Sometimes all you can do is:

--Pretend like you don't feel thirty pounds heavier than you are, 

--Not think about that one guy who's on a date with that one wait-who's-that-girl,

--Drink two 64 oz Diet Cokes in a period of 5 hours,

--OWN the fact that the only thing you bought black Friday shopping was Breaking Dawn Part I,

--NOT think about how you got anxious and lonely and sent a message to a person you can't stop thinking you want to have, well, something to do with,

--Put on your sweatpants because these sweatpants are all that fit me right now, 

--Talk Essie & Dead Sea Scrolls with Paige Anderson because HELLO, WE THINK SHE MIGHT BE OUR SOULMATE.

--Just, you know what, pick up that second and third piece of cream pie and make no excuses for it.

--Remember that you are young. And, even though you've never really been wild, you are a kind of free that you're never going to get to be ever again. And yeah, okay, sometimes you pull stupid moves and agonize over them for the three hours following because, hey. It really was a stupid move. But everyone pulls crap like that, and at least you're not into hard drugs or collectible Disney ceramics.

So, just tuck your pants into your socks, climb in bed, and sleep until you have to get up on a Saturday and study for your finals. Because that's just how it goes and I promise you, you can get through it all. 

With sarcasm and strong intersperses of caffeinated drinks. 

EAT PIE!

I'm not going to tell you about the thirty two thousand things I'm thankful for because that's just so easy. 

So, here's this picture of my boy, Stanley. Because that's even easier. 

I've been wearing a lot of pink lipstick.

I’ve been doing a lot of reading. Like, a lot of it. So much, in fact, that it is almost breaking the tiny folds on the insides of my skull. And does the skull even have folds in it? I’m sure I could find something to read about that.

I’ve been eating a lot of bacon cheeseburgers. Sort of as an experiment to find the best one. And, for no particular reason, it’s Wendy’s that I keep going back to. I don’t know if it’s the hamburger I love the most or if it’s something about the ketchup containers. All I know is that I’ve eaten a bacon cheeseburger every day this week, which can’t be good news for my arteries.

I’ve been drinking a lot of tea. And I mean consuming massive amounts of the stuff. I am a tea girl, through and through. The habit began at The Tate Gallery in London a few years ago. My parents took my sister and me to the gallery café. We sat down and there was that view of St. Paul’s that just makes you fall a little bit harder for the city. The walls around us were glass windows. My dad ordered a peppermint tea because it’s always been his thing and I’d never thought to try it until that moment. Since then, I’ve been a peppermint tea connoisseur in the worst sort of way, although, I’ve recently become completely obsessed with Tazo’s Vanilla Rooibos tea. Just after the tea seeps (isn’t that a great word?) I boil milk, honey, sugar, and vanilla until it foams, and then, I mix the two in a mug that makes me feel beautiful. Maximum satisfaction. I asked Santa Claus for a bag of Essie’s favorite, licoriceand peppermint tea because it’s all she ever talks about. And since I trust her on everything else in the world, I can’t wait. Also, I watch Essie pretty much every night before I fall asleep. And sometimes, I tweet her. Thanks, Paige.

I’ve been almost buying a Christmas tree. About three times in the past seven days. I bought ornaments and tinsel, but we’re sitting over in my apartment sans tree. I don’t know why and I have nothing else to say about that.

I’ve been listening to obscene amounts of James Taylor. Because, well, I don’t know why, but he makes me feel like failing my math class isn’t the worst thing I could be doing.

I am strangely obsessed with Mint Julep. The obsession began over the summer when Alicia (my sophomore English teacher) saw that I was headed to Disneyland and told me to stop by the Mint Julep bar. Mint Julep Bar? I thought, What on happiest place on earth is a Mint Julep Bar? Much to my friend Ryan’s dismay, I dragged him all over the park, looking for the enchanting space that is the Mint Julep Bar. Over the span of three days, I think I drank five Mint Juleps. I can’t even describe to you what that experience was like. Imagine limes. Lemons. Pineapples, cherries, mint leaves and magic. Maybe you should just make yourself one. Here’s the recipe. Anyway, all of this to say that I have also been really obsessed with clay masks (because Essie, so naturally...) and the other day, when I made my weekly trek into Ulta, I FOUND A MINT JULEP MASK. First, I said a thankful prayer to the Mint Julep Gods for letting me find it, then, I bought it. And let me tell you, I’ve never felt such euphoria on my skin before. Do yourself a favor, okay? Mint Julep will change your life. Also, The Plaid Shirt. He always smells like a Mint Julep. Says it’s some kind of menthol aftershave he uses. Either way, I just. I can’t event talk about it. The smell of that man. It’s too sacred and holy. 

