I'll come running to see you again.

Might be beneficial for you to start playing "You've got a Friend" by James Taylor right now.

If my twenties were to tell a story, they'd rave of the Saturdays I spent in the city with my best friends from high school, drowning our sorrows in California Rolls and living on the unexplainable high that comes from a work week of over-exhaustion and trying too hard to make life fit. And it would be the best damn story ever written because these people will never break my heart and that means something to me.

P.S. I weirdly only got this picture of Carter and me, but oh well. Did you know that Carter took me to homecoming senior year, even though I had been sick with Mono? I even told him that if he wanted to go with someone more fun I would understand. But he took me anyway and we've been best friends ever since. I love him, so. 

On being a girl and how sometimes you hate other girls for stupid reasons. But also, how sometimes other girls are vile.

     We sat on the floor in my living room playing cards.  

     "Do you know her?" I did. And she wasn't my favorite person in the world, but I wasn't letting that on.

     "Uh... yeah. Used to live in my apartment complex, I think." I placed a card down on the carpet. 

     "Yeah, she's one of my friends." I knew this, too. Freshman year, the bone marrow fundraiser. They were both in charge. I was there with my friends to support him. And she was there, too, running it with him. I watched as she swooned over him. I recognized the swooning because it was the same thing I did around him. He laid down a Jack, slapping it before I got the chance. "Too slow!" he laughed. 

     "Why do you ask?" I said, still consumed with worry that she was getting to him. 

     "She writes for the paper, too. Like you." I let out a heavy breath and he noticed. "You okay?"

     "Yeah, I'm fine. I'll probably see her around then." 

     "Good. Tell her you know me." Oh, she'll know, I thought, the way girls do when they feel threatened.

...

     "I'll take it," she raised her hand. Since I'm such a pushover," her eyes rolled back. Probably inside of her tiny little head. "Since none of you are willing to." She exhaled deep and I didn't hate her completely until that moment. When I did. "Fiiiine, everybody!"she shouted with drama, creating a hyperbole of herself, "I WILL TAKE ALL OF YOUR STORIES." I wondered how he could be even acquaint himself with such a person. He, so willing to break his plans for others. Willing to pick me up at ten o'clock at night without expecting anything in return. How could they even exist in the same room beside one another? My theories have a lot to do with good and evil. Like Nutella on white bread vs. a paper cut or Prince William vs. Satan, literally, Satan. Well, you get the idea.

     "Thank you. You know, you all could learn a lesson from Melissa," Tucker chimed in. He's our Editor-in-Chief and he isn't a bad guy, but he's a twenty-six year old still wearing Aeropostale T-Shirts like he's in the seventh grade and his mother supplies his wardrobe.

     "That's right," she raised a finger, "you can all learn something from me," she smiled. I wanted my pencil to fling from my hand to that tender spot between her eyebrows, wanted to tell her that her eyebrows were far too thin and that she really needed a good bang trim.

     "Are you all aware of what's coming out in tomorrow's paper?" Liz, my editor, piped up. 

     "Oh, stop," Melissa bloomed. She was the devil in black K-Mart boots.

     "No, it deserves to be recognized. Melissa wrote a story on Afghani war tactics!" In my head, I was already not reading it because it sounded like one of those articles I'd probably just skim over, but the room roared with applause, regardless of my inner-workings. I smiled, clapped politely, and tried to make it look like I was a fan. "I'm putting it in as we speak. Probably front page," she turned back to her computer screen and continued to cut and paste. "You know, since you pitched the story, you get a raise in pay for that article." 

     "I know. I also get one for the last piece I wrote," she smacked. 

     "True. See me after?" 

     "Fine." Slouching back in the chair, she chipped at her long finger nails. It was as though she ruled it. The entire place. Throughout the meeting, Melissa roared in with her thoughts. Her laughs. When Tucker made jokes about firing her, she'd say You can't fire me and then, he would not his head and shrug while I thrusted--palm to forehead, thinking thoughts like What the hell am I doing here and I hate you, Melissa Nichol.

     

This video makes me cry.

Il Postino & Musician Hands.

Can you explain to me why this made me cry today? 

Today, Michael Sowder (My ultimate professor crush--like a celebrity crush, except more intellectually stimulating. Also, he's 46 years old.) screened his favorite movie, Il Postino, in my poetry class. It's an Italian film about the Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda and my, my. Is it gorgeous. Completely about the power of language. It's all in subtitles, of course, but you forget about that when you're knee deep in metaphors and feeling. I suggest renting it. And I suggest Michael Sowder's class. Not just because he smells like a mixture of aftershave and genuine leather, but also because he is a brilliant man. I adore him. And guess what! Today, as he was returning one of my poems to me, marked with his comments (I'm too nervous to read them; the man is a genius.), he told me he noticed that I attended the same poetry reading he did last week. He asked me what I thought of it and I told him and we had a little discussion about it. I mean, people care about what I have to say lately, you know? And that just makes a world of difference in my education. I have loved learning and growing as a poet, non-fiction writer, reader, editor, contributor to society... I mean, it's just so rich, and I can't wait to figure out what's next for me. My Aunt Ginny is from the east coast and she told me she graduated with the degree I'm working towards and her first job out of college was to write landscape descriptions in catalogues. So, I mean, a person has to work their way up in the writing community, but I can't wait to see where it's going to take me. I am so grateful for the opportunity I have to learn. I really do love it. 

