For the Love of Minx

Moving Time

2012-01-31T13:51:00.000-08:00

You know when you get in the mood for a change? You just feel anxious and unsettled and unhappy and you feel like you have to get out, go somewhere, change something?

Well, I don't feel that at all. I am exceptionally happy. I feel supa' CHARGED UP. So much good has happened in my life and I'm simply thrilled. In all honesty. I don't know why this is coming across as sarcastic. Maybe it's the amount of periods. I'll throw in an exclamation point!

Nope. Didn't help. But, listen, I really am so happy, for a variety of lovely reasons.

One: My brother bought a puppy and named him T-Rex. He's the cutest thing. Really. I show pictures of him to everyone. Over and again.

Two: I have $7,900 in savings currently. Which is pretty fantastic. Sure, two grand is a student loan, but that leaves almost six grand made with the sweat and tears of moi. See? Hard work does pay.

Three: I am in my senior year of college. Yeah, this time next year I'll be prepping for graduation. Walking the walk, talking the talk. All that jazz. And, for those who doubt it, there really is nothing more satisfying than being able to say "I'm a senior." It's empowering.

Four: Though my brothers are gone (and I weep every night for them), Cait came back to Utah! And it's been so fun getting to see her so much. Her and her beautiful puppy. Also, with The Hunger Games coming out soon, guess who'll be my date? Ding a ling a ding dong!

And, five (which is what this post is all about): I GOT ACCEPTED TO THE LONDON STUDY ABROAD!!!! I posted this on facebook, so everyone who reads this should already know. But...I tried to pass it as my getting a mission call (really, it was a perfectly crafted announcement subtly satirizing the usual mission announcement without ever outright lying. Oh, the cleverness of me). Maybe there's still some confusion out there. So, to clarify, all that was very tongue-in-cheek. I am going to London to play, not to serve; to bask in its glory for six weeks or so, not 18 months. Imma goin' to merry ole london! Returning to the motherland! A dream is finally coming true!

But, it's all this goodness and all this change that has enthused me completely. Thus, I have come to announce--after such a long break--that I have moved. I created a new blog--one that will naturally allow me to share a new sort of adventure (those of an international sort). It is called "The Traveling Typist." But it's not just a travel blog; it will function much like this one. Just..a new blog for a new chapter of my life. That of a more graceful sort of immaturity.

Follow me. Or I'll defame you.

The Case of the Blisters

2011-12-03T15:44:00.000-08:00

I went up to campus today, to be all productive-like. I woke up, as I usually do, got dressed, which I sometimes do*, and packed up my school stuff--on a Saturday. Psch. But before going out into the cold--where a light coating of snow had turned to ice on everything--I did what I thought was the smart thing and put on a pair of shoes. Now, this pair of shoes was a slightly random choice. And, considering how this story ends, I think it was the devil tempting me, determined to keep me single and celibate. But we'll get to that later.

The point is, I grabbed a pair of shoes. A pair of shoes that, one, I never wear and, two, are kind of uncomfortable. But I wore them because, one, they were the closest in my reach and, two, I never wear them. Share the love, you know? Cuz shoes have feelings too.

Anyway. I put them on, march out, and I'm so focused on not slipping and falling on my face that I hardly notice the pinching at my heels and toes. Once I sat down in the computer lab, once I pulled out all my school stuff, and once I turned on some great music and tried to focus on writing a ten-page paper on femininity in American literature--that, that is when I started to feel the pinching. So i kicked my shoes in. Made myself at home like that.

Everything was fine. I worked for an hour or so, then got up to print something. Now, knowing that bare feet are gross to see in public paces, I put my shoes on. And then I really felt the fury that my feet had for me. I literally couldn't walk in them. These shoes I'd had on for the maybe-ten-minute walk up to campus, they had completely ravaged my feet. I have a blister on either heel, long and narrow and bubbly. On my big toes, little toes, and all across other areas of my feet, little blisters were forming. And once I forced those victimized feet back into the shoes that did that to them, they turned on me. They wouldn't work. I staggered, limped, hopped to the printer, all while trying to play it cool in front of the half-dozen people present. Seriously, though, when it came time to go back to my computer, I considered crawling. Weeping. Wailing. All of the above. Instead, I did this sort of tip-toe hop, like a game where the entire purpose was not to put any weight on either foot.

I lost.

And the smile I tried to throw at the cute boy nearby turned into what I'm sure can only be described as a terrified/terrifying grimace.

He didn't look at me every again.

So I took my shoes off, buied them deep behind the desk. I folded my feet under me, as if to comfort them and protect them, win them back--prove my deep-seated affection for them. I don't think they bought it, though; they were still resentful by the time four o'clock rolled around and I was done with all my school work.

I almost considered staying till closing, just so I wouldn't have to face my shoes or the trek back home. But...there was nothing for me there. I was a mere lost soul without working feet.

But I couldn't face those shoes again. So, ever-so-slyly, I packed them up with my other books and binders, hiding them in my backpack. I glanced around and, once it was clear I was not being watched, I put on my tiny, cutesy little can't-really-be-called-socks socks. And then I stood up. With another anxious glance, I quickly glided out of the room, around the backside of the building (to avoid being seen), and out the doors. There was suddenly this influx of people, I swear, all staring at my feet--pointing and laughing and jeering in not nice ways.

Just kidding. But I almost ran. I almost ran. It was that bad. whenever I passed people, I would just smile at them so they would look at me and not down...at my bare feet. And everything was fine; I'd practically gotten away with it. Then I came to the crosswalk.

I was coming round to it just as this guy--this really cute guy--came from the other side. He pressed the button, I pulled to a stop and just tried desperately not to be noticed. I stepped on my toes, tried to look inconspicuous, but when I looked up...he was looking down.

"What happened to your shoes?"

And all I could do was laugh. I stuttered and paused, blushed and shook my head. I tried to explain, breathlessly, that I had gotten really bad blisters so I just decided to walk home barefoot. He raised an eyebrow and, almost pointedly, glanced down at the snow covered grass. Then back at me. So I laughed again, wishing I could be witty, wishing this would be a great "when they met" story. But I just buried my head and said, "It's kind of embarrassing."

Not as embarrassing as your own ineptitude, Shelby. I mean, come on, he couldn't even hear what you'd said since you SAID IT INTO YOUR SCARF.

Right.

But then the light change. He sort of forced a smile, nodded, and said, "Alright, then. Well...good luck."

And that was that. I rushed home, laughing and shaking my head (so much so that I probably just looked even more psycho for being barefoot and suffering from tourette's). But, let's face it, even if I had shoes that probably wasn't even my soulmate. And I probably would have been just as awkward. And if he can't take a girl trudging barefoot in the snow, then...yeah.

Besides, I mean, in my defense, he was the one wearing shorts. Who does that?

*Just Kidding. I always do this. Nudity is not nice.

Remember Me?

2011-11-14T15:58:00.000-08:00

Hey. It's been awhile, I know. And for that I apologize. Life often gets in the way. But maybe that's a good thing: I've been so busy LIVING, I just didn't have time to ever sit down and write about it.

Yeah, we'll go with that.

But, seriously, it's been over a month. What's happened? I'M ENGAGED!!!

Just kidding.

Hmm.

But, there's a few things that surprised me: One, the year's almost over. How did that happen? Remember all my illustrious plans, hopes, and dreams? Yeah....well, it seems time's a tricky thing to hold onto. Two, the year's almost over. And this is great; I am so ready for it to be done. Lots of ugly ups and downs and emotional carnage and dull, dull days. AND I LOVE CHRISTMAS!

Seriously, though, this year I'm obsessed. I'm practically counting down to when ABC Family begins to air their cheesily-dreamy Christmas movies. And Lifetime has all theirs up on Hulu. And I found a website that lists all the holiday movies available on Netflix. So...I've been watching Christmas moves, listening to Christmas music, planning Christmas presents. My roommates and I had an excruciating cold arm contest (that led to ill health for a week) made bearable by singing "12 Days of Christmas" over and over. We just mumbled when it got past the 8 geese a'laying because, come on, who really knows what comes after that?

So, any soul-sucking naysayers out there who think Christmas only begins after Thanksgiving, to you I say this: what more do we have to be grateful for than the birth of the savior? Christmas music evokes the spirit of Thanksgiving. So...eat that.

haha it's almost a pun.