All I wanted from today was the city library, and by the time I got around to it, it was closed, and isn’t that the way it goes? But I’ve got my mint tea and I’m sitting pretty in a Starbucks just minutes from my home because I simply cannot get any writing done anywhere but somewhere else, you know what I mean? There’s that episode of Sex and the City where Carrie has to go to Starbucks to write because she’s in a fight with Aiden about never having enough alone time and she says that she used to judge the people at Starbucks who sat there with their computers, writing, but that now, she understands they go there because they never have enough time to themselves. I agree with that.

...

None of this is important; it is mundane. But it’s life, and that’s sort of a precious thing to document, I think. And I haven’t mentioned in a while how grateful I am to not be waiting tables and serving Rednecks beer. That was a weird life I led for a little while. Let’s not ever go back there, okay? Also, there’s a humongous dog in Starbucks right now and my roommate left for Australia this afternoon. She’ll be back in three weeks and I think I might cry myself to sleep ever night until she comes home.

K. 

My 29 year old non-boyfriend.

I was thinking of this post tonight.

Mostly because I remember writing it. I remember going to class that day, sitting down in a chair at the back of the room, seeing him for the first time, and thinking to myself that he was old school handsome.

And then, you know, last winter, there was that part where we spent January evenings in my apartment watching late night television and keeping each other warm. And then he didn't totally do everything he should have, but he didn't totally ruin my life, either.

So then there was last September when I ran into him around his birthday and then the day after that when I didn't want to go to a movie by myself because you know what the movies are like on Saturday nights, they just make you feel so alone, so I called him and oh, he was just thinking about me, actually.

...

Fast forward. That boy now lets me lie on his bed reading books while he massages my calves. Which sounds a lot sexier than it really is.

The other day, a friend asked me if I was falling back into that deep hole that is plaid shirts and art deco book ends. I told him I wasn't.

But then, tonight, The Plaid Shirt called me "babe" and it felt a little too normal. I didn't flinch until about thirty seconds after it happened and I was like, oh, yeah... he has never done that before. So, here's my new answer: yes, I might be falling back into the hole that is plaid shirts and art deco book ends, but this time, I'm armed with the cynicism of a girl who has tried it all before, so she's not being bold just yet. And that's anchoring me down. Like a miracle, it is.

He asks me about yoga pants and are they warmer than regular pants and he makes fun of me for wearing slippers outside the house, but he offers can I get you anything? as I defeatedly close my computer and plunge myself, headfirst, into his sheets. He doesn't ask questions, but tells me I'm welcome to stay there for as long as needs be because he's just washed the sheets and I don't really listen to anything past that because all I can think about is how they smell like him; they smell like eucalyptus and mint julep. And the other day, he told me that I was his favorite person in the world, so there's that, too.

And, you know, he just makes life a lot less hard and who am I to pretend like that doesn't mean something to me?





(P.S. headless shots happen because he's always doing something else and duct tape fixes everything.)

On being flawed.

I've been reading a lot about screenwriting and character developing and all of that stuff that goes into making a fantastic work of art--book or screenplay--and the things that resonate with me are never the plots. I've been learning more than my brain can physically handle right now. Since I'm not going to get a C in my math class, which is the grade I need to continue onward with math (oops), I've been using those precious two-and-a-half-hours to read up on screenwriters. Learn the tricks of the trade, you know? Granted, I don't take any notes in class, but I've been extremely productive, considering my professor loses me about halfway through the first equation he writes on the board. SO I MEAN WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO.

THINGS I'M LEARNING:
 Brevity is the soul of wit! And be careful with the format! 110 pages if you want to write a screenplay people will read! Plot is important; character development is crucial. But not too many characters! And don't have too few, either!

And do you want me to let you in on a little secret of the biz?? I learned something really fascinating about characters. They're useless in a story without flaws. Let me break it down for you. EHEM.

Draco Malfoy.
Perfect. He's always perfect. In every scene (I didn't read the books, so I will only refer to him in terms of the movie, no judgement.)(While we're at it, I should tell you that I didn't read The Hunger Games, either.) his hair is perfectly quaffed. He's constantly in pristine condition. He's got biting remarks that sting Harry. And don't you hate him? It's because there aren't any flaws written into his character! One dimensional! But remember toward the end of the series when you sort of kind of start to like him? Why? Because he becomes a real human being with weaknesses. Turns out his weakness was his family that he would literally do anything for. Fascinating, right?