In other news, I only do my homework in the Math Lab now because I'm finally outsmarting the system and there's that spot on the wall where you write your name down if you're stuck on a problem and an assignment that usually takes me four hours by myself takes only two in the math lab. Suck on that, numbers! 

AND OMG I HAVE TO TELL YOU SOMETHING. 

So, back in the spring of 2013, I took a biology class. And I hated basically every second of it. I say basically because I didn't hate every second. There was this boy in that class and I sat next to him every. single. day. That's real life. Every day, we sat beside each other. On the back row. I wrote lots of blog posts about him. I referred to him as Musician Hands because he looked like someone who would be good at musical things. He had, well, musician hands. So, anyway. He was so incredibly good looking that most days, I JUST COULD NOT EVEN. But I was always too scared to talk to him because there was always this other girl sitting beside us (hahaha "us") and really she was sitting beside him, but her name was Ariana and that part I know for sure. She always talked to him and I always eaves dropped on their conversations, but I was never able to figure out his name. SO THIS IS WHERE THE STORY GETS GOOD. But I was obsessed with him. Like, really, really obsessed. He wore this black gingham button up shirt once and omg it validated my whole entire existence. That really has nothing to do with anything, but I wanted to throw it in there because it was seriously the greatest piece of fabric that I have ever known to exist.

The other day, I was painting some furniture out on my front porch and since I've got a first level apartment, everyone who walks by always notices me out there because I look so incredibly ghetto fab in all my pajama shorts glory. Anyway, I'm painting furniture AND MUSICIAN HANDS WALKS BY. I had to stop and stare. And he did the same. Well, he didn't stop, but he did look at me and smile as he walked up the stairs opposite me. And I just thought, OMG THAT WAS MUSICIAN HANDS THE BOY THAT I STALKED FOR A GOOD, LONG SEMESTER. And then, the next day, I forgot about him again. 

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MOOOOORE! 

So then, last night, Mels and I were getting out of the car in our parking lot, coming home from Ward Prayer, AND MUSICIAN HANDS WALKS BY, LOOKS AT US, AND SMILES. And all I could think was, "Hm. I still don't know his name." and Mels says "Wow, that boy is gooood looking" and I just yell "THAT'S MUSICIAN HANDS, MELS!" and we both have a small dance party in the car because Melodey and I are never attracted to the same boys so when we agree, we sometimes have a dance party. This time, it happened in the car. Also, she had heard me talking about him for two years and finally, she knew why. BECAUSE HE WAS SO DAMN ATTRACTIVE. 

AND THIS IS IT! WHAT YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! THE POINT OF THIS SEEMINGLY POINTLESS STORY! 

So, today, I'm in the Math Lab. And I've been there for an hour and a half. And I'm so pleased with myself for getting my math homework done before noon. AND IN WALKS MUSICIAN HANDS. And I think to myself, "I STILL DON'T KNOW YOUR NAME, YOU GLORIOUS HUMAN BEING!" and do you know what he did? He came right up and introduced himself. 

No, just kidding. He didn't. I do wish that happened, though. 

BUT THIS IS WHAT HE DID: 

He needed help, so he put his name on the board! I was so excited! And the name was... are you ready?

Drumroll, please...

SAM! I WAS RIGHT ALL THIS TIME! I LITERALLY AM THE BEST CREEP IN THE WHOLE WORLD! HEY, CIA! HIRE ME! 

Anyway, now it really doesn't matter because I'm pretty sure he's dating the girl who lives in 738, but I don't care. It's like that word that finally comes to you when it's been on the tip of your tongue. This word (or name, as it were) FINALLY came to me. And, I'm speaking in metaphors here, so he wasn't literally on the tip of my tongue for two years, but I wouldn't be mad if he had been. But anyway. Now it doesn't really matter. I just couldn't wait to tell my blog. Musician Hands used to be a hot topic around here. 

BUT ISN'T THAT EXCITING? 

I wrote about him in a couple of places. Here for sure. And here, too. Probably other places if you're curious. 

This is my life. The end. 

And for the record, he doesn't look like a Sam. 

He looks like a god. 

Since I'm *such* a believer in flowing juices,

I'm here. Writing. Writing basically nothing. Writing basically nothing that you're all going to read because I have somehow convinced some of you that I know what I'm talking about.

I don't, though. Like, not at all.