An Admittance

2011-10-11T13:14:00.000-07:00

This story is embarrassing. I feel compelled to share it only to beat my roommate to the punch, who takes great pleasure in telling it to everyone and anyone she meets. So I need to act fast, keep this joke in my hands. Laugh with them before they all just laugh at me, point at me, snicker at me, and I inevitably burst into tears and write scathing death poems about them all. So, for their safety and my sanity, I shall persist.

You know that place, somewhere caught between dreams and wakefulness? Everything's hazy and only half-present, but you feel almost conscious? It's like an in-between land. And that's where I was late last night/early this morning.

I was snuggled in bed, mostly asleep, but everything felt real and...present. I was dreaming, but I was in my room. My roommate was there. I remember it feeling really real. And I don't remember what exactly I was dreaming, but I remember feeling like I was awake--even recognizing on some level that I was awake. And--here it comes--I...I....

Oh, give me strength.

I smacked my lips lightly, leaned forward eagerly, hugged my pillow tightly and whispered dreamily, "Look at all the cute puppies."

My roommate giggled. My heart stopped. I became suddenly aware that this was the place of wakefulness; I was no longer dreaming. And I mumbled an explanation, still half-asleep, but my roommate laughed harder. So I closed my eyes tightly and willed myself back to that place of rest. And I didn't wake up again until my roommate was up in the morning, out at the bathroom, and she laughed and said, "Guess what Shelby said last night?"

All morning, I was serenaded by a chorus of LOLs. One roommate, two roommates, the roommate. They couldn't get enough of it. My direct roommate--the one doing all the giggly reporting--couldn't get through the phrase without collapsing into a ROFL.

At least that's what it sounded like. I couldn't be sure; I stayed hidden in bed for the next half hour, waiting for them to leave because I didn't want to face them. But I will no longer bow my head in shame, nor cower before the jeers. I stand with pride and with dignity and announce without shame, "Look at all the cute puppies!"

So, yeah, I dream about puppies. In this corrupted world, is that something to be humiliated by? Nay, I say. Nay. It could have been worse. ...Maybe not funnier, but most definitely worse. All this means is I dream of cute puppies. My roommates must be jealous, but I will not be ashamed.

I mean, it could be like a metaphor for life. The new glass-half-full mantra: do, please, look at all the cute puppies.

Satan Hath Possessed Me

2011-10-10T13:08:00.000-07:00

Last, last week my contacts were bugging me. My eyes were getting all pukey and pink and totally nast. So I threw them out and wore glasses for a week. I was going for a sort of clense, you know. And it worked. So I thought on Sunday I'd put in some new contacts. And I did.

Looked super sexy, too.

I have witnesses if you don't believe it.

So I was happy to be all wide-eyed again. Only, today I woke up with bloodshot eyes. But I thought, whatever, and I put in my contacts.

Looked super sexy, too.

I was wearing cerulean blue, which always works for me.

I went to class, I went to class, I had a break, I went to class. And then I went to work. But I stopped in the restroom, did my thing, washed my hands, looked up in the mirror. BOOM. A freak of nature looked right back at me. Everything was fine except for the fact that my eyes were red. The whites were were blood red, angry veins sprouting and spilling across the vastness, tainting what was once so pure. To make things worse, I have green eyes. And in my cerulean blue, they tend to stand out; and against bright red, they just really shine.

It was like Christmas all up in there.

I had a mini panic attack I made faces in the mirror, poked myself in the eyes, folded my arms in defiance. People glanced at me awkwardly, but I just scowled at myself, just me and my Satan eyes.

I thought, maybe they aren't noticeable from a distance; maybe they just need some water and, like a reverse plague of Egypt, they would clear again. But that didn't work. And they were noticeable. So I avoided eye contact. I shook my bangs in front of my face. I stared at my feet. I thought maybe it was an allusion. But then I decided I had to be the one to joke about it before someone else did. So I walked into work and laughed, saying, "Holy crap, guys, I have satan eyes."

They laughed, I laughed; I whined, they still laughed. I tried to go about the day, but my one coworker was like, "No, those are really bad. You look evil. I can't even trust you. How sick is that? I can't believe you're going to sit up front looking like that. I literally can't stop staring at you. You repulse me."

Etc.

So I finally clocked out, ran (read: walked quickly-ish) home, boiled my contact case, rubbed my contacts in solution, put them away, put on my glasses....and grabbed a quick lunch.

It didn't help. My eyes are still red and now they hurt more. As if my contacts were shields, protecting the majority of my eyes from the creeping nature of the pulsing red. So now my entire eye is probably just this orb of red.

Plus they itch. And I wish that they weren't so freaky. And I feel like I have to buy all new eye makeup now if it is...that one thing that makes your eyes go red and people avoid it. So it's just all around not good.

I blame Satan.

He's always had it out for me.

How's That For Inspiration?

2011-10-04T20:43:00.000-07:00

Here There Be Monsters

2011-09-30T14:06:00.000-07:00

Last night, I put off writing my paper to have a sword fight.

My roommate has these two foam swords. Not like child-friendly, pool floating foam. No, these are like legit. Stiff and sturdy and really, really painful. I picked one up just to be funny; next thing you know, she's describing the art of fencing/fighting and we're in the living room duking it out. Except I was terrified by the fire in her eyes, so I shut mine and swung with both arms, whimpering faintly as she roared.

Actually, I was pretty good. I mean, it being my first time and all. I wasn't giving up easy. Halfway through, though, when I was giggle-crying, she told me, "You're like Luke Skywalker."

Whatever that means.

She hit me in the leg--after I chopped off her arm, mind you, though she kept on swinging. And now I have this major welt on my thigh, breaking blue against my skin. A war scar, if you will. It's pretty nast.And now, now I'm ready. I'll take her down in an instant. One fatal swoop, I'll have both her arms, I'll dice her legs to pieces and, as I stand over her bleeding-self I'll scream "Look who's Skywalker now!" I'll throw in a manly grunt, maybe kick her while she's down. I'll pound my chest, foam at the mouth and roar. So...yeah, you just wait for that. Because this, this is war.

This is Not a Date.

2011-09-16T09:56:00.000-07:00

I went to a movie with a friend last night. We wanted to see Contagion, which is basically like a documentary. But horrifying. Also, I will never touch my face again. And if you cough on me, I might just kill you.

Anyways. The movie. We were hyper and laughing and harassing the concession cashier before tripping into the theater. It was empty, aside from three senior citizens sitting ridiculously close to the screen. I naturally wondered if maybe we were in the wrong theater (because I really doubt Contagion's target audience was anyone beyond 65).

"No, no," she said, "It's just a Thursday night. Nobody's here." So we sat down and ate popcorn and watched the trailers. For Puss in Boots. I thought, hey, maybe it's just a weird theater that shows any trailers it wants, regardless of subject matter. So I sat quietly--well, no, we were definitely not quiet; we may have been drunk (just kidding)--and watched a variety of cheesy, sentimental trailers until the screen went black and my friend leaned over to say "Now we'll know."

We both leaned forward with anticipation, I doubting her ability to lead me into the correct theater; her ready to gloat at her prowess. And then....

"Joseph Smith" scrolled across the screen.

We choked up laughing and tripped out the theater the same way we came in, almost running over yet another senior couple who came squabbling in.

But it was pretty hilarious.

This time, I led us to the right theater--filled with a variety of appropriately-aged audience-members--where we caught the trailers for The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and the horror film, The Thing. Which made much more sense, considering we were there to watch famous people die by a mysterious, seizure-causing epidemic set to the most unnerving soundtrack ever written.

And it was creepy. Creepy awesome. Holy creepy awesome.

It was awesome.

Insert T-Rex Noise Here

2011-09-04T10:49:00.000-07:00

I love Jurassic Park. I love it. Literally, and in every sense of the word. I worship it. I gain life lessons from it.

I am obsessed.

My roommate had never seen it, and I got her to watch it last night. She enjoyed it (of course), but mostly I was surprised at how into it I still get. I've seen it dozens upon dozens of times and it never fails to impress. I was hugging myself excitedly, leaning forward anxiously, smiling giddily. I mouthed along my favorite parts. I had to fight to keep from squealing during the best moments. I giggled at the cheesy parts. I cringed when the raptors popped up. And I was practically jumping out of my seat with possibly my all-time favorite line: "The door locks. Get the door locks."

haha

I'm still smiling about it.