And why do we love Indiana Jones?
Obvious answers: Because he's brave. Because he's smart. Because he's handsome. And also because he has a large issue with snakes. The guy doesn't touch them. Why do we love that? Because it's a contradictory character flaw. Something we can relate to.

On Sunday, I was sitting there watching The Walking Dead, trying to put my finger on why exactly it was that all of a sudden, The Governor comes back, and I'm like YEAH THE GOVERNOR THREE CHEERS FOR HIM BEING ALIVE. It was confusing because he is solely responsible for the slaughtering of mass amounts of people. So why do I love him? Oh yeah. Because you throw a little girl into his mix and he becomes like this completely adorable father figure who only cares about the safety of his child. And we live for that crap!

THIS TECHNIQUE IS BULLET PROOF!

The Godfather: Why does the audience feel compelled to pay attention to Don? Oh, because even though he's a mob boss, he's stroking a cat, showing his delicacy and slow-moving fingers. We like that. Even if he is terrifying, I MEAN COME ON, THERE'S A CAT!

Seriously, think about your favorite movie characters. And test this out.

+Leonardo DiCaprio's character, Dominick Cobb, from Inception. Brilliant man. Architect. Genius. Can do, basically anything with a little dream sequence. Until Mal is made aware of him. And then, boom! Weakness. He can't do anything.

+Winnie the Pooh: Honey. Poor bear can't get anything done with a jar of that stuff lying around. Weakness. Bet you've never thought of honey as an antagonist before, have you?

+Harry Burns from When Harry Met Sally: He's a romantic, but also incredibly cynical. For some reason we like that in a person. It balances him out.

+Sally Albright: Beautiful. In shape. Engaging. Intelligent. We like her because she's a neat freak with control issues. We like that because we're neat freaks with control issues.



Are you getting the point?

Well, anyway, this stuff fascinates me! What makes us attractive to other human beings? OUR FLAWS?! No. Can't be. BUT YES! It all makes sense! I've got this weird attraction to men who need saving. It's all in the flaws, I'm telling you! So, I started charting my own character flaws in an attempt to write some realistic characters, and I'd love to read about your own weaknesses. Is that allowed? Can I request that? HELP ME. What makes you a good character?

We've always preferred wildflowers.

The other night, a man told me about Marianne Dashwood.
I knew who she was,
but I let him tell me about her, anyway.

Marianne Dashwood. That woman, he said, is ravishing. Her passion and spontaneity... it thrills me. 

I let him continue on about her for a while, let him rave of her beauty. How brave, passionate, and lovely she must've been and What a pill! he'd say. He reminded me of her flaws, too: the way she treated strangers with contempt, Lady Middleton with coldness. Though, he said, she loves passionately. The people she chooses to, she loves without fences or walls and I find that enchanting. 

Almost reverently, he spoke of Marianne Dashwood, carried on about her for several minutes, all the while, not knowing I've compared myself to her all these years.

It made me remember the other night at his apartment, when he left the room.

One of his friends remarked on the way he often speaks of me.





(P.S. There's something ridiculously sexy about a man who reads Jane Austen.)

Stuff about this weekend:

More often than not this weekend, I was put into awkward situations. But then, Sunday came, and I was literally with my family all day long. There was dinner, homework, Christmas music, a big golden lab, and The Walking Dead (pirate governor... WTH?!) Also, my movie-making cousin asked me to write him a screenplay for a short film and I was like WHEN DO I START. It was a good day. 

The main event of the weekend, however, was the arrival of my dapper Texan cousin, Stetler. He came in around midnight. He goes into the MTC on Wednesday morning and then straight on to CAMBODIA come February! It's all so exciting, but it hasn't hit me yet that he's going to be gone for the next two years. Homeboy is literally the best back massager IN THE FREE WORLD. Anyway. I made him take a bazillion pictures with me tonight because, after all, he's the reason I came home. Even if I only get to see half an hour of him. 

I 

P.S. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WATCHED EVEN STEVENS BECAUSE SHIA LEBOUF IS MY ULTIMATE COMEDIC CRUSH (Speaking in hyperbole here because I'm not really sure if that's true).

Favorite conversations, Vol. I.

C: Will you take me out on my birthday?

D: Of course. 

C: Oh, wait. No. It's late this year. 

