I spoke today in class. He's applying to dental school soon. He likes republicans, Joni Mitchell and The Great Gatsby. Today, I made him laugh. I like blonde Mark Wahlberg. He's dreamy.
  • THIS JUST IN: I have recently discovered sweet potatoes with caramelized marshmallows.
  • A good majority of this post is about food. 
  • I would rather serve people food all day than help them pair belts with outfits, which is what I did last summer. Remember when I worked for Ann Taylor? Retail blows. 
  • That being said, I am seriously going to miss those adorable teenagers I spent the summer with. Totally missing EFY. 
  • Go to this page and see the most embarrassing, least flattering few seconds of me EVER. I would be mad about it, but it's just so dang hilarious, I can't help but love myself for it. And that's important, you know?
  • I start school in a month. BE JEALOUS OR ELSE. 
Have a good day! :) 

April 22, 2013

This is my best friend.

How I Met Your Mother talk & Arby's telepathy. Hey, Aust. We share a brain.

She's a waitress now.

If you need to know anything about

hearty hand-cut steaks,
fall-off-the-bone ribs,
made from scratch sides,
homemade bread,
or legendary margaritas,

I'm your girl.

On my way home after my shift where I learned how to wait tables and recite the menu,
I sang show tunes in my car at the top of my lungs and thought about how I might have secret dreams of hitting it big in showbiz. 

I'm a walking country western song.

April 19, 2013

"Ohhhh, I'm no one's wife, but... ohhh, I love my life! And all that jazz."

Let me explain.

First of all, I've met too many Fred Caselys in my life, ya know? Not that I'd kill any of them... but... let me explain.

One day, in high school, my friend, Emily, and I watched Chicago while it was on T.V... We fell in love. Because 1. we hated a majority of the male population and 2. hello, that movie is eye candy. The dancing... like, are you kidding me? Roxy Hart & Velma Kelly.

Growing up, any time there was a big production in Salt Lake, we were there. Road trips, there was always Les Miserables, Pirates of Penzance, or Phantom. My first trip to New York, we saw Mary Poppins and The Drowsy Chaperone... I became addicted to the writing of these shows. They were brilliant! Witty, beautiful... Oh! Two years ago, while I was in London, my parents took my sister and me to see Chicago in London's west end. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before. The costumes were all uniform, the band was center stage rather than in the pit, and I fell even more in love with Chicago than I'd ever been before.

The other day, I found it at Walmart. I couldn't believe I didn't own it yet! An outrage! I bought it (obviously) and watched it today (twice) and am still in awe with the way it's written. I mean, court scenes juxtaposed beside Vaudeville acts, making the point that they're one in the same... the idea that The Defense is a tap dance? Manipulation of the press and public opinion using ventriloquy?!

How about just watch these, and see what I mean.
And about all the Fred Caselys in the world... like I said. I've met my fair share of them.

(^This one is my most favorite.)

^And then there's this brilliance... 

I'm telling you, I'm going to write a story like this one day, and you'll all see me accept my Oscar for best original screenplay. Just you wait and see. 

April 17, 2013

I am the Ted.

My best friend growing up, Jessica, moved away in the sixth grade. 
Now, she lives back in Draper with her husband, Ryne, two minutes from my parents' house.
We went to dinner on Friday night. It was just the most delightful thing.
My stomach hurt from laughing. I love that, even after almost sixteen years, we're still good friends and have so many things to talk about whenever we get together. 
Later Friday, a few of my favorite people came to party with me. We drank sparkling cider, gossiped the way we usually do, danced in the kitchen, and played Truth or Dare on Alex's iPad because we are grown ups now.
 Saturday, it rained, and we did some best friend stuff...
...ate our weight in Vegas Rolls and Edamame at sushi night and were obnoxiously trendy city-kids. You know the type. Then, Colton and I confessed our undying love for each other, and are now together 4EVER. See above picture.
(Just kidding. I wish. COLTON: BE MINE, boiiii!)

Afterwards, we sang karaoke (because that's just what you do at Shogun on Saturday night) and searched the city high and low for cheesecake at midnight. You know how on How I Met Your Mother they always go to brunch, sit around for hours, talking about their jobs, weird people they've dated, and laughing hysterically? And you know how whenever you're watching that show, you think to yourself, "Man, I wish I had friends like Marshall, Lily, Robin Scherbatsky (you have to say her full name or it's not as fun), and Ted!" Well, those sort of friends really do exist in the world. I would know because I have them. We are sitcom friends, and I am the Ted Mosby. I AM. 
Sunday, my cousin's sweet baby, Tegan had a second birthday party, and I wanted to kiss her cheeks all day long.
 And Monday, I got a job, spent four hours renewing my food handler's permit from my hot dog dippin' days, and getting certified to serve alcohol... it was a long day, but don't worry. I rewarded myself with a Big Mac because I deserved one.