But, funny story? Well, said roommate who had never seen it--I was prepping her, talking excitedly and obsessively about its epic-ness. I told her how scary raptors are and she nodded and smile, I'm sure shocked by my enthusiasm. But we were watching and we got to the part where the raptors get out and she goes, "I thought raptors could fly."

Ho.Ly.Crap. That would be the most terrifying thing EVER. Can you even imagine. I kind of forgot about the movie for a second, I was so caught up in the idea of raptor with wings.

See? There is a god. Because if raptors had been given wings, we wouldn't have stood a chance. Forget about monkeys taking over the planet; flying raptors would definitely rule. And it would be horrifying.

Possibly awesome. But mostly horrifying.

That Just Happened

2011-08-28T20:27:00.000-07:00

I punched myself in the face. And it wasn't on purpose. I just have no real depth perception.

See, I was cleaning up the apartment with my other roommates. Just de-boxing boxes, packing away the last of the dishes, vacuuming the carpet. And I thought I'd get the broom. Be real thorough about it.

I skipped down the hall, humming a little Guys and Dolls under my breath. But I paused when I reached the back storage room, looking around for a broom. The light was on and I fumbled with the stuff, shuffling around some boxes to reveal a stack of broom-like items. Long sticks, you know. I reached through the tangled handles, grasping what I was sure was the correct tool. I pulled at it, starting to sing again. And then something hit me in the face.

Before I even realized what had happened, I was blinking and balking and sputtering. And then I started tearing up inexplicably in one eye. I reared back to figure out what was happening, and then I got it.

In one hand, I was grasping the handle of the broom halfway down. And in my enthusiastic excitement, I had yanked it forward only to forget that, yes, that top part had to swing up with it. Right into my eye.

Like deep in, too. I mean, the little demon inside me literally thrust the handle into my right eye socket and spun it around a little, just for a few laughs.

No, it was really my fault. I really, honestly, literally did not see that coming. I don't know how, but it was invisible to me. That is, until it was suddenly pushing in my eyeball stretching towards the back of my head.

It hurt. A lot. And I don't know how my eye survived, because it felt like it squeezed my eye all the way back to my brain. But I assure you it's still intact. Even my contact went unscathed.

Honestly, I was a little more than scared

that it would have somehow seared to my eye

and that when I tried to take it out at night,

I would peel my iris out with it.

bleh.

But then I couldn't stop laughing at myself. And shaking my head and mumbling to myself. And wiping at the tears and the runny mascara. And worrying/hoping that I would get a black eye, already preparing an entirely different war story to share if that were the case. And then I wondered if maybe I could laugh over it with my roommates, bond over my klutzy, self-mutilating behavior. But I didn't want to embarrass myself.

No; instead, I post it here for all the world to read how I, Shelby Anne Boyer, punched myself in the face. Because, yeah, that really happened.

I Love Life

2011-08-25T15:24:00.000-07:00

This is my try at a positive spin on life. I figure it's a new school year, I'm in a new apartment, it's time to be a new me. Or isn't that the cliche anyway?

But, seriously. I'm going to be happy.

No matter how much I already hate my major (as griped about here previously).

No matter how much I hate myself for signing up for a poetry class--a full four months worth of poetry? Seriously? And I already know I'll be expected to attend poetry readings (can I get a snap*snap*bongo drum).

No mattter how awful it is watching my savings drain into book-buying. My running total is at $511. Yeah, and that's used, Amazon--the whole save-some-money shebang.

No matter how much I hate that this is the first week I've actually gotten to sleep in since having a full-time job and it's over in three days.

No matter how little food I have currently, or how unprepared I am school-supplies-wise or how unenthusiastic I am about strapping a backpack to myself and skipping off to school with 31,000+ others.

No matter all that, I am trying to be happy.

Ha. Even this blog post is dripping with cynicism.

But I should be serious. I do have a good, happy life and I'm well aware of it. I'm just embracing that sarcastic side of me, because I'll always be a glass-half-empty kind of girl. Not in a I-hate-my-life-and-I-want-to-die kind of way, but more like....life-sucks-and-then-you-die. See the difference? One is just depressing and helpless, the other is dark and funny and content with the combo. And that is definitely moi.

Really, I can blame my mom for seeing that: she opened my eyes to my own reality this last week, really introduced me to myself and my personality as a *ahem* Type 4. In a nutshell, a Type 4 is one whose favorite word is "stupid."

Mind. Blown.

Shameless Self-Promoting

2011-08-12T15:49:00.000-07:00

I critique books. And by critique I mean criticize.

It's been a while since I've read anything good, okay?

But, in any case, I have a book blog. I'm still figuring it out, ironing out the kinks, figuring out ways to make it rock. But it's started and it's lovely.

Only....no one's following it.

Actually, before yesterday, I had one friend following it. So that's cool. A little pathetic, sure (not her--my one, true friend--but the number). And even when I posted a link on facebook. Nothing. I must say, I am ashamed.

I thought, well, maybe they don't like books. Maybe they're already sick of me with this blog--maybe one is enough?! I may have been hurt, but I wasn't going to say anything.

And then I got on today. And guess what? Um, I have another follower. A certain Carol Oates. Don't know her? Well, neither do I. She's one of those people you tend to know of.

As in she has her own claim to fame.

As in she is a writer of YA fiction.

As in she's been published.

Multiple times.

And she follows my blog. I don't know how or why or if it even means anything. But she's a follower. I guess that makes her cooler than you.

Just kidding. No hard feelings.

Only...a famous person follows my blog. Ergo, you should too.

Here's the link: www.by-its-cover.blogspot.com

Here's to Growing Up.

2011-08-04T11:07:00.000-07:00

I am so humiliated right now, I can barely function. I just spent a couple hours clicking through my emails, reading conversations from '06 to '09. Holy crap.

WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME I WAS A PSYCHOPATH??

I found all these "flirt sessions" with various boys I can barely remember. I can't believe the things I did and said and sent. I can't believe I used the WORLD WIDE WEB to transmit them. Now they're just floating around somewhere, completely out of my control. Those guys will probably find them years from now and send copies to their daughters, just to say "Never be like this."

Ah, I was so crazy. Most of it, I don't even remember. Those high school years are all just...hazy. All the boys and texts and conversations--they're just blurs. I think I blocked them from my memory.

You think looking back at old crushes would be funny. No, I'm just in utter shock over how psycho and vapid I was. I've always thought I finally got my confidence around then. Yeah, I got confidence, sure, but I also got crazy. I would share them but--no, no, I will never share them.

I seriously can't believe it. I'm in shock right now; my hands are starting to shake. Who was I? What was I thinking? And the sad thing is, for all these immensely embarrassing flirt sessions with all these must-have-been-terrified guys, I got over them in DAYS. And I remember that--I remember the drama I put into getting rid of them. So to look at the starry-eyed moments between us, remembering the humiliating lengths I went to to wrap them around my finger, and then to suddenly stop all contact.... It's just awful. Man, I was crazy.

There was the poor German foreign exchange student who didn't understand my use of emoticons and obsessions with exclamation points.

There was the guy I texted a picture of my lips to--a well-used gag from my sophomore year. Seriously.

There was the guy I spent weeks flirting with, discussing what it'd be like to be in a relationship together. We even talked about meeting each other's parents--before we'd even officially met.Yeah.

There were a bunch of boys I'd practically force to ask me out, then I'd just chicken out on them. Because, oh yeah, I was a completely different person via text.I may suffer from a split-personality disorder.

There were all the times I'd prod them to tease me, to say they liked me, to make them compliment me. I lapped it up like a kitten with warm milk. It was that nasty.

Man, I really was such a minx. A flirt. A vixen. Maybe even a little bit heartless. Because each of those boys, I just dropped like it was hot. Man, when I was over something, I was over it. I got bored/scared/underwhelmed and I'd just go stone cold on them.

I am such a freak. I just had no inhibitions, I guess. I think I even enjoyed the terror involved. IT'S EMBARRASSING!!!

My history is littered with dark secrets I don't even tell myself. I just bury them. I forget them. I ignore them until my memories are all rosy. I think I lie to myself. And then days like this happen, where I go back and realize just how much I'd blocked from my memory. Then I'm red from head to toe, blushing and gawking and doubting that that really was me.