D: Courtney, it falls on the same day every year. It's your birthday.

C: No, I mean late in the week. It's on a Sunday. 

D: So, we'll celebrate you on Saturday and that will be that.

C: But you'll be in Brigham City?

D: That's only an hour drive from your parents' house. So, like I said, we'll celebrate you on Saturday. And that will be that.
(Something about not just celebrating, but celebrating me.)

Co: Oh, HEY. 

Ca: I haven't seen you around in a while! How've you been?

Co: Well!

Ca: Surviving the semester?

Co: Barely. You? And what's this? (Reaches up to palm his scruffed cheek. And golden dimples.)

Ca: This is me not shaving. 

Co: I'm a fan. 

Ca: I miss you. Why haven't I seen you?

Co: Because you stopped calling. 

D: Please let me buy your Dirty Diet Coke. 

C: Things I never thought you'd say. 

D: Please. 

C: No! 

D: (In a transatlantic, 1940's accent, reminiscent of Humphrey Bogart) I JUST WANT TO BUY MY LADY A DRINK! 

C: (...)

D: I regretted that accent as soon as it happened.

C: I didn't. Like, not even a little bit.

L: I just sent you an email. 

C: Should I go read it?

L: Probably. 

C: (Opens inbox. Sees an email from L. Subject reads ***IMPORTANT***. Opens email. Email is this.) 

D: I'm like Mr. Rogers. 

C: Okay. 

D: If I leave the house, I change my clothes. 

C: (Thumbing through closet) Have you seen how many plaid shirts you own? Just wondering. 

D: (Still on a Mr. Rogers kick) I mean, I can't leave the house wearing this--THIS IS MY LOUNGE HOODIE.

C: Let's count them (Starts counting. Three minutes pass.)

D: Did you give up?

C: Not exactly...

D: Did you get lost in the proper way to classify a plaid shirt? 

C: (Nods Head) SO MUCH GINGHAM, TOO. 

D: I know. It can be hard. 

Nov. 8, 2013 6:16 PM

D: Yo, what are you doing tonight?

Nov. 8, 2013 6:36 PM

D: Too slow. Now I've changed into my lazy clothes and I'm done for the night. 

Nov. 8, 2013 7:14 PM

C: You changed into lazy clothes at 6:30. This is why we are friends. 

D: (Brings food to booth)

C: You ordered an ice cream cone. 

D: Yeah, so?

C: Nothing, it's adorable?

D: My diet consists of Pop Tarts in the morning, grape soda for lunch, and pizza for dinner. 

C: Tell me: what's it like to be a thirteen year old boy? 

D: It's delicious. 

(At a reading centered around the love letters exchanged between Georgia O'Keefe and Alfred Stieglitz given by one of my favorite professors, Dr. Jennifer Sinor.) 

Dr. Sinor: I believe in the power of letters. I don't think people fall in love with each other through text messages. But with letters, that's how you fall in love. 

D: (In a whisper) Is that why you love You've Got Mail so much?

C: How did you remember that?

D: We watched it that time it was your turn to pick the movie.

C: (Pause, shocked by attention to detail.)

D: Love Letters.

C: Sometimes I wonder what the world would be like if we all ditched our cars and rode horses. 

D: It would be cold...

C: Wow, that was really groundbreaking information.

D: You couldn't make out in the back of your horse, so there's the real problem. 

C: Who does that, anyway?

D: I like making out in the back of the car...

C: That's tacky. And high school. 

D: I've done it since high school. 

C: That's because you're kind of ghetto.

D: My seats lie flat, though. 

C: Oooo... keep going, you're reeling me in.

D: I'm serious. It's sort of like you're on a couch.

C: But really, you're just on the floor of a car.

D: You don't think it's romantic?

C: No. Like, why wouldn't you just go to your house and do that?

D: What if you can't get to your house?

C: Then I guess there's no kissing until you can get there. 

D: THAT IS TERRIBLE LOGIC! 

C: Have I ever told you that you look like Jude Law?

D: No, but I am extremely flattered by that. Thank you. 

C: You're welcome. 

D: He's got a better nose than me. 

C: Your nose is fine. 

D: He's got more hair than I do. 

C: Your hair is fine.

D: It could be better. 

C: Well, you're 29 now, pal. 

D: That was hurtful.

C: But also the truth...

Buffalo Gal, can't you come out tonight.

I don't know what to call this.