I've got an essay due this week for my Early American Literature class discussing the similarities and differences in the depictions of religion in two opposite sixteenth century works of Native American literature. And even thinking about all of that is getting me down. I've dog-eared different pages of my texts and tried to come up with something, but...

nada.
As in, not even one word.

I thrive on inspiration. Not creativity as much as inspiration, but if you want to put them in the same definition bracket, whatever. I just mean that I have to have something to write about to write anything good at all. And sometimes that happens. Sometimes weird things happen where I run into a boy I was sort of curious about for a while and he ditched out on me (story of my entire life) and there's something I can work with there. But other times, like tonight, the boys upstairs that invited Sam and me to game night last sunday are chasing around their adorable puppy, Copper, and I can hear every creek in the ceiling, every scratch on their floor. And it hinders me from writing anything genius at all about Cabeza de Vaca or The Virgin Guadelupe.

So, here I am, punching out my frustration on this keyboard, praying that inspiration strikes enough for just five pages. That's all I need. WHERE MY MUSES AT?!

And so, I often frustrate myself. And this is turning into a rant which is further frustrating me.





P.S. I didn't proof read this. So, it is what it is.

"Maybe that whole love thing is just a grown up version of Santa Claus; just a myth we've been fed since childhood. So, we keep buying magazines, doing therapy, and watching movies with hit pop songs played over montages all in a pathetic attempt to explain why our Love Santa keeps getting caught in the chimney." >>Kate McKay, Kate & Leopold

You said it, Aubrey Plaza.

I want you all to know that it's Friday night and I was literally in bed by 9:45. I had a peppermint hot chocolate from Starbucks, a multigrain bagel, and a hot, hot shower. The older I get, the more I look forward to lying in a bed that's bigger than necessary (I don't even like sleeping in the middle of it! I sleep on the right side... always!) on Friday and Saturday nights, watching my favorite movies. Because during the week, I do homework, go to meetings, write articles, drink too many Diet Cokes, and try to be a normal twenty-one year old college student. I often feel guilty for not making myself more available on the weekends, for not answering my cell phone sometimes, for not attending more weddings... I just... I'm exhausted! Do you feel like that by Friday, too?

Which is why I have spent my evening watching Meg Ryan movies. I didn't even know I had this many! You know how sometimes you just buy things? Subconsciously, I am a chronic Meg Ryan movie buyer. And the harsh reality is that I'm never going to be her. Boo.

Also, I bought a coffee table today. And if you haven't smelled Bergamot Woods from Bath & Body's fall collection, the candle smells like a sparkly vampire. I highly suggest it. That was for my sister.

Aaaaand, you know, I was thinking... I would do very well in New York City. Can you just imagine? Writing all day every day in cafes, doing readings at small and large book stores, riding the subway, wearing infinity scarves and not having to drive a car anywhere? Well, I want that. Tonight, I told my friend, Ryan, that if we aren't married to other people by the time he's thirty (that's four years from now) we're moving to New York City and doing important things with our lives. Because we deserve that.

P.S. You've Got Mail, if you're not already aware (how can you not be if you know this blog at all?) is my favorite movie (Following at a close second is When Harry Met Sally). And there's that part where Kathleen Kelly is realizing that Joe Fox is Joe Fox and he says he has to get back to his date because he doesn't want to talk to Kathleen anymore. Anyway, he gets out of the conversation by saying, "Excuse me. I have to get back. I've got a very thirsty date. She's part camel." Kills me every time. THAT JOE FOX!

The corner of Calculate and Deviate.

    

     "Just try."
     "I can't."
     "Yes, you can. Try." I slid the pencil toward the unopened spiral notebook in front of him.
     "I want to come up with something clever to say in the opening,"
     "Don't," I instructed. "Don't think. Just write down everything you're thinking."
     "That doesn't even make sense!" he laughed.
     "I know! That's why you have to trust me!"
     "Okay," he picked the pencil up, and stared hard at the white space. I took a deep breath, trying not to interject too much. He'd asked me to help, not to write the paper myself, though, heaven knows I wanted to. "I'm thinking in complete sentences, but when I write it down, it looks so weird on the page. I can't get developed thoughts down on paper, but I swear I'm thinking them."
     "You're thinking too hard. Use pieces."
     "I can't not write a complete sentence."
     "Sure you can."
     "My brain doesn't work that way."
     "I know."
     "How do you know that?" He looked up.
     "I don't know, it's just kind of the way you've always been with things." I rested my forearm across the table and leaned my chin on it.
     "I just... I don't like doing things until I'm sure they'll turn out," I bit my lip and instinctually listened closer to the words he said next. "I want things to be right. Planned. Premeditated."
     "Can I tell you something I've noticed about you?" I asked. He was frustrated in all of his perfection. And I don't mean perfection in the cliché, angst-y way it's used in preteen poetry. I mean it like it was actually an overtaking struggle, one that dominated his every thought. For him, it was a hinderance, for me, a lightbulb.
     "Sure," he exhaled.
     "Your brain is logical. Organized. Runs on formulas. Tabulations. It's clean lines, analytical," he looked right at me now, "and everything mine isn't." I took in a deep breath and tried to pretend like what I'd said hadn't been an insight to something so much deeper. "That's why it's easy for me to write my thoughts down and it's hard for you to think in fragments."
     "That actually makes complete sense," he nodded, "so what's your brain like?"
     "Uh..." I danced my fingers along the side of my face trying to cut out words. "Chaotic. Shuffled. Messy," I added, "a little bit screwed up." He laughed.
     "Well, that explains why you're able to do things that I can't." I took pieces of hair from my eyes and pushed them aside.
     "It's why you need me." A simple statement, a bold one. I sat, waiting to see what he'd do with the information that'd just been given. He side-smiled like I'd never seen him do before.
     "I do need that."