Also, I was quite the drama queen. I could be nasty. I had no qualms about letting people know just what I thought about them. I think I thought that was big of me. But, man, I could be mean. So I'd like to take this moment to apologize to anyone who felt like I was some crazy [BADWORD] who said some crazy [BADWORD] things without any real reason.

*Since I don't know what exactly I did to you,

you're welcome to fill in the blanks as you see fit.

Of course, most of the people I should be apologizing to don't read this blog. Because I probably sent them to therapy with the things I said. There must an underground market that caters entirely to the Shelby-ruined-my-life crowd. They probably have an annual "I Hate Shelby" festival where they sell voodoo dolls and Shelby-shaped pinatas. They must print off my emails and burn them, laughing maniacally as they plot my murder.

I should see if I can join. Because, at this moment, I really do hate my old self. That crazy, psycho [BADWORD].

Thank You for Being Here Today!

2011-08-04T08:23:00.000-07:00

Last night, my roommates and I went to get some fro-yo.

Side story: they have the best pomegranate flavor at this place.

That and coconut together....Ah! To die for.

As we were walking along, my one roommate, Melinda, in her freshly-graduated maturity, decided we should try to balance our wallets on our heads. Turns out, she'd just been watching Disney Channel's Princess Protection Program (no shame) and wanted to try being a princess with perfect posture. Well, I rocked. It was easy, breezy, beautiful and I kept it up all the way to the shop. Then we laughed and ate fro-yo topped with candies and chocolates and fruit.

Oh my.

We spent our time talking about attractive men in movies. And monkeys taking over the world this weekend. We laughed, zoning in and out of full consciousness. I accidentally dropped my spoon.

And by dropped I mean flung. And by accident I mean I ripped it out of my mouth too quickly and I lost control of my hand.

We'd forget what we were talking about; we'd change conversations before the last was finished. I don't know what was wrong with us, but we were loopy. And deciding to intake such copious amounts of sugar might not have been our brightest moment.

Once we reached a slightly comatose state where normal, acceptable behavior was forgotten, we decided it was time to go home. Sugared drool dripped down our shaking lips. We were laughing maniacally, stumbling through the shop, tripping over chairs and tables that decided to get in our way. Our ears were buzzing and the sun was blinding and I was using this screaming giggle to announce that I hadn't had dinner yet! That that was the first food of the day! That yogurt should be its own food group, it's so good!

That was the state of things once we got out: hyper and hilarious. So, of course, the wallets go back on our heads. Only this time, with our new found, sugar-induced courage, we tried curtsying and spinning and leaping.

Down the sidewalk. In broad daylight. In public.

We spoke in (awful) British accents, using words like "darling" and "charmed," I'm sure. We walked slowly and did pageant waves at the people driving by. And we navigated the stairs with perfect poise. We were graceful, we were gorgeous, we were glorious with our soft steps and arched necks, walking as though on ice, a gentle smile pinned to our cheeks. Quite frankly, we were the epitome of class.

Duchess Kate has nothing on us.

That's Bombastic!

2011-07-26T15:51:00.000-07:00

I am disillusioned by college. Maybe it’s all the apocalyptic fiction I’ve been reading, but it all seems so obsolete. The courses, the tests; the stuff we’re required to remember, the stuff we’re supposed to write. Especially within the English major. Remember when I was all doe-eyed and excited, sure I’d spend the next four years reading and discovering and discussing all the beautiful fiction in the world? And now…now I’m just so terribly bored.

I’m not usually one to insult my favorite subject. But this major is becoming tiresome. I’m stuck, treading through the same sludge year after year. And I’ve discovered something: my entire major is pretty much covered in just three courses. We have British Lit, American Lit, and then Writing about Lit. That’s 9 credit hours. It’s not even one full semester. And yet that’s everything. The rest of the 80+ hour program is mere regurgitation.

Let me illustrate: In your first semester, you take a course called “Introduction to British Literature.” There you talk about everything from Beowulf to the WWII poetry of the 1900s. Then you just start churning through your other requirements to which that class was a prereq. That’s right: every upper-level class you take in the English major uses at least one of the aforementioned three as a prerequisite. Everything, and I mean everything, uses that as a foundation. Which would be fine if it was just some basis to draw upon while discussing OTHER literature. But, no, that’s not how it works. For every one of those basic courses you have to take at least two more just like it. For writing about lit, you have the basic introduction in 251 (or 252—I’ve never really understood the difference), then you take 295 which is the same thing, only they change the title to “Analytical Writing." It’s still the same concept: you write about lit. I signed up to take this from the same professor who taught my 251 course…. She used the same syllabus. Literally. I compared them.

But that’s not all. No, then you have a 300-level class; another something about analytical writing while considering fiction. And for both British and American Lit, you are required to take two more dedicated to more specific time frames, like “Modernism,” or “Victorian Fiction”—all stuff you went over in your introductory class. Plus, you’re required to take a Shakespeare course. And maybe that would be fine too, except you also have to take 12-credits-worth of electives, all of the topics revolving around more historic readings. Sometimes you hit the jackpot with a Lord of the Rings course or some feminist class taught by a refreshingly crazy liberal. But, still, it’s all just the same stuff, the same ideas, the same conversations over and over again. Each class is just another trip through Groundhog Day. And it’s a doozy.

The entire department is caught in this surreal neverland where nothing ever changes. It’s all so…lackluster. They’re so entrenched in the classics, in the “cannon” of literature: nothing new comes in, nothing is ever take out. They stick up their noses at new literature, they roll their eyes when someone disagrees with the popularity of Joyce or Whitman. It’s like they tell you to think for yourself, but only if those thoughts align with theirs. Aren’t I supposed to be blazing a new trail, taking the road less traveled, scoping out a new horizon? Are new ideas so terrifying? To the English department, yes. Forgive me, but most of them are pretentious pricks who look at the current world as some vile tainting of their precious past. I feel like screaming at them, ranting about how their precious “cannon” was created by elitists who felt like they had to further divide the poor from the rich. It’s the same people who decided to base English grammar off of Latin (two completely different, entirely unrelated languages) and look what that got us: a bunch of illiterate’s with no one really knowing quite how to explain it. But they’re so entrenched in the classics—in what someone else decided the classics should be—that they don’t see anything beyond it. We’re asked to spend four years with them, putting on airs, discussing why our definition of good literature is so much better than the rest of the world. Then we graduate and—what? No one cares. It’s not applicable unless you plan to be a professor or a historian, and even then graduate studies will mean so much more. Here, it’s just the same thing over and over. Like a skipping tape lending itself to a headache that won’t die.

The sad thing is there’s so many interesting things going on with literature. Maybe new lit isn’t equal to the past, but it’s something new. It’s something that matters now. We spend all this time looking at the rise and fall of different eras, and yet we ignore our own changing culture. There’s a whole future happening right now. Can’t we spend some time looking at that? Knowing where Oscar Wilde is buried doesn’t matter to me. That I’m expected to care more about Shakespeare’s love life than his effect on literature today doesn’t make any sense. You know what would be interesting? Even possibly useful? A class dissecting Twilight and wondering at its popularity. A course looking at the influence of the Harry Potter phenomenon. Or even something like Harry Potter versus Lord of the Rings. I want to discuss female writers today; how Austen and the Brontë sisters have been replaced by beach-reads and chick-lit. There should be a class about how the process of writing has changed—how Woolf gave herself panic attacks worrying over a new story to how, now, people churn out entire series in only a couple of years. There should be a class on literary bullying, how fiction has become an instrument for defaming cultures, positions, even people. I want to take a course on the digital culture and the way fiction styles and formatting are evolving for the shortening attention span.

Even if we have to look at the past, can’t we at least see it through the lens of current fiction? But we’re trained to look down on new literature. We’re taught that Shakespeare was the epitome of great writing and we can’t top that. We’re expected to consider the cannon closed. But why? Why can’t we have an ever-changing cannon constantly under scrutiny, with new ideas, new pieces, new anything. One where there is no right or wrong—because who can really say?—but just opinion. In fact, that should be a course: creating a new cannon where you decide what comes, what stays, what goes. There should be a best seller’s course, a class where you only read the just-published. Or look at the classics through modern fiction. Compare the two. Make things interesting. Already, I’ve read Frankenstein FOUR times. No one should have to do that. There are so many great books in the world, long gone unnoticed or just coming out. Literature is still alive.