"I am really good at whistling."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
"Do you want me to whistle something?"
"How about O Suzanna?"
"Oooo, sorry, that's not in my repertoire, so I'll probably just do The Star Spangled Banner." 
"I'm not uncomfortable with you." [He says this while I whistle.] "Like, never. I'm never uncomfortable here." [I am still whistling.]
"That's good!"
"Yeah. I'm not worried about anything with you. Nothing. I'm not like this around my other friends. I'm always worried about something. You know?"
"No."
"I'm not ever worried that you're going to try and seduce me or anything."
"Been there, tried that."
"Yeah, and it worked, too. And I'm just thankful you don't try it more often."

And I wonder what it is about me that makes him call when he knows he's going to make a mistake doing something else with someone else. Why me? Why call the person you sat on the fence contemplating? Why call the girl you hurt so many months ago? What is it about me that is so attractive to this man if he doesn't want me? He spouts off useless information about the French Revolution at least every other sentence and even at the age of twenty-nine, still refuses to eat green vegetables. I adore him again and again. And I'm stuck this way because we're in this weird little loneliness tango and until one lets go, the other just holds on. Because I care about him. A lot. And he cares about me a lot, too. Like, sit-in-the-car-until-I'm-teared-up-and-tuckered-out cares about me. Turn-the-heat-on-full-blast-because-I'm-chronically-cold cares about me. Drives-me-to-get-chicken-fingers-because-that's-what-I-want cares about me.

And anyway, this isn't a sob story. Like, I'm not sitting over here pining for this man because I don't think I want him, but I'm just not really sure that I understand what's going on. What is it about me that makes one hell of a friend, one hell of a human being, one hell of a seductress, but one girl who falls short of the thing he's looking for. And that goes without saying, why is it that way with the rest of them, too?

(This is an open-ended question designed to spark conversation, so feel free to give me your feedback. Actually, I really do need it.)

I graduate next year.

Hey, I have two semesters left of college and OH HOLY HELL I HAVE TWO SEMESTERS LEFT OF COLLEGE.

It's tripping me out. I was doing the usual, you know. Awake until midnight to register for my classes along with the other MILLION AND TEN STUDENTS REGISTERING WHO SLOWED DOWN THE PROCESS IMMENSELY (sorry it makes me rage-y).

And then, it hit me.
Going down the list, checking off classes I've completed, filling in the blanks where needs be...

Wait, huh? This part of  my life is almost over? I'm at the tail end? But wait, where's the rest of it? Where's that part where I magically find myself? The part where an intelligent young suitor comes in to rescue me from single's ward barbecues? Where is that dastardly handsome man I once kissed, who later takes me to the auto store and walks me through replacing headlights, but ends up doing it all for me because I'm cute and needy? (Oh, wait. Nvm. That part isn't a mystery.) Where is my college experience? The one I'm supposed to make big breakthroughs? Where's that part about this is the best time of your life, now don't screw it up? Like, was this it? Because I didn't get into trouble. I didn't really make stupid decisions. I was bold, said what I wanted to say when I wanted to say it, and now, here I am. Two semesters from that cap and gown.

So, now what? That's my question.
Come out of college with a degree and a few sarcastic remarks regarding the way I don't regret not pledging Kappa Delta?

What now, know what I mean?

Others have been there, too.

I've been struggling a great deal with one of those things that kicks you in the stomach. And, to make it worse, they've been little kicks throughout the year and I hadn't noticed until now.

A few days ago, my favorite writer, Meg Fee, wrote this piece and it is everything I wish I'd said. It matches my everything right now, and had me ugly crying on my bed for hours the other day. Because it's just that close.

"The violence of articulation. I had a teacher in school who used that phrase and I’ll never forget it. The violence. Of. Articulation. How nearly impossible it is to say some things out loud. How catapulting them out of the mouth is part pyrotechnics, part gymnastics, and one hell of a leap of faith. And how some words, no matter how they are said, leave cuts and stains and scratch the mouth.

But I’ve been choking on I-don’t-knows for nearly a month now, so you pick your battles.

Why is it easier to say the cruel things? Why do those words slip out, slick as oil, so tremendously seductive and so incredibly damaging? It’s so hard to speak from a place of generosity. To say, I am sad and I am hurt, and this can’t go on, but I am nonetheless in awe of you. To say you deserve my respect—my kindness, even as I am so completely and maddeningly frustrated with you—hurt by you.