I experienced a still and stupid happiness there, at my kitchen table. Where I sat Indian style in a wooden chair, my right knee folded and resting barely over his thigh, just enough to make me feel brave.

And we didn't do most of the things you do when you want to be another person's person. We wrote a three page paper and I watched his eyes light up as I told him I was finally ready to let Star Wars into my life. He let me step into his mind and didn't find it an intrusion when I did. I felt welcomed and prepared for. It wasn't dramatic or sexy (hey, now), it was a ricochet of trust, admiration, and depth.

He plays volleyball on Tuesday nights, has finally caught up on the past two years of Grey's Anatomy and last Sunday, driving 1400 N, seven o'clock sun through the windshield, he defends operatic musicians! I mean, he's a pocket full of unlikely details that I just marvel at each time I unravel a new one!

And, you know, maybe this isn't supposed to be the beginning of anything. Maybe there's a point down the road where he becomes unsure of me. Maybe he'll wave me off like the rest of them have done and I become a silhouette on his yesterday, he another tear in my satin dress. 

But maybe it'll be a more well-developed love story than I could ever even hope to write. One that began without bells, whistles, or silver spoons. The kind of story that grew from pages of handwritten updates and penciled in plans for the summer of 2013. Maybe we spend the first few years of our married lives in a Chicago medical school. Maybe the basement floods and we soak it up with dish towels and winter coats because even though he's written BUY A MOP on our grocery list a dozen times, I still get distracted by the aisle of baby clothes and we're laughing at how absurd that is since we're not even having a baby yet. And maybe it's that part of my life that I think about when I can't sleep, scared out of my mind, wondering what happens if I don't take my own advice and 

just try.

This is my life.

"I want to go to the east coast and taste a Concord grape straight from the vine," she said as she took yet another bite of stale Kraft Macoroni & Cheese.

I'm surfing the crimson wave.

Meaning, I'm definitely having my monthly lady party.

They're just here to tell me that they're here to mess up the rest of my systems. 

Which is why I can't stop weeping. Or screaming. Or watching The Lawrence Welk Show (that's real).

Thanks, boys. You do a swell job of shedding blood and making it all look like an accident.

And it's a blast, really, it is.
A BLAST.

Do you ever feel like it's not even the actual thing that clues you into the fact that you're about to attend the party of the month? You know you're in trouble when you feel a paining irritation in simple, innocent questions your sweet roommates ask. Do you ever just want to scream when they come into the kitchen like, "What time are you going to be there?" and you have to actively stop yourself from throwing down the rag you've just wiped the counter with. Do you have to hold your tongue and temper before, irrationally, you yell, "I DON'T KNOW JUST LET ME LIVE MY LIFE!!"?

...yeah, me neither...

There are a lot of things going on right now. I promise. Good things. And I'll get to them soon. But the menstrual mafia living inside of my uterus is currently at war with every other system in my body, making it impossible for me to get anything done. It is making me do the dumbest things. Like sob during that part at the end of National Treasure where Nicholas Cage and his father are finally getting along. I knoooow.

So, I'm probably about to go get a Dirty Diet Coke, because I'm in hot & heavy with it, take a hot bath, and watch every movie that Nora Ephron has ever written. Because I'm in hot & heavy with those, too.

Also, the other day, Dimples was at my apartment and he asked me for some Ibuprofen because his head hurt. There wasn't any in the medicine cabinet, so I handed him a bottle of Midol... Poor boy didn't know how to respond. He laughed nervously, like I was kidding, and I tried not to tease him. I explained that the pill's contents were simply caffein and acetaminophen. Rest assured, Golden Boy. No estrogen for you.



You should also know that I got really freaked out this week. I terrified myself. But now I feel so much better because there was a calming down. And that's because that's what I need in my life to keep me sane. So, there you go.

John D'Agata and Martha Graham

Yesterday, I read this exquisite essay written by John D'Agata, one of my newest language heroes, and it's called Martha Graham Audio Description Of. It's hard to say what it's about, so go search for it and read it. I'm sure you'll find it enlightening.