Don’t get me wrong: I love the classics, I do. But I want to take my love of classic literature and see it expand through the present, preparing me for a future where words—new words—still matter. Everything in this major is…stagnant. I’m treading water right now, swimming indifferently through the same stuff. I feel myself lashing out, fighting it. Like a teen rebelling just because she’s bored. I’m sick of hearing about the same things, and so I pull away. I let myself hate them. I escape into modern fiction. I defame the purists. I write cynical papers. I rarely do my reading (because I’ve read it all before). Every comment and every paper is recycled—like the materials, the conversations, the professors. I’m becoming more and more lazy; the original fire and passion is fading. There is nothing new to sustain me. The English major needs rejuvenation.

Science, math, history; dance, photography, art; women’s studies, human development, sociology—everything else keeps changing, discovering, adding. Why is it that the English major, the one so hazy, so hard to define, is the only one stuck?

The Crockpot Escapades

2011-07-24T22:26:00.000-07:00

I have a 4 quart crockpot. I also have a bad habit of HAVING to fill it when I use it. And this weekend...I used it. Twice.

See, I (finally) went to the grocery store this past week. And I got real food (read: no more pasta) I had high plans to make jambalaya in the crockpot on Sunday because 1) Sunday is always the perfect day for crockpot and 2) I don't have church till one so I wouldn't even have to wake up early to get it ready. But, come Saturday, I was home alone and super bored. So I decided, hey, I'll make dinner in the crock pot. Just for something to do. I chopped up some strange medley of vegetables--whatever was in the fridge--and put it on high for four hours and ate it. Was it good? Not exceptionally. But I ate it. I ate loads of it. Because I was bored.

So. There I was with four quarts of food (minus a bowl) and plans to make another four come morning. And I did.

To be fair, the first concoction probably wasn't a full four quarts. But Sunday's...I actually didn't think it would all fit. It was a delicious recipe of 1 lb. chicken, 1 lb. sausage, 1 pack of shrimp, 1 onion, 1 bell pepper, 1 cup of chicken broth, 1 cup of celery, 2 cans of tomatoes, and a whole lot of spices. It was literally to the rim. And that...that was super good. I probably ate like a quart of it just--BOOM--right then and there.

As in after it was cooked for 6 hours.

Not right when I chopped it all up/made it.

Cuz that would have been totally nas (read: nasty).

And all the stuff used for my meals--it pretty much exhausted my supplies. Now I just have one piece of bread, barely enough PB for one sandwich, a couple potatoes, a box of cereal. And no milk. So I have no food, really, and no money till Friday. It's good, then, that I have something close to SEVEN QUARTS of leftovers. Because that's what I'll be living off of.

All. Week. Long.

Also, I literally ran out of tupperware. I had a huge one (which I think is something like two quarts), a smaller one (probably half) and then a trio of small ziploc ones that held like one heaping cupful.

I mean, I even ended up having to eat another helping after two bowls just because there was no way to store it.

At least that's what I prepared to tell my roommates should anyone dare question my voracious appetite. Truth be told, it was just dang good. Dang dang good.

(dang dang. That's fun to say)

So now I have five things of leftovers stuffed into the fridge. My roommate even opened it and sort of gasped. Ah well. She's just jealous. Cuz I've gots me some goods!

I just have a feeling I'm gonna get really sick of it by the end. I'll probably be shoveling it in while simultaneously crying. Weeping, even. Groaning and moaning and begging for mercy, the food falling out of my mouth mouth as I numbly try to remember how to chew.

Like in Matilda with that last piece of chocolate cake. That'll be me come Friday.

A Dirty Mind

2011-07-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

Do boys in suits make me swoon? Does a well-cut tux make me sigh? Is there something about a chiseled man in a speedo? Or a polo with a popped collar? Maybe. But, see, I have a thing for bad boys. At least dirty ones.

Too far? Let me explain.

I was walking to work today, running late as usual (stupid mornings), and there was construction on campus that hindered my usual shortcut. So I was going around this truck and all their tools, men and machine alike, when, suddenly, I saw him. The clouds parted, the sun shined, the birds sang, but all I saw was his face. Love at first sight? Hardly.

He was a pretty pretty boy, but he was oh-so-dirty.

As in physically, not mentally. I mean, he might have been mental, but I don’t know. And that doesn’t really matter. Because I’m talking about the Law of Physical Attraction here, not anyone’s mental state.

Except mine, maybe.

Anyways, this boy was dirty. Like roll-in-the-mud-hang-to-dry-and-repeat dirty. His hair was dusty, his face was smudged, his pants were caked and his shirt was sweaty. And he had a huge chain draped around his neck. Why? I haven’t the slightest. Actually, I do. See, he was on a chain gang paying his dues to the community.

Just kidding.

He was one of the students working on campus construction. And he was walking down this sidewalk framed by a series of planter boxes. Like a runway. He even had the pouty model look. And it looked good. Especially as he dragged this chain around, gripping it with one hand where it dragged while simultaneously using his other hand to rub the kinks out of his neck.

So there. He was kinky, not dirty.

I stopped dead when I saw him. My jaw dropped and I watched as a gust of wind forced his eyes closed and he seemed to drink it in, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. And then he caught me staring. He looked me over; I did the same.

Well, I mean I looked him up and down;

I didn’t check myself out, because that would be awkward.
And none of this is awkward.

In my sexiest, most sultry voice, I whispered, “Hey, I like your chain.”

They should put that on a bumper sticker.

Of course, I'm just kidding. Most of this is a lie—or, rather, dramatized. But there was a boy, a very pretty boy, and he had a chain draped around his face and, somehow, that made him even more attractive. Because I have problems. Problems enough to drive me to dedicate an entire post to a very dirty man.

If my fantasy had played out, he probably would have stopped and stared with his searing eyes—never smiling—and said something like, “I like your face,” before sweeping me into a passionate, breathtaking, hair-raising, rhett-butler-esque kiss where we would both forget the entire world and just eat each other's faces off. And then, right there, he would take me.

To get ice cream.

Too bad, right? That’s a story I could tell my grandkids.

This is Why I'm Hot

2011-07-18T20:49:00.000-07:00

So I was reading this new blog, and she posted this series on women who read and how freakin' awesome they are. It really stuck with me; I think we could be friends. But I loved it so much, I couldn't help but share. So it's not at all funny or anything, but it entertained me. And made me feel important. Boom.

First, the pros.

"Date a Girl Who Reads" by Rosemarie Urquico

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You'll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She's the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That's the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She's the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she's kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author's making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce's Ulysses she's just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It's easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by God, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two. Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She'll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she's sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn't burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you're better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

and then the rebuttal…by a man being (hopefully) ironic.

"You Should Date an Illiterate Girl" by Charles Warnke

Date a girl who doesn't read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you've seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Let the years pass unnoticed. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind.

Do those things because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn't read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don't date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

Take That, Coco Chanel

2011-07-12T07:37:00.000-07:00

Walking to church in Provo is sort of like joining a trek. We march en masse towards our places of worship (i.e. The Wilk Center, basically a cafeteria). We swarm across streets and parking lots, regardless of rules or lights. We talk loudly. Like we're EFY students. Sometimes we even hold hands and sing songs.

Just kidding.

But my roommates and I were laughing, caught at the tail end of a light. So we paused, chatting effortlessly.

I bet you can guess about what.

It involved me clicking my heels

and clapping my hands in excitement....

It starts with H and ends with -arry...

yeah.

But we were there, just minding our own business, when, suddenly, this guy behind us sort of groans--you know, one of the deep-throated moans that turns into a sigh? He makes that (uncomfortable) noise and then says, "Oh, man, you girls smell so good."

Emphasis on the "so."

We stop talking and turn back to look at him, our eyebrows stretched incredulously. There was this split-second of silence and then he sort of blushed and ducked his head and we laughed--kindly, of course. We struggled to say thank you and he struggled to say that he hadn't meant to be creepy or anything, but he just thought we should know. So we laugh back something about how we try and it's good of him to notice. And then we laugh to ourselves and struggle to go back to our past conversation. And I find myself suddenly very self-conscious about the way I smell. Like what if I was the sole one who didn't smell good?! How mortifying.

Meanwhile, this guy is still behind us. The whole way. we even took this secret door. And he, with his buddy, followed. But they weren't talking to us. They were just following. And even when we went for the elevator, he followed. Only his buddy yanked him back, nodding towards the stairs. And that was that.