Which brings us to the present, where I literally cannot remember anything about yesterday, and all I can think about today is the fact that I've got a literary research paper due tomorrow, (one I'm struggling to begin), and how weird it was that the strange maintenance man came pounding on my bedroom door while I was taking a nap to evacuate me from the building... there was a gas leak... Today is not fun, but the weekend is only two days away.

The only plans I have for the weekend are reading books that I won't be tested on. Great Gatsby round 3... HOLLA! 

{P.S. completely a picture overload... I am really sorry about that.}

April 16, 2013

I'll tell you about my weekend once I share these glorious pictures with the world. It would be selfish to keep them a secret.

I've been collecting SnapChat screen shots for the last little while. 
If you have received a screen shot notification from me, it means that
I think your snaps are top notch. It's the latest form of flattery. 

Here are some of my most favorites from the past month or so:  

^every time I look at it, I laugh harder. I'm seriously sitting in my bed dying. still. 

^This was when I sent out a mass snap with only my silhouette, and asked "Who am I?"
Only my true friends made this Les Miserables reference. (credit: Haley A. Richards and Jordan L. Hansen. Props for knowing me front to back, you guys.)

^Rachael Pierson is by far the most entertaining snapper I know. I mean, this is a masterpiece.

Kris Jenner once made a cheesy music video, one I believe is worth posting here, entitled, 
"I Love My Friends". Me, too, Kris. Me, too.

April 12, 2013

You know those moments when you're reading something and you just go, "YES!" and everything makes sense because suddenly a complex truth about your life has just been shared in the simplest of ways?

Well, that happened to me today. For, like, the fiftieth time this week. Nora Ephron, people. She gets it. 

"Why hadn't I realized how much of what I thought of as love was simply my own highly developed gift for making lemonade? What failure of imagination had caused me to forget that life was full of other possibilities, including the possibility that eventually I would fall in love again?"

This is my "HOLY HELL, WHAT DID I GET MYSELF INTO?!" face as I'm putting the finishing touches on my essay about the way Mistress Overdone represents the scale of justice and mercy in William Shakespeare's Measure For Measure. I wrote out that entire thing because after that chunk of literary research I did, I deserve to sound smart about it.

But just so you don't think my life is always full of these fantastic epiphanies and glorious moments (ha, ha), I will have you know that yesterday, I turned in a resume for a job at the writing center on campus.  And, I mean, that job is not an easy thing to just get. I must've revised it at least one hundred times with my professor, added swanky names to my reference list like "Dr. Christine Cooper-Rompato, Associate Professor of English" (who happens to be the most incredible professor I have come to know in my undergraduate career), revised it by myself in the library, criticized my writing sample more times than should even be humanly possible, and didn't notice until TODAY, AFTER my resume had already submitted that I had 
misspelled a word!! 
 I'm not trying to be dramatic, but almost threw up.

And, do you know what else? While we're on the subject, I would just like to bring up the fact that yesterday in my Non-Fiction exploration class, we learned about publishing and the challenges that come along with it. I mean, I know it's hard. I've always known that this is not an easy field to come out of with a job (unless you want to be a technical writer... *crickets chirping*), but I was stressing out while my professor listed the hoops a person has to jump through to get published. And, like I said before, I knew they were there, but now they're real hoops! Not far-off-into-the-distant-future-hoops. Real ones. The kind that come in the form of rejection letters and an intimidating faculty who expects you to submit to publishing companies before graduation, while simultaneously asking you write good thesis statements and personal essays about your body parts.. and then there are the empty writer promises that you're guilty of spewing.  They usually sound something like, "Sure I'll have that piece to you by next week" when you're confident there's not enough material in your brain to give weight to even a rough draft!! 

Also, lest we not forget I'm the applicant who misspelled a word on her academic vita LIKE AN IDIOT.

I'm getting overwhelmed. This post needs to be finished now.

(What would Nora do?)
I'm making T-shirts.

And to end on a few good notes, let me take you to my happy place:
 I bought thirty dollars worth of books today (all things Fitzgerald and John Green) and rented Dead Poet's Society because... it's Dead Poet's Society.
Aaaaaaand I went to a poetry reading, too. Michael Sowder was there and I almost went over to say hello, but I got too nervous. I'm still really obsessed with him.