Anyway, I got to thinking a lot about Martha Graham. I knew who she was before I read the essay, but I'd forgotten how influential she was to pioneering a new art form in the world. I have been so hung up on everything contemporary dance today because I've somehow forgotten how much I love to experience it. I'm grateful for the way it makes me feel something, you know? We all have our outlets. Mine is writing my thoughts down to try and figure out how to live. Yours might be the same. Or maybe it's running marathons or cooking with colors. Maybe you live for your English garden.

Growing up, I always tried to be a dancer. I'd ask to be put into dance classes and I'd learn how to count in my head and follow a beat, but the passion was never there. I've never been very disciplined. Any time there was a dance teacher breathing down my neck, telling me to work harder, I wanted out. And I got out every time and I regret that now. Not that I could've been some great dancer, but who's to say I wouldn't have been?

The way a dancer is able to express their soul through the movement of their body, taking the heart from their chest, somehow able to put those pieces into me... It's putting delicacy to a routine, making an emotion tangible, mixing grace with physiology... I mean, it's just so damn beautiful!

And so, here are these two videos to ensure that you have a beautiful weekend. And while this first video is beautiful, it doesn't do her justice, so go here and watch the entire thing. Listen to the part at the end about spontaneity and training. It's gorgeous.

This is what the process often looks like for me.

If I had to title this photograph, I would say something about the way it's nearly midnight and I've got writer's block. Which is a problem because I've got until tomorrow at eleven. Did I tell you all that I report the news by way of the written word now? Well, surprise! I do! I mean, it's not glamorous stuff, and I'm one of many on staff, but it's a start, and I'll take it. However, newspapers don't run on inspiration, unfortunately. They run on deadlines and all I seem to want to do is lie in bed watching the new season of Portlandia.

Today, I ran into my roommate from freshman year today. She has changed and progressed in a lot of ways that I haven't. Just as I've changed and progressed in ways that she hasn't. But anyway, we sat in Luke's Cafe on campus (I know. It's soooo Star's Hollow.) for about an hour talking about everything from the challenges that come with her major (which is theater and set design... which I think is so rad) to Stephen King being a household name for all the wrong reasons. And because of those reasons, the American public often shies away from his work, and that is quite the travesty! I guess that's a post for a different time.

Anyway, our whole discussion was centered around the fact that things that make up the meat of culture, society, and the delicate pieces of our lives are being pushed aside to make room for more new iPhone software that we don't need. We're making space in our brains for whatever garbage Miley Cyrus is promoting this week and we're forgetting that the core of us, as human beings, is to be brilliant. To make our own decisions. To create our own art. Through books, actual books that use allegories to make statements on moral issues. Through music. Through art. Whatever it is that you find inspiring, research it. Fight the temptation to be lazy. Think for yourself. That's why you have a brain.

I mean, honestly. So help me if I see another person quote Marilyn Monroe.
And what's worse is when the Pinterest generation stamps up vinyl lettering and claims it to be Shakespeare. For example, this one:

"When I saw you, I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew." 

How about read some actual Shakespeare, and then you can quote him. I'm insulted that a person would ever even think to attach one of my heroes to this dull, empty, cliche sentence.

Read. Sing. Do.
Don't copy & past, #amiright?



Or, carry on looking like an idiot. Your choice.
Back to article writing.

A chapter book.

I hadn't seen him in months. Seven months.

The last time we interacted, he was probably wearing one of those plaid shirts I always used to talk about. He was probably lost, the way he's always been (you know, one of those tortured souls) and I was probably thinking we shouldn't have kissed. No, nevermind. He was probably the one thinking that. I don't usually have those thoughts.

I had thirty minutes to be to class and I decided that I should get my second Diet Coke of the day because there were lots of math equations this morning and there was a lot of calculating and then, there was this guy that I know who I see everywhere and today he sat beside me which was really not my particular cup of tea, so long story short, in my hand was a second Diet Coke, get over it.

I was on my way to Michael Sowder's class. Remember Michael Sowder? I gushed about him once here and I'll most likely gush about him again because he's probably my favorite human that has ever existed. Well, so anyway. I was on my way to Michael Sowder's class, but first I had to print off my paper. I do all my printing in The Suite Lab because for English majors, it's free. I'm in there all the time. And so, I walked in the door the way I've always done. 

And usually, sitting at the help desk are a large amount of middle-easterners who don't speak a large amount of English, but that's because to sit at the help desk, you don't need to really speak anything. Today, there weren't very many people at the help desk. Today, there was one middle-easterner, and in the opposite corner, some other guy. I couldn't see him because the computer screen on his desk blocked my view.

In The Suite Lab, they're touchy about food. Drinks, especially. Every time I go in there with Diet Coke in my hand, I'm always afraid someone is going to tell me to throw it away before I use the printer. Something about soda pop having a bad reputation with computer monitors. I've only been reprimanded once, but I fear it every day.