At the elevator, we kind of laughed uncomfortably again. "Remember that stranger who just said we smelled sooo good?" Yeah. Yeah, I do.

But I should be grateful. I mean, we don't lather on lotions andwalk through clouds of perfume for nothing, right? So it was nice of him to notice. To let us know our hard work paid off. I think it was just awkward with the groan and the "sooo" part. And the fact that he was a stranger. And he didn't speak to us ever again. About anything normal. And we're just a bunch of giggly girls who laugh cruelly and give incredulous stares.

Luckily, though, we're a bunch of giggly girls who just smell sooo good.

Harry Potter Breakdown Update

2011-07-10T20:45:00.000-07:00

Everything around me is revolving around HP. It's INSANE. I just like...catch myself thinking about it and I want to cry, and then I want to laugh at myself for being so crazy, and then I angrily tell myself that I have every right to be sad.

So. It's driving me nuts. Literally.

I thought I had it under control, though. I mean, sure, I turn on ABC Family any time I go in the kitchen, just to catch a couple minutes of the movie marathons. And I think about it all the time. I've watched the trailer at least once a day for a week. Sometimes I finger through the books and think about reading them all over again in the next three days. And every conversation somehow turns back to it. I mean, I hate the movies, right? So why should I care so much now? I'm falling inexplicably in love with them, suddenly caring about the actors and all of it. But it's like I told my sister: It was easy to hate the movies when I had them and the books, but now it's over and I'm just latching on to the most tangible part. Good or bad, they represent the books. And now...it's all just ending. A PART OF ME IS DYING, PEOPLE!

But. I really was keeping my emotions in check, just trying to roll my eyes at myself whenever I found myself getting too emotional (I'm like a schizophrenic now). And then my little sister had to go and blow that little bit of self-control out the window when she told me to watch this video. And I have to share it. Like I can't fight it. Two Potter posts in a row? It's pathetic, but my body won't let me not share this. Because I know SOME readers out there are avid Potter fans. And they deserve to know of this clip's existence. Because...well, because it literally drove me to tears.

Harry, Harry Potter; Harry, Harry Potter

2011-07-06T15:45:00.000-07:00

I've become a bit nostalgic. I keep reading these articles about the actors and the final installment and all that and it's making me all depressed. I mean, I've never been a big fan of the movies (The second is by far the worst, with the rest of them tied for a close second). I think Radcliffe/Potter is awkward. And tiny. And that Bonnie/Ginny girl with him is just even more awkward. Really, most of the trio is awkward. But I love my man, Snape, and my lover, Draco. And the first Dumbledore was awesome. And the twins were pretty cool (shed a tear*). And…well, that’s about it. Yet I still get so excited with every new movie trailer. I can't help it. It's like...magic. Yes!

But I also think it's this whole....phenomenon. I can hardly remember a world without Harry Potter. I started the series when I was seven or eight; the last book came out when I was sixteen or seventeen; the first movie was released in 2001 (I was 10...I think), and now the last one will open in exactly nine days (and now I'm 20). So it's been practically forever. My life has, often helplessly, revolved around it.

"The Mysterious Ticking Noise" entertained me throughout high school. The only reason I survived my last college meltdown was reading the entire series over again in one week. "A Very Potter Musical" got me through the sophomore slumps. I always smile at the SNL skits and any references ever made on camera. MLIA was hilarious because it served as a HP fan base. The HP vs. Twilight jokes never get old because, oh yeah, Potter always wins. People fight over which house they'd belong to, like it defines them in real life. They even use spells and quotes from the books in casual conversation (actually, multiple people have told me the latin helped them learn GRE vocab). And every time I see an owl, hear a train, or notice a splash of red and gold I can't help but think of it. Harry Potter World is on my top five places to see. And I've had many a wizarding dream. Plus, just two words: Draco. Malfoy.

I mean, life would have been so boring without it.

It's not just a book or a movie or a character. It's an AGE, and those outside of it couldn't possibly understand. It's this conglomerate of awesomeness and it's sad to see it ending. And "Luna Lovegood" (Evanna Lynch) said it just right:

"I'm distraught that this is over. I've been obsessed with the books since I was eight, so I don't really know what I was before that or what will come next.”

Seriously.

For a Long, Long Time, in a Galaxy All Our Own

2011-07-06T14:40:00.000-07:00

Laura came down to spend the weekend with me. Oh what fun! We were laughing a lot, she was sleeping a lot, and then suddenly we were watching movies. A lot.

See, I had flipping through the channels one night and the original Star Wars was showing (Number IV or however it works). And I was like, Hmm, I haven't seen those in awhile. And then Laura came and I mentioned it and she totally failed my impromptu Star Wars trivia quiz, so that was embarrassing. On her part. And then Melissa was hanging out with us on Sunday night and she is quite the little Star Wars fan (I don't get it). But, on her way out, we shouted for her to bring us all the Star Wars movies. Just on a whim. She sent her lover back with them--all six of them--and we plopped down with the first, breathlessly and giggling-ly deciding we should have a marathon.

Boom. It happened.

We watched the first (I), which wasn't bad. Even though Natalie Portman is TINY. But Ewan McGregor and Liam Neeson are freakin' awesome.

And then we went to bed...we woke up...and we watched II. On fast forward, because it's probably the lamest movie ever made. Hayden Christensen should choke on his own sobs and die.

Then we went to the mall (Laura got Harry Potter glasses and they are freakin' amazing). Also, we made fools of ourselves at the little parking lot intersection at the mall, cuz Laura was pulling out but then "Low" by Flo Rider (which we'd been singing all weekend) came on and we sort of spazzed out. And there was this car of boys across from us and they were laughing and we were dancing and singing/screaming and then they went, still laughing at us. Laura was like "Why didn't they go? Fools?" And then she realized that, oh yeah, she had the right of way and instead had put on a little song and dance number for their enjoyment. It was awesome.

Anyways. We got home totally enthused and ready for our final marathon dash. We watched the III (poor Yoda has a heart attack and Anakin gets vampire eyes and Ewan uses his crying voice which is somehow so attractive). And then the IV where Laura drooled over Han Solo (which, did you know, they pronounce as hAn--as in "ham" with an N? Yeah, totally ruined my world. Han. Psch). We worked on our chewbacca noises and put in V. We ate pizza and started VI. Some things we noticed?

The graphics are more realistic in the old ones because most of it isn't actually graphics.

Movies used to be much shorter and less...immense. The new ones had so much going on while the old ones felt very fast. And simple.

The script was better when Spielburg was involved.

The old ones say "I've got a bad feeling about this" about seven BILLION times.

And a bonus fact? This youtube video pretty much nails the entire saga. Especially the Jaws portion (minute 2:40). It's amazing. And we kept singing it throughout the movies.

Which brings us to a sad conclusion. Seeing as I had work in the morning and Laura was still suffering from Trek hangover, we never finished VI. We got about 40 minutes into it, I think. So...marathon fail.

But it is still impressive. And my brain's still a little fuzzy from all that screen time. And I've been thinking Star Wars ever since. So...in a way...it was a success...right? In any case, it was EPIC.

A Rant

2011-06-23T15:57:00.000-07:00

I like old people.

The elderly, the wise, the aged--whatever is considered politically correct. I like them.

They're usually grand and friendly and have interesting life stories they're always so inexplicably willing to share in great detail. I mean, this one time, I spent two hours in an interview with a member of the bishopric where conversation about my calling morphed into him telling me about being a fighter pilot in Vietnam. And it was totally interesting. So I do like them, I do. It's just...sometimes....

I don't know what it is, but something seems to make them think that they can pass judgment on ANYTHING. I don't have to know them, I'm usually not related to them, but they're always so willing--eager, even--to criticize anything about me.

Once, some old man told me Shelby was a boy's name and it was stupid to name a girl that.

Thanks a whole lot for that piece of news.

Another time, someone else's grandma said she found my voice annoying.

Well, I don't much like hearing your wheezing either.

I'm being mean, I know. I'm taking it personally and maybe I shouldn't. But come on. Was it just something people did fifty years ago? Just say whatever they want, whatever they're thinking? Or do the elderly see blatant, impolite "honesty" as a way to gratify their painstakingly collected years?

It's annoying.