Because the thing is, it’s not just about the words and the difficulty of getting them out—it’s about figuring out where truth and generosity meet. It’s about speaking from the largest part of yourself—that part that continuously reaches for a bigger life, that says I want more and if you can’t give it to me, I forgive you that—not your fault, but time to go. That part willing to risk a little bit of lonely. That part that makes a practice of faith and thinks well hell if I’m not lucky that I get to feel this, hard as it is. That part that goes to the edge of the cliff again and again and again.

I’m so angry with him. In a completely and totally and ridiculously unfair way I am so absolutely angry with him. For not being the person I wanted him to be (I know). For not falling in love with me (Yes, I know). For not being courageous enough to fight for the thing. For not knowing he’s worth fighting for the thing. For that one time on the subway platform that he didn’t ask me to dance when the busker sang Isn’t She Lovely. For occasionally being so ridiculously great. And occasionally being so ridiculously not. For those moments when the light would slant just so and I would look at him and see that he’d be a fucking giant-of-a-man if he would just rise to the occasion. For lacking the courage and foresight and necessary grit. Or choosing not to recognize that he is already all the things he needs to be. And more.

He wasn’t the right guy. For me. He wasn’t the right guy, for me. And he certainly never looked at me like I was the right girl for him. And I am a girl who wants to be looked at like that."

Meg Fee

Thank you, again, Meg. For writing the words I, cut simply, can't write, but feel.

If you'd like to read the rest of this piece (and trust me, YOU DO) go here. She's incredible.

Knight in shining good-with-mousetraps.

I used to think you'd be tall, used to picture you sort of swarthy and indefinitely, you'd ride in on a trail of white rose petals that I'd collect, dry, and save until I could show our daughters how gallant you were.

Now, I think it would be nice if you weren't afraid of mice and ate donuts with me in bed.

I don't want one of those flower things around my head at our wedding because I think they're stupid. I don't want a fancy barn or a fancy dress that day, I want you, me, white linens, a few twinkle lights, and red velvet cake. This seems like the perfect time to add that if you shove that cake in my face, I make no promises about our private party later that night. I'm talking hit the sheets, I'm out like a light. You were warned.

I used to want you to be a piano prodigy, a doctor, billionaire, model citizen, and the winner of a Nobel Prize, but now, I really just want you to whisper funny comments in my ear at church and be okay with egg salad sandwiches for dinner.

I sleep comfortably alone on my queen-sized bed and it's confusing to me that I'll have to sleep next to you one day. I don't like sharing my bed, but ON MY HONOR I'll never make you sleep on the couch. Because when I was sixteen, my mother told me that's an easy way to keep your problems unresolved. So welcome, you. Get cozy because you're not going anywhere.

I'm good at doing dishes, even better at asking for tickle-back-turns. I like baseball caps and Boston Cream Pie. Do you like what I'm putting down? Also, what should I plan on getting you for Valentine's Day, because I feel like that answer will be useful for the rest of my life. Hint: I like Lip Butter and swanky art museum prints.





I used to pray for you to come. I used to pray for a lot of things, actually. Things that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with all the wrong men.

Recently, I've changed those prayers to fit the mold of "please make me the woman I need to be" and I can feel it working miracles on the both of us already.


I've come to a realization lately, as certain events have transpired, that I am terrified of getting married. The other day, I couldn't commit to dinner with this guy because I'm such. a social. mess. So, when I commit to you, I mean what I say, and I expect you to do the same. Promise me our only secrets are Christmas mornings and when I ask for a kiss, don't think twice. Unless I have a cold sore (is this a good time to tell you that I get cold sores?).

I don't want to marry my best friend because I don't need another one of those. I need a you. I want to marry the man who loves me because my intellect stems from years of collegiate study. The man who makes fun of me for wearing socks to bed and doesn't question the fact that Taco Bell is where I want to be on Saturday nights. The one who loves me because he's fought to do so. Because I'm a tough broad who's hard to catch. Got more problems than a three-legged war horse (no idea where that analogy even came from, but it seems pretty messed up) and I'm running, fast, from you. So speed up and make sure I'm worth catching, would you? Be my fourth leg. Comb my hair when I've got the flu. Build all of the IKEA shelves and be unabashedly invested in a life that you want to include all of me.



All love,

CK

I just.

I *accidentally think this every day.

*am emotionally unstable right now, so I'm allowed to

Salutem Rete

1.  "Hello?"
     "Hi. What are you doing?"
     "Hey. Watching a movie on my bed."
     "Okay, I'm coming to get you."
     "K."

     I do. I go get him.