I check the right desk to see if the middle-eastern man is eying my drink.
No. His back is towards me and Solitaire occupies his computer screen.
I check the desk straight ahead of me in the lefthand corner of the room.
I can only see the new guy's hair. The screen in front of him blocks his facial features. I'm safe.
I locate a computer, walk two steps toward it, reach for the mouse, and catch the attention of the printing-attendant nearest me. From across the room, I panic as I recognize the face that peers to the side of the computer monitor on his desk. Wide-rimmed glasses and pants that actually fit. A person I had nearly forgotten existed.

My hair in a loose braid over my shoulder because it finally does that now, the straps of my book-bag barely synched, and covering my lower back. I stand there sort of like Hi and with his left hand still on the keyboard before him and his eyes on me, he raises his hand, gives me a quick wave and smiles. I walk over to his desk and tighten the straps of my back pack. Because you do things like that when you're unsure of how to act in a particular situation. You do things like that when you're standing there, feeling naked, in front of the person who, seven months ago, told you he didn't want you. And when all he does is offer you a wave of his hand, all you can do is synch up your back pack straps and try to remember that speaking your mind is nothing to be ashamed of, even when affection isn't mirrored.

And, you know, we talked. About graduation. His job. The semester. Printing.

All of a sudden, the small talk wasn't enough for me and I remembered how busy I was.

Remembered that, unlike him, I had places to be. I had to get to Dr. Sowder's class so we could talk more about Tennyson and T.S. Elliot. I had to get home because I had an article to write. Remembered about that person who has come at me sort of guns blazing, the way the man at the desk never did. He was this ghost-of-a-figure now, staring at me with questions about my life and all of a sudden, I didn't feel the need to answer them. I had to go because I was important to other people the way I never was to him.
     "I've got to get going," I said after just seven seconds of silence.
     "Okay," he smiled up at me and I didn't feel anything when he did it, "well, it was so nice..."
     "Nice running into you here," I interrupted, "take care, huh?"
     "Will do," he waved again. I turned toward the door and took a step in its direction before retracting that step and flipping around the other way.
     "Oh, and hey," I remembered another thing, "isn't it your birthday next week?"
     "It is," he said.
     "Happy birthday," I nodded. The intimacy left between us could be summed up in a statement of fact: I can't believe I remembered that.

As I took steps out into the hall, I couldn't stop smiling to myself. It was as if in that minute and a half experience, I gained an outsider's perspective. I wasn't a part of it anymore. The door finally closed. And what happens when a door closes?

I tiptoed up the stairs and the big, glass door to Michael Sowder's class blew open as I reached for the handle. And, okay, it was mostly just the wind, but I'm paying attention to my life and claiming it to be a stunning metaphor of a life that gives back what it takes. And I believe that, I do.


(If you're confused, you can go back through my archives and read all about this tragedy. This piece is sort of an epilogue to a small chapter book of my life. One that I will never forget have almost completely forgotten about, had it not been for today and the records of this blog.)

Prologue.
Chapter one.
Chapter two.
Chapter three.
Chapter four.
Chapter five.
Chapter six.
Chapter seven.
Chapter eight.
Epilologue. 

Stupid life.

It's one of those Mondays where I've got so much to do, not enough time to do it, and all I want to do is sit in bed all day reading.

Also, I just would like to lament for a moment: NONE OF THAT RAIN DOWN SOUTH EVER MADE ITS WAY TO LOGAN AND I AM NOT THE BIGGEST FAN OF THAT.

And stuff is complicated sometimes. Ugh.

"'I-Don't-Want-Earl's-Baby Pie'. We'll call it 'Bad Baby Pie'"

I didn't feel like making my bed, so I made a pie. 

                          Just kidding.

What I actually did was I went to A&W for the chicken fingers and Root Beer and then I bought a pie from the grocery store. 

I went to see Austenland by myself. I felt a little foolish because by the end, I was tearing up and talking myself back into admitting that I really am just another one of those Mr. Darcy weirdos. I mean, for Heaven's sake. HE'S MR. DARCY! Anyway, after that, I got really obsessed with Keri Russell so I watched Waitress, which is one of my favorites and it inspired me to not miss waiting tables at all. It also inspired me to make a pie. Which I didn't exactly do. And now we've come full circle. 

All of this to say that it's the weekend which is basically a two day license to not make plans because I do what I want on weekends. 

And if you're judging me for blogging on a Friday night and being in bed before midnight, I'll have you know that I did go to a hot, sweaty, raunchy dance party. Because I do things like that, too. I'm not exactly an introvert. I am evenly balanced. 

P.S. you are all seriously just too kind for your own good. I feel like I gained an entire new group of friends this week when Meg introduced all of us to each other, and I love you all so much already. Your blogs are inspiring to say the least. Let's keep being friends with each other for the rest of forever, mmmmk? 