April 8, 2013


It's nine o'clock. I am lying in bed with my shirt tucked into my pajama pants, five minutes from sleep.

Last week, my sisters suggested we all try a raw-food cleanse, and I basically agreed to only eat rabbit food for the next three weeks of my life.

The above statements are extremely uncharacteristic of me.

A healthy spirit has moved into my unhealthy body and is demanding discipline.

I don't know her, but I hate her already.

Good night. 

April 7, 2013

Portrait of my body.

You know those girls who are skinnier than you, and you're like how are you that skinny, and they, in your mind, taunt you, saying, I don't know, but it just happened this way, and in case you haven't noticed, it's giving me a hold on that boy you've liked since forever? Well, if I were to write the story of my life, I have thought, extensively, about how this excerpt would fall somewhere in the preface. Right after a passage that goes into detail about my Beanie Baby collection and how, of course it will support me in early retirement.

This persuasive essay is not being written to introduce you to my COMPLETELY REALISTIC retirement plans, but rather, it is an essay that goes through a series of clichés about being a woman and the way that, sometimes, our strengths are irrelevant.

Let's begin.

I have chicken legs. I do. I have chicken legs.
This was first brought to my attention when my brother, Ben, came in from soccer practice one night. I was sitting at the kitchen table doing whatever it is that seven-year-old girls do around the time rec-center soccer practice gets out, and Ben came to sit beside me. Shortney, because that's what they all called me growing up. A neighbor boy who lived near us in Virginia made up that name and it stuck, even though now, I am at a completely average sort of standing, claiming 5'7 for the rest of my life, I have chicken legs, he said. I didn't understand the phrase at the time, but I looked down and examined the very legs he spoke of. They were stick-straight and whiter than any I'd seen before, smaller in diameter than they should've been, and lacking calf muscle. We are close, Ben and I, so I like to imagine that I consoled him in this unfortunate discovery of self-identity, but more than likely, I went back to doing a dot-to-dot in a hand-me-down coloring book or finished a bowl of alphabet soup; It cannot be determined which scenario is true. I do, however, remember investigating my own legs later that night. I looked at them with critical eyes, feeling around for bruises or scars. There were plenty of those because I grew up with four bro--never mind. No matter how many times I try, I will never get away with using that excuse. If I was even remotely beat upon by one of my brothers, The Colonel came to my rescue with a lecture on how "we don't hit our little sister."I grew up reasonably unscathed by the hands of my brothers, but I did have bruises. Probably from bumping into things because I still do that almost every day. But, back to my chicken legs. I determined, as a seven year old, that I had them, and I had them bad. I have never been good at legs. For a good majority of my life, I wore department store jeans that were always two sizes too big. My friend, Haley, pointed this out in high school, so, like everyone else, I started wearing pants that were too tight to squeeze into comfortably. This ritual is still in practice today. Even just last weekend, my cousin asked to borrow a pair of my pants, but didn't fit into them because Oh, I forgot that you don't have calf muscles or thigh muscles. Or calves or thighs at all... and on and on and on and on. But I can fit into them because I lack both an ample supply of discipline to tone as well as a fleshy backside, the part of a person's body that allows for sitting and dropping it like it's hot, which leads me to my next point:

I wish I had a butt.
That's vain and maybe embarrassing to admit, but it's true. No one ever likes me for my butt. Hopefully that says something about my intellect or my wit, but I have a feeling it mostly just speaks volumes on the way my butt is nothing to write home about. Not that anyone is writing anything to anyone about any part of me, but if they were, I'm not even sure my butt would get an honorable mention. I had a roommate my freshman year (Hey, Brooke!) who had a small little thing for a butt. We had this discussion once, and she told me about how her boyfriend said he liked the way there wasn't an abnormally large amount of junk in her trunk (excuse the ghetto and the cliché). I thought it was sort of weird that he would tell her something like that, but then, I was jealous that she was getting positive feedback for her lack of a backside, and I wasn't even getting insults about mine. I didn't have a boyfriend at the time (I don't know why that was relevant--I don't have a boyfriend now, either) but if I had had one, I would want him to appreciate my dumb features. Like the way I don't have a butt.
I take that back. This whole part really has nothing to do with anyone else, and everything to do with the way that, for selfish reasons, I wish I had a butt.