Today at work, I'm chatting happily with an old(er) guy and his wife. He's talking about the weather. He's talking about the library. He's telling me about how much better BYU is than the U. He's even telling me he didn't like the major his granddaughter picked because he sees it as useless and silly. I don't much care for what he's saying, but I'm smiling and listening and responding. And then he looks me over and says he doesn't understand my top.

I blink and look down, wondering if there's actually a secret message written across it. What is there to understand? I don't know. It's just a couple of layered tees, one maybe two inches longer than the other. It's not the Da Vinci code, people. It's nothing to get a new wrinkle over.

"You know," he says, "I thought that was a bandanna."

I don't really know what to say, so I shrug and I smile, laughing ever-so gently. I'm willing to let it slide. But then the wife steps in.

Who knows, maybe she just didn't like me. Maybe she was jealous.

But she looks me up and down. I imagine her smile fading into a sort of sneer. Her eyes narrow as she leans in.

"I don't like it," she says. My mouth drops. But she's already turning, her nose pointed up disdainfully. "It's a weird style."

Now, listen. I can take about anything. But you call my clothes into question and I turn into an insecure thirteen-year-old girl with pigtails (they matter).

Just sitting there, watching them walk away, I could feel the screams of fury rising in my throat. I saw myself shouting at them to stop:

"WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?"

"YOU THINK I'M WEIRD?!?" (It gets personal)

"WELL, I THINK YOU'RE WEIRD" (That'll really show her)

And then the kicker.

"YOUR STUPID SWEATER ISN'T COOL. I'M COOL!"

Yeah, if my thirteen-year-old alter ego got all the way out, I probably would have attacked them. Physically. I would have been foaming at the mouth by the end, clawing at the air, my eyes rolling wildly. All over some stupid choice of words.

Weird. Bleh. Well, I think your sweater set is weird. I think people willing to wear cat patterns in public are weird. I think the fact that you'd criticize a perfectly cordial stranger is weird. And I don't care.

Really, okay.

I don't.

I just don't.

Waking Up is the Hardest Part

2011-05-27T09:37:00.000-07:00

I set my alarm for 7:00 a.m. to get all ready for work at 8:00 a.m. I had high plans to actually do my hair. And eat breakfast. It was Friday and I was going to bask in its glory every possible minute.

Well, I woke up to my roommates talking. And that never happens because, oh yeah, I'm always up first. So I blinked. I wrinkled my forehead, a little annoyed that they were stealing my last few minutes of sleep. And then I looked over at my alarm clock.

Boom. 7:44.

say WHA? Yeah. It was flashing red like it was going off, but there was NO SOUND. What kind of alarm even has that as an option??

I untangled myself from my sheets, a fast chant rising in my throat: "crud, crud, Crud, Crud, CRUD, CRUD." I got progressively louder, leaping out of bed and considering my options. I habitually said a prayer, though I think it was something like "Oh crud, help me, bless me, please. crud." Real poetic-like. Then I flew to the bathroom, tripped into the shower, still singing my little crud song.

I somehow washed my hair and face at the same time, I shaved blind, a doused myself in soap and called it good. Two minutes flat. Still in my towel, I did my makeup, blow-dried my bangs (otherwise, things get ugly), and brushed my teeth. Then I finally got dressed, stumbling into my pants while (stupidly) trying to put on my shoes at the same time. I threw everything I needed for the day into a bag and then just fled the premises.

Ten minutes. Ten minutes, people. I got relatively attractive in ten minutes. In the time my roommates were still groaning their way out of bed, I was showered, dressed, and out that door like magic. It probably scared them. But it was all just a miracle. I mean, I impressed even Me.

Smoked Out

2011-05-25T15:42:00.000-07:00

I like jalapenos. I like them a lot.

aaand I feel like I'm about to slip into a Dr. Seuss style narrative.

We'll just stop that right now.

Back to what's important: jalapenos.

They're delicious, right? Spicy and wonderful and good in anything? Well, my roommates don't agree.

It was Sunday and we came home from afternoon church starving, so four of us wound up cooking at the same time. Everyone was feeling rushed, fighting over stove tops and pans. I was making pasta sauce, chopping up veggies, boiling noodles, throwing in some sauce and adding in half a jalapeno for good measure. I practically lit them on fire, burning everything to get it done faster--because I was being nice. Because I wanted to get out of the way so everyone could enjoy a lovely meal on a lovely day. But then...my roommates started to sweat.

First, it was the little things: someone wiped a tear out of their eyes, another commented breathlessly on the smell or the sudden heat. They averted their eyes, looking down as if they were willing themselves to get past it. I went on, blissfully unaware, completely immune to the burn they were all struggling to fight off. Actually, I stood at the stove and breezily reminded them of how last time I used a jalapeno they all had a meltdown. I said I was sorry and weren't they all glad this time was better? But then someone gasped, someone choked, and everyone freaked out. All at once.

One roommate walked into the kitchen, stopped dead in her tracks and ran back out, laughing and choking and coughing all at once. Another roommate came from around the living room corner just to assure me it wasn't so bad; instead, she gasped and wailed, "Holy crap, there's like a WALL." Someone ran to open a door, tripping over her feet as she kept her eyes closed tight against the tears. Someone else bent over, laughing and wheezing, begging me to stop the torture. I burnt everything faster, waving my hands wildly in an attempt to move the air, laughing probably sardonically, and screaming for everyone to JUST CALM DOWN!!!

And then it was suddenly over. Mere minutes later. I mean, they were sniffling forever after, wiping at noses and eyes, still sputtering on the air, unable to help but laugh warily whenever they looked at me eating.

Really, it was kind of embarrassing. But mostly funny. I mean, I almost killed my roommates. Hysterical, right? Why, yes, yes indeed.

I am a Grown Up

2011-05-20T18:18:00.000-07:00

Relatively speaking, anyway.

That's right, I turned TWENTY years old the other day. It doesn't feel any different, but it's a lovely thing to not be a teenager anymore. Still, I have felt the pressure to be all "mature" and "grown up" and it's been really boring. The heavens have been weeping for me.

Literally.

I have an internship that's all good for me or whatever but super exhausting and kind of useless at the same time.

I have a job which I love, but it's still a job.

I have no money. Well, not for things I'd usually spend it on (e.g. clothes, shoes, clothes, clothes, clothes).

I wish I could take a trip somewhere. Somewhere sunny. Like Austin. To watch a movie. In July. With my sister(s).

But I have no money.

Figuring out financial aid is a pain. Figuring out expenses is an even bigger pain.

I kind of want a car, I kind of need a car, but I kind of hate drivers in Provo so I kind of don't want a car.

I have no housing for Fall/Winter and this could be a big problem.

Unless I have a car which I can then live in.

And I was supposed to be enjoying a sort of vacation from school and thinking and staying busy. Instead, I have all that to worry about and stress me out. Plus my internship is literally a class--with assignments and everything--so I didn't really think that one through. I wish I could undo my plans to go to summer classes, but that would mess up my perfect fall schedule (seriously. it's perfect), so that's not going to happen. Instead I have a 8-5 work schedule. And that is my life forever after.

Welcome to adulthood, right?

The Curious Case of the Herpes

2011-05-04T07:36:00.000-07:00

My roommate has a rash. And she likes to talk about it, describing how nasty it is and how terribly it itches and how it lasts for weeks. Luckily, she follows up with a quick, "Don't worry, it's not contagious." Gross? Why, yes, indeed. Yet pitiable, always pitiable. And she just went to the doctor to ensure she wasn't dying. They admitted there was no known cure and that she just had to wait it out. In the meantime, they gave her some drugs to relieve the itchiness and redness.

It was herpes medication.

We spent a good half hour laughing over the drug description, including side effects and a warning that just because you're on herpes medication doesn't make it non-contagious, so don't be doing the nasty, you oversexed psycho.

We're planning a party for when it finally goes away. She'll be shirtless--"finally." Her words, not mine. And I'll be getting a cake reading "Herpes-Free!" Mostly because I want to see the baker's face when I request that message. And because it's funny, having a roommate on drugs for an STD.

Another Move

2011-04-28T16:42:00.000-07:00

Well, I got out of Carriage Cove. That's nice. And I moved to Regency, an all-girls apartment literally a block away from campus. But, wouldn't you know, the day I move closer to campus is the day I'm late to work. Psch.