F.N.T.

I made a boy dinner tonight.

Sorry, let me repeat myself.
I made a boy dinner tonight.
Me. I did.  


He was all I've-been-at-school-for-twelve-hours-straight-will-you-come-pick-me-up and then, I was like you're-kidding-me-are-you-hungry? Starved. Well-how-about-I-cook-chicken-pillows-because-that's-the-only-thing-I-know-how-to-cook and then, out of the blue, there was a well-then-I'd-better-get-used-to-them-sooner-or-later from him and I wondered what exactly that meant.

And then, there were the crescent rolls, shredded chicken, gravy, and mashed potatoes at eleven o'clock at night.

After that, he stood over my kitchen sink, lips pursed together, exposing my favorite two genetic masterpieces just above his jawline on either side, with a five o'clock shadow and a concentrated brow. Scrubbing my new mint green dishes with his sleeves rolled up.

And then, there was me, sitting on a bar stool at the opposite side of the counter. Head resting on my open palm with wide eyes watching like, my-heart-hurts-so-stop-doing-the-dishes-before-I-make-a-mistake-and-tell-you-that-when-I-picture-my-life-a-few-years-from-now-it-looks-similar-to-us-in-the-kitchen-like-the-way-we-are-now.

But I resist and we sit down in the living room where there is still no couch and I run into my bedroom for lotion and when I come out, I've done that thing where I've pumped too much of it into my hands and I am a creamy mess. And so, he reaches out his right hand to catch the excess and I take it in both of mine and our fingers glide together like they were made to do so. (This happens another time with his left hand and after that, we both smell like Eucalyptus Spearmint).

And the night ends casually without the bother of doorstep etiquette or lingering pauses because I've been hurt too many times to mess with that witchcraft again.

I wrap my arms around his neck and tell him he smells like me. He smiles and says he'll see me tomorrow.

Oh, how I wish he'll bother me soon.



P.S. THIS SONG.

Can I be the girl that you met in the coin laundry?

We've recently decided that the laundromat down the street is not the most cost-effective place to wash and dry our delicates. Therefore, this will be the last time we climb inside of laundry carts and sweat for three hours in the laundromat, waiting for our goods to wash and dry. But Mels, it was fun to have a Ross & Rachel moment with you, anyway. 

As I am sitting here, irritated that it costs me a good ten dollars to do my laundry, I have somehow turned all sentimental. I'm going to miss these college days where I'm stressed about turning papers in on time, finishing math homework, and trying to find a soul mate. When it all comes to an end (in about a year, mind you) and I have to move away and start my real life with a real job and a real washing machine, I can feel myself already starting to miss this gorgeous life I've made for myself in a little college town. 

And, it is gorgeous. It is. 

Also, every time I'm here, this song by Lisa Mitchell always gets stuck in my head. 

Life in list form.

A list of things that are not going so well for me: 

1. Math 1010. It is FOR REAL out to get me. Point-

slope form can suck it and I'm serious.

2. My neighbor, Sam, is about twenty six years old

and has bleach blonde tips. I mean, ??

3. Tim Burton. He just is never one my list of people

who are doing great things for me. 

4. I'm taking a class about literature of the early Amer-

icas and it makes me want to kill myself basically every 

time I am in it. Columbus sailed the ocean blue. We get 

it. Now can we please get back to Hemingway?

5. I don't own any silk pajamas.

A list of things that are going well for me: 

1. My lyric essay class. I think I've been writing 

like a lyric essayist for, like, my whole entire life.

2. You've Got Mail. I literally use any excuse I
possibly can to watch it because it's my
favorite movie of all time. 

     Example: Today, someone made reference to 

     The Godfather, so, naturally, I put it in the DVD

player and went to the mattresses. 

3. The editor of The Statesman, my school news-

paper called me up this morning and asked if I was 

still interested in writing for them. It took everything

inside of me not to scream "HELLS YEAH!" 

because apparently that's poor form.

4. Celine Dion has a new single out. WHY ARE

YOU ALL STILL READING THIS?!

5. There's this boy.

The second weirdest thing that has ever happened to me, Part II.

Remember that part in Win a Date with Tad Hamilton where Rosalee recounts the story of her romantic date to her friends and she says, My foot hit the ground and I turned to take one last look at Tad and you're all swoony, thinking, in your thirteen year old mind, I can't wait until I step into a car looking back at a boy feeling like leaving him will be the hardest task of my life because I have been so madly in love with him? Do you remember?

Good. 

Because this story is nothing like that. 