Back to girls who are skinnier than me, though. I'm not going to sit here and tell you about how I've had a really hard time with self-esteem all my life because I haven't. And before you get your britches all twisted (is that the phrase?) and go all pitchforks and "kill the beast" on me, it's not like I'm super into myself, but I do have good hair. It grows fast and, even in humidity, dries straight. It hasn't been cut since last June when I bobbed it into an A-Line, which made it impossible to throw up into a simple top not, and I'm sorry to tell you, it was right before a trip to Mexico where the weather was 80+ degrees and eleven times that in humidity. My hair was straight, but hot... where was I going with that? Oh, yeah. I haven't cut it since June. I haven't cut it since June, and when I went to get it color-corrected from the awful bleach-blonde, reverse-ombre nightmare that it was last week, I asked Kamber (my colorist--I have a colorist now) if I needed a cut. She examined my ends, and after only thirty seconds, commented on how very few of them were split. I have good hair. And I don't say that in a bragging way, I say it in a boys-don't-necessarily-date-girls-for-their-hair-and-if-they-do-why-are-you-compelled-to-date-them-in-the-first-place sort of way. The point is, I always lose boys to girls who are skinnier than me, but I have good hair.

Every boy I have ever kissed has told me that I have good lips. One guy even labeled them intoxicating. I have not yet decided how I feel about any of these statements, because, for the most part, after boys kiss me, they run. They all send mixed messages which is a statement I could write a dramatic trilogy on. But really, the kiss-and-run thing tells me they're either lying to my face, or I'm a fantastic make out buddy, but nothing more. The summer before my senior year of high school, my ex-boyfriend cheated on his girlfriend with me (not my proudest moment). The last time I can ever remember kissing him, we stood outside my car, and he told me that he missed my lips, that kissing her wasn't the same as kissing me. And then, the next day, I saw them together at senior registration. I ran out, drove to subway, and cried in the bathroom until my mom called, asking what was taking so long. This is a different story, altogether, but the point is that for a month straight, I was The Other Woman, and I'm confident that it had very little to do with my intellect. So, I have concluded: I have good lips. But does it matter? Because she was (and probably still is) skinnier than I am. Please refer back to the beginning, where I give you insights into the story of my life. And take a wild guess at who got the boy.

I have strengths. I have them in my lips and in my hair, and on occasion, adorably quirky things come out of my mouth, but, and this is a mystery to me, when I see the girls my boys end up with, I only remember my chicken legs and the absence of a worth-something butt. And I dwell on them because it's easier than searching for a man who'll forget about the way he's supposed to feel about a girl's body parts, but will instead play stupid road trip games on a five minute car ride to the grocery store, one who understands that when you get too into the game, you're poking fun at a mutual friend who gets uncomfortably competitive at social events, and he laughs and calls you "pretty girl" instead of your name or any of those other words that mean the same thing. He'll do all that because he gets it, and he gets you. It's a lot easier to say, she's skinnier than I am, and that's the reason we're not together when the aching reality is that you're not together because he has more fun on car rides with her.

This is the part where I'm standing in my kitchen, eating cold pizza at four o'clock in the morning, not very fond of even my strengths.

April 5, 2013

Thursday is for happy people.

I have literally spent every night this week in the library, and I've really only learned things about the people in my surroundings. Tonight, I heard the following conversation:

"Hi, what's your name?"
"Oh, I knew a Cali once."
"You did, huh?"
"Yep. Fifth grade."

Also, when I was in Arizona over spring break, I got my eyebrows waxed by a small Vietnamese woman who had little to no idea what she was doing, and I wanted to cry when she took off a good majority of my eyebrow. Last week while I was in Draper, I went to see my regular lady, Jada, who is also small, Vietnamese, and who I've been going to for years (she's the best). She told me never to go anywhere else ever again because "other artists destroy the beautiful work that [she] does on my eyebrows and [she] has to begin from scratch". She told me to come back in a month when they are fully grown in and I can give her something to work with. I am not trying to be dramatic, here, but after that lecture, I had never felt so much shame in my life.

I'm pretty sure my cousin's boyfriend, David, thinks I'm nuts, so, for the next little while, I'm going to keep it quiet that I call him "Dah-veed" behind his back.

And those are the stories of this Thursday night.

April 2, 2013

One time, I went on a date for the first time when I was sixteen years old and serendipitously gained a hundred new friends.

It's true, I did. I was barely sixteen when I asked a boy to the Sweetheart's dance. It was both a failure and a success. And COMPLETELY uncharacteristic of me. I feel like I should mention how much bolder I have become over the years. If I want to do something now, I do it. If I want to say something, I say it. I don't have a problem with that anymore, but I used to. That's not the point though. The point is that I didn't used to have friends, and then, in high school, by some miracle, I scored funny ones. All thanks to this. So, here's the story.

