Hey, Matt!

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.

Post Script: 

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.)