I sat in the back seat as the others opened their doors and got out of the car. I couldn't do it yet, so I sat there with my beating heart. It had been four years since our last encounter. The last time we'd spoken was the summer before our senior year of high school, and he kissed me, and you know, we don't have to rehash all of that. But, no, why don't we? He kissed me while he still had a girlfriend and the last time it was good, it was basically me saying So, are you going to choose me or what and him saying I don't know I'll figure it out but let's keep kissing so that's what we did. I think the next day, I told him that I felt like the worst person in the entire world and then I thought everyone hated me but they really didn't, so that was good. But I hated myself, so that wasn't ideal.

And anyway, we didn't talk after that because he was nervous I was telling everyone which would give him a sort of undesired reputation and also, I think he was nervous that I was telling a different story than he was, which I actually was doing, but I was telling the true version.

But back to that time a couple of weeks ago when I stepped out of the car and was sick about how I was only moments away from facing my demons...

I found courage in my legs to make them move, and maybe it wasn't even courage, but whatever it was, it came by way of my legs, and I pulled the door handle toward me and stepped out of my safe zone with tinted windows.

He was behind me, greeting those who'd already gotten out of the car because he hadn't seen them in over two years. Just a quick little reminder, he hadn't seen me in four. I took a deep breath and turned myself around to see his face. I examined his hair, the way it was short and clean cut like it didn't used to be. He looked at me, squinting the dark eyes that used to make me feel whole, looking like he'd just swallowed an oversized pill. 

     "Wow," he said. I swallowed, too. 

     "Hi, it's been a while..." 

     "Uh, huh," He put his long arms around me so gently, like I might break. I wanted to tell him that that was a worry four years too late. "Blast from the past for sure," he said. 

     And "Yeah," I nodded back. 

We sat on his driveway in a circle, the six of us, laughing about how Ray and Missy were still the same and how Haley has looked similar to her adult self her whole entire upbringing, and how Rachel was still going by Densley and then something about "The Band" that made the whole conversation turn uncomfortable incredibly fast but I didn't really care because I was uncomfortable the entire time. 

He asked me what I was doing with my life and I had trouble answering. The pages of one thousand some-odd journal entries flew through my mind as I remembered everything about the first time we shared a blanket on February 15th, March 26th when he held my hand and it was new, about that time his dad caught us pulling out of the city library one afternoon when he wasn't supposed to be seeing me at all. And mostly, I thought about four years ago when "The Five Year Plan" was written and how, had it still been in effect, I would be marrying this man, this stranger, in two months.

Back then, we had so much more to talk about: the names of the children we'd raise on old movies and cheap hamburgers, the arguments we'd have on deciding which dog to pick, the dreams we shared about moving far away from our parents. 

That night, we discussed my schooling, how I wanted to be a writer some day, and how he was going to write music scores for movies after he graduates.

And I was happy for the both of us. 

Because we weren't a part of each other anymore,

but we were both so brilliant on our own,

more stunning than we ever could have been together. 

It was all different, 

and it was all so beautiful. 

And so, my foot hit the ground, I turned to take one last look at him,

and loved the way it felt to not be able to feel him anymore at all. 

So, that's the story of the second weirdest thing that has ever happened to me. 

Maybe one day I'll get to the first weirdest thing that has ever happened to me. It's pretty good. 

#zombehindthescenes

So............

my cousins own this business.
My cousin by blood, Madison, is the genius behind the lens of Mad Marie Photography, which is the most beautiful photography I've ever seen in my life (Not biased).
And her husband, Dan, is my favorite Bolivian in the whole world. And he is the genius behind all of the video shoots that happen.
And every once in a while, they let me be a part of their cool ideas. Like this trash the dress we did a few years ago.
It's really cool that they're in our family 1) because they're fun and 2) because they're constantly documenting our lives. Like when we took a trip to Cancun last summer and they made a video of it.
It's here if you'd like to take a gander (WARNING: It will make you want to join my goofball family)(There is an extremely embarrassing/AMAZING swimsuit moment of me at the end, so... I mean, there's that, too).

So.............

a few weeks ago, I had this really cool idea while I was driving through the middle of nowhere, coming home from Idaho.

AND THEN I INCEPTED IT INTO MADISON AND DAN'S BRAINS.

and it turned into the greatest Saturday night of my whole entire life.
I got to be a zombie for the night.
In a zombie wedding video shoot.
On location.
Where there was a director,
a makeup artist,
director's assistants,
a story board...
and at the end of the shoot, Dan even said, "THAT'S A WRAP"
I got to crawl through the mud and get it all over me.
I feel like it was an extremely successful Saturday night.
Here are some pictures now. Because who doesn't want to see pictures of alive humans looking like dead humans?

 Freaked myself out in this pic FOR SHIZ. 

 Sisters. Because families can be together forever.

Also, flip-flops. Because those are the zombie shoes of choice, duh.

 Zom-B Self-E. 

High school friends, you know? 

Oh, yeah. 

And, my sister-in-law is one of those people who is, like, really good at being pregnant. Seriously, the cutest little prego belly my eyes have ever beheld.

I am so obsessed with that belly. And the baby boy inside of it, too, obviously.