From ages 0-16, I was the shyest little thing you'd ever seen. I spoke to no one: boys, girls, old people, young people, babies, dads... none of them. I LITERALLY DID NOT SPEAK TO ANYONE. Okay, not literally. Like, I wasn't a mute. I was shy. I hated being in big crowds, making new friends, sitting by people I didn't know, or offering my hand for answers in class. I had exactly three best friends: Jessica, Haley, and Randee. Jessica had been my best friend since I was five years old. She grew up across the street from me, but moved to Centerville sometime right before we hit puberty. I would spend the occasional weekend in Davis county every now and again, but other than that, we really didn't have much contact (although, she remains to be one of my closest friends to date... except she's married now... so, there's that). In fifth grade, Randee's friend, Kylie Bills, told Randee that she wasn't allowed to be friends with her anymore. That was where I stepped in to save the day. I like to think I was a nice child. My brother, Jake, has other things to say about that, but I am pretty sure I was a pretty friendly little person. I offered to be Randee's friend after the whole Kylie debacle and we we remained friends throughout middle school. At the beginning of my sophomore year, she invited me to her birthday party. I was expecting a regular sleepover, like so many we'd had before. Instead, it began late, and her brother's tattoo'd friends crashed it, bringing beer. So, at 3 A.M., I called my mother to come pick me up, and we really never were friends again after that. Occasionally, I'd go over to her house to see how she was doing, but we didn't have much in common anymore. That left Haley. Randee never really liked Haley (Sorry, Hal. I know you're reading this. And I'm sorry, but that was the bitter truth of it all) so we weren't around her very often. I had been friends with Haley on-again-off-again like a messy relationship since she moved from Australia in the sixth grade. Everyone thought she was cool because she... you know... lived in Australia. She was always inviting me to things with her friends, but I usually declined, claiming I was too tired or had plans with my family, which was usually code for "I'd rather just stay home and read". And I did that. A lot. It was easier than talking to people I didn't know.

My parents were (and still are) notorious for leaving on week-long getaways to places like Rome or Paris, sometimes even Caribbean cruises. Since I was their only child left at home, they got away with it. My sister came home from college to take care of me on the weekends when she could, but since she lived a few hours south, she couldn't stay the entire week. This left my mom calling Haley's mom, asking her if I could sleep school nights at the Richards home. I felt sort of awkward about it because Haley and I were just semi-best friends. I hadn't been around her friends for a long time, and even in times that I was, I always ended up in a corner by myself not talking to anyone (I was a good time). After I told Haley I would be staying at her house for the week, she told me about her plans for the school dance that following Saturday. I realized, quickly, that I needed to find a date unless I wanted to spend Saturday night with Mr. and Mrs. Richards while the rest of the school was partying.

So, I decided to be brave and ask Kasey Kartchner. Who was about a foot shorter than me, who I knew didn't have a date, also who I hadn't spoken to since the eighth grade.

My mom and I bought a big, blue dress that I would never, in a million years wear today (Isn't that a rule about dance dresses? You're not supposed to like them when you grow up), and between classes, I caught Kasey to tell him to wear pink and blue to the dance. It was probably the most awkward date I have ever been on (aside from one I went on on Saturday, but we'll save that can of worms for a later date).
I'm sure this is me trying to look like Cinderella or something dumb. 
Also, are you looking at that dress? And are you drowning in it?

While it was all painfully awkward (the dress, the me-not-getting-any-pictures-with-my-actual-date), I am incredibly thankful for it all. My first date turned out to be the night that I began the friendships that I still hold onto today (except, I really don't talk to Kasey all that much). For some reason, I completely transformed from a quiet little prude to an obnoxious, joke-telling, laughing, ridiculous product of some of the most wonderful people in the whole entire world.
Emily, Haley, 16 year old me, and a girl named Caitlin who I saw once over Christmas break, but besides that, haven't really spoken to since high school. A year after this, Emily, Haley and I became best friends when we bonded over how much we hated A.P. U.S. History. That year, we also bonded over how much we hated our ex-boyfriends. High school is such an dramatic time of life.

Between us, Sweethearts '08 is often referred to as the night that Austin/Haley (constantly up for debate) invented Courtney Kearns. 

By the way....
I'm probably going to post more of these because I love remembering them. Sorry if you're hating it. 

Life is messy.

Please allow for these two pieces to speak for themselves.
And for me. Allow them to speak for me, too. 

I am still at a loss for words.