     "It's warm in here. And you're playing Christmas music." I say nothing, but I smile. "What's up, champ?" he says. I shake my head. Two minutes pass. "I've never seen you like this; you want to talk?" I shake my head again.
     "I just sort of... right now, I just need you to just be. Like, just be sitting there. I need that. I just need you to..."
     "Be present."
     "Exactly."
     "I can do that." We're not saying anything. I'm not, and even more bizarre, neither is he.
     "You're not talking. It's freaking me out," I say. He laughs.
     "You told me you just wanted me to be!"
     "Well, yeah," I laugh,"but you can talk, too. I know you're just bursting at the seams to tell me something. You're always telling me something." He laughs again.
     "You're right. But if you just want me to be, I can just be."

We pull into the Starbucks parking lot, go inside. I order a Vanilla Rooibos tea. Point to the iced lemon pound cake. Ask him if he's ever had it. Comments that only at my grandma's house and it wasn't groundbreaking. Says that the last time he was at Starbucks, he was breaking up with a girl. And after that breakup, they made out in the back of his truck. It was in high school, so no judgement, okay? And I drove a truck in high school, so double-no-judgement he says. I tell him he should try the cake. And that he shouldn't break up with girls in places like Starbucks. Or make out in the back of cars. Because it's tacky. He laughs. "I know," he says. We sit.
   
     "Tell me about New York." I say.
     "That's really kind of a broad topic. What do you want to know?"
     "About the time you lived there."
     He jumps in the way I trust he would. "Well, I used to work for an ad agency on Madison Avenue. Lived near Columbia University. Spent my lunch breaks in Bryant Park and pretended like I didn't hate my job." Looks to me. I'm stirring my tea waiting for it to cool, left hand on chin, legs crossed.
     "More. Just please keep talking." He doesn't ask me if I'm okay. He's the only person who doesn't ask me if I'm okay.
     "My bedroom was large enough for a bed and a desk. I never sat at the desk because when I'd pull the chair out, it hit my bed in a way that was sort of comical." [Takes glasses off to shine them.] "I spent a lot of my time at the New York City Library. And there was this guy in The Garment District," [Puts glasses back on.] "who I found fascinating. He was there every day. Always dressed in knee-high tube socks. Wore the helmet of a Roman soldier. Waved to me as I passed. At work, there was Elise, the woman whose office was beside mine. She called me Darrin. I never corrected her. How's the tea?"
     "Good. Don't stop."
     "Working at an ad agency is my personal hell. I wouldn't move back to New York. I'd visit, but move?" [Shakes head.] "Never again."

Brings up Christopher Wren. Says he's visiting Europe in the spring. I tell him about the pizzeria next to St. Paul's. He promises to go. We talk about Rousseau. Says he'll take a day trip to Saint Denis while he's in France. I tell him I can't picture that one. "Cathedral. Gothic," he says. We laugh because how is that helpful at all? We start a new conversation: Monet's Rouen Cathedral series. He doesn't know what that is. I soak in a moment of knowing something he doesn't. He tells me I'm smart. Tells me I'm delightful. I explain the paintings. He tells me to tell him more, so I do.

     "They're done at different times during the day," I say, "and it's so fantastic."
     "That sounds lovely," he says. He means it. He actually means the word lovely. "Did I tell you I'm taking a few years of Latin for grad school?"
     "No, but that sounds like you," I watch him fuss with a button on his coat and feel a little tingly because he's ambitious. Also, I can't get over how uncanny the Jude Law resemblance is. That'll make any of us tingle. "Oh, Devin. You devastatingly handsome man." I say. He laughs.

[We get up, head out the door.]

     "You're intellectually stimulating," I say.
     "You are, too." He tells me, again, that I've got more in my head than other girls.
     "I'd rather have that said about me than any other thing."
     "Well, good. That means you're a worthwhile person."
     "Yeah," I say.

[We get in the car. I don't say anything.]
 