Still, it's been a wonderful thing, moving. My bed is a bajillion times more comfortable, also twice as high. On the other hand, my closet is twice as small. And I have six roommates. Well, only one roommate, but there's six girls to an apartment. Two baths. Not a big fridge, and the tiniest pantry. But I like it. A lot. Also, the managers gave me pizza last night, so they're cool.

Anyways. My room....

I have close to fifty movies, all proudly displayed across my desk. It makes me happy to see them there. Above this shelf is my Renoir painting, which you cannot see but which looks lovely. To the left is my picture of the savior (and in saying that I don't mean I have a literal snapshot of him, though that would be awesome). And then to my right is my Monet painting. It's also lovely.

Then we have the shelf above my bed. It's pretty much my pride and joy. It holds my many, many beautiful books. The last time I counted, I think I have over sixty. I like about forty of them. Ha. But they're stacked so perfectly and asymmetrically, which to some might seem an oxymoron. Not to me. I love messy yet purposeful piles. And then there are my hodge-podged letters spelling "Create." It's meant to INSPIRE me, okay?? Plus it looks cool. Especially in person.

And then the closet. Very tiny, ya? Oui. It's a miracle I fit all my clothes in there. Tightly, but they fit. And I have a nice cascade of shoes. You can't see, but under the hanging rack, I've stacked boxes like a staircase with my most lustrous shoes placed in order of beauty. Lovely.

And that's it. I like it. Even with all the stuff I have in here (remember this?), it doesn't look cluttered or messy; rather, it's very put together. Joy.

Jinx Me Not

2011-04-08T09:30:00.000-07:00

I'm scared to say this because my superstitious side might slap me in the face, but I can't resist.

I have a stunning $1,301.00 in my savings account. I know it's not that much and that most everyone reading this probably snorted at such a minuscule amount. But, listen--I've never had so much money that I know I won't be spending anytime soon. My last job, I probably had around two grand, but I had to spend it all. I lost it all (stupid college, housing, food, inability to budget well). Mostly because I didn't have a job to replenish it. But that wonderfully changed in January when I got the job of my dreams. And just in these...three/four-ish months, I have scraped all that from my part-time paychecks and put it dutifully away. And I swear on all I hold dear that I won't be spending it anytime soon. It's actual savings, not to be messed with for my shoe fetish or my love for Five Guys. It will sit around, getting a penny more a month (or whatever) until I can live my dream and go on a study abroad! ...I just better get financial aid. ...Hmm. But, hey, I'd probably get a loan for all that living-expenses crap before I touched my savings. Because I'm going on that study abroad. Only...$4,000 more to go.

Oh, and I got a raise. Wha' Wha', holla'!

Everybody's Doing It

2011-03-31T16:34:00.000-07:00

The funniest thing happened today. I ran to the bus.

I know, I know. Everybody runs to the bus at some point, you say. Not me. Never me. I never run. Period.

It's awkward. Arms flailing, flapping, everything bouncing--jiggling--as you sprint. I laugh at people who run in public, especially across campus. They always have that eager, anxious wildness gleaming in their eyes, their faces contorting with desperate determination. And they always hunch over, as if it makes them faster, propels them forward.

Really, I wish I could take pictures of people running. I'd make a wall of it. Some art project that would get national attention, perhaps end public running forever. But that's beside the point.

It was sunny and wonderful--literally, the most perfect day. I wanted to linger in the brightness, merely meander my way home. But I also wanted a cookie, one of the Peanut Butter Blossoms I had made. And I imagined them dwindling, being snatched away with each moment wasted. My subconscious was screaming that if I missed this bus, if I had to wait another twenty minutes for the next one, that I wouldn't get one. I wouldn't get one. And so I ran.

I wish I could say something crazy happened--a punch line. Like I was so intent on making the bus that it wasn't till later, when I reached Las Vegas, that I realized I was not the wrong bus. Nope, it was the right bus; I knew it was the right bus the moment I started running, racing across the Square and over the bridge, leaping down the stairs and reaching the bus breathless. I ran to the bus, and that's the funny part.

I, Shelby Boyer, ran--in public, past actual, living people---to catch a bus. Nothing funnier than that.

Except maybe this:

Did you know that

under extreme stress,

some octopi are known to eat their own arms?

Yeah.

Bleh.

2011-03-16T19:29:00.000-07:00

You know when you're sick and you wish you could have a constant stream of hot liquid running down your throat just to distract you from the scratchy-simultaneously-gooey feeling?

Yeah, that's happening.

And Now, a Message from our Sponsors:

2011-02-15T18:42:00.000-08:00

Just kidding. I don't have sponsors. But it's in my future. I can feel it. After all, I do have nineteen--nine-freakin'-teen--followers. Yeah. I'm that good.

Anyways. Yesterday I went to the store. Melissa grudgingly took me. Grudgingly because it was Valentine's Day and she was hoping to make-out with her boyfriend.

Seriously, you should have seen their dramatic farewell

when I asked her to take me to Macys.

There was handholding, hugging,

and then a slow--very slow--release,

still watching each other as they walked away.

Bleh.

Valentine's brings out the worst in people.

Just kidding.

Mostly.

ANYWAYS. We got to the store and I needed (read: wanted) some sort of lip coloring-magic action. But I hate lip gloss because it's so sticky, and I can't wear lipstick because it tends to stain strangely on my odd-shaped lips (thanks, mom). So I turned to Melissa with a sigh and said, "I wish they had something in between a lipstick and a lip gloss. Like a hybrid."

Not that she cared; she was texting her boyfriend

that she'd been apart from for maybe five minutes.

Well, just like a shiny Covergirl ad, I turned to settle for a lip gloss when I saw it.

BAM.

Introducing you to Wet 'n Wild's new Mega Last Long Wear Lip Color in a series of flattering colors so that your perfect shade is never far away.

It was meant to be. It's a lip gloss on one end, for the easy, smooth color, and then a sealer lipstick for the lasting non-stickiness. It's probably the coolest thing in the world. It's everything I ever wanted. And it's fantastic--fan-freakin'-tastic--stuff. Like, that's the truth.

And Melissa got her happily-ever-after too:
After such a long absence, she finally got to run off to her boyfriend.

I'm sure there were cherubs in her head

playing harps, lighting off fireworks as she fell into his arms
and. made. out. with. his. face.

Update

2011-02-06T11:36:00.000-08:00

I have four midterms this week. yay.

I should be studying. Instead, I'm going to make cookies.

Then maybe those can sustain me while studying.

But doubtful.

Press Here to Start

2011-01-23T13:40:00.000-08:00

I did my laundry yesterday. Usually, I time my trips home to align with my laundry-needs just so I don't have to shell out the THREE DOLLARS per load down here. But I couldn't get home this week. And I had to do my laundry. So I put in my two separate loads: $1.25 per wash = $2.50 for both.

...right?

Then it was time to dry. And it's one whole dollar to dry a load for half an hour. Since most of my things are line dried, I thought I could mix the two loads and fit into one wash. Somehow, I thought this would save me money. I don't know why, exactly. I knew all that wet laundry wouldn't finish in one turn. But it made sense in my head, so I did it.

I put the four quarters in, pushed it in, saw the light flash and walked away.

An hour later, came back, felt my clothes--they weren't even done being damp. So I grudgingly put another dollar in.

Another hour, same thing. And another dollar.

I was getting pretty irritated, ranting about my apartment complex trying to destroy my life and suck me dry with their tricked-up dryers. It was a huge conspiracy with only one goal in sight, and that was to ruin my Saturday.

It was about 8 pm and I was punching Melissa in the arm to take out my frustration. So I borrowed (read: stole) a dollar from her and went off in a huff, screaming that if it wasn't done and I had to shell out another dollar, I would light something on fire.

Well, it wasn't done. I did my crazed angry laugh, where it sounds relatively happy, and I started mumbling to the dryer, putting in another set of quarters. And it was then, bent over the dryer, that I noticed an odd, little white button just above the flashing light that read...ahem*, "Push to Start."

Oops.

Looking around in shame, I pressed it. Sure enough--BOOM. It started tumbling and I ran away laughing. I couldn't stop laughing, I couldn't even tell Melissa, I was so embarrassed and just cracking up over ice cream.

That stupid, little button.

In my defense, the words were hidden by said button when one was standing instead of kneeling right in front of it. And the light did flash whenever I put in the quarters, so I thought it would be on. And the whole wall rumbled because every other one was on, so I thought I felt mine.

But, really, I was just stupid. And