     "You're not all here tonight, are you?" he catches.
     "I'm not."
     "That's okay, I just want to make sure you're still alive in there." He taps his index finger to my nose.
     "Pending." I'm about to turn into his driveway.
     "Keep driving," he says, "and if you don't want to talk, we'll sit. But keep driving." My eyes hurt. I pull over. "Kill your lights." So, I do. "What happened to you? You're not being you right now."
     "I am off."
     "Expand."
     "I don't know, Dev. Off."
     "..."
     "I don't tell anyone exactly what I think anymore. I can't remember the last time I was honest about something like tha--well..." [We are quiet.] "you, I guess. I guess the last time was... you." He smiles.
     "Me. Oh, before The Weirdness?" [We categorized the seven months we were scared of speaking and made it a proper noun.]
     "I guess. But, anyway. I never say what I'm thinking."
     "Do more of that," he demands, "and may I be bold?" he asks. I nod. "You're exhausted." I wipe a tear with my mitten and he's right. "You've been keeping this all bottled up in there, haven't you?" I nod again, because yeah. I've been bottling it all up in here. "Call me. Day or night. If it's night and I'm asleep, call again and I'll pick up. I always hear it on the second ring. But Court," he puts a hand on my knee and I am still all over. "I think you're holding onto something that's been gone a long time," and I don't know how he's just figured it out, but he's right. And I start to cry again. He makes sad eyes and I feel the weight of me on his shoulders. "Oh, Court." He looks over. We take off our seat belts.
     "I'm getting out because I need you to do that thing."
     "Of course."

I'm crying. Walk towards him. Headlights illuminate us. He pulls his arms around me completely, cradles my head in one hand. My face is buried deep in his chest. We're not talking. Only standing and it's the safest I've felt in weeks.

     "You're one of my favorites. Top of my priority list these days." I don't want him to let go yet, and so, he doesn't. My body is limp and aching next to his. I cry because I know he's being genuine. Real. And I've been rocked so hard by insincerity that this normality of pure human decency buffers at my ridges and makes me feel like less of a shadow. "Will you call me if you think about it?" I nod in his shirt. "Okay." And then, we just stand there for a few minutes because, well, there's no reason. But it felt good to just have someone be. 

I've been getting used to liars.

It always comes back to this.

THIS IS JUST TO SAY

HELLO.

My Halloween turned into me watching WWZ with a dashing twenty nine year old man that I can't seem to stay away from, regardless of the fact that I know I should. Anyway, we watched it with pizza and I made him try my Dirty Diet Coke. He wasn't impressed.

WEIRD THINGS HE SAID LAST NIGHT THAT SEEMED OF NOTE:

(At the Sonic drive-thru)
Him: What are you getting?
Me: Route 44 Dirty Diet Coke.
Him: What on earth?
Me: Just order it. I'll explain later.
Him: I need a Route 44 Dirty Diet Coke and...
Me: What are you going to get?
Him: Still trying to decide... (after he mulled it over for what seemed like three minutes, he said...) and a small Root Beer.
Me: You're kidding.
Him: YOU ORDERED A DRINK WITH THE WORD DIRTY IN IT.

Him: I have a pick-axe and sometimes I practice throwing it at trees because I think that skill would be helpful in the event of a zombie apocalypse.
Me: I'm sorry. Let's go back to the part where you have a pick-axe and let's just talk about it for a minute.
Him: I feel like I'm not alone in this.

THINGS HE SAID WHILE WATCHING WWZ:

"A baseball bat? What would a baseball bat be doing in a sectioned off health facility in England? A cricket bat, maybe, but baseball?"

"In my twenty-ninth year, I have found that I'm finally able to grow a mustache."

Me: This entire time, all I have been able to think about is whether or not your pants are velvet. They look velvet. Are they?
Him: They're canvas, but I feel like I want velvet pants now? Is that allowed?

(My favorite game to play with him of late is the age game. It makes him severely uncomfortable.)
Him: I was so excited to see The Lord of the Rings when it came out my junior year of high school.
Me: I was about nine when that movie came out.
Him: Stop. I can't.

Him: I remember the first time I watched Ghostbusters. It was at a sleepover at Mark Reed's house in the sixth grade.
Me: When you were in the sixth grade, I was...
Him: Please don't finish that sentence.


Him: You don't know what an incubator is?
Me: No. I do not know what an incubator is.
Him: I've known what that was since I was probably seven years old.
Me: So, around the time I was born, then?
Him: (Messes up my hair and calls me champ.)


Me: In Halloween in high school involved a large, metal witch hat that Austin's mom used to have. We called it The Sorting Hat and did weird rituals with it in the dark.
Him: ...because Harry Potter was "a thing" when you were in high school.
Me: Hahahaha yeah.

Anyway, I would just like to take this moment right now to say that time heals all wounds. And also, sometimes, I find myself wanting to kiss him just for fun, but I never follow through. So, I guess time doesn't heal the fact that we both like kissing each other. But the point is that it does heal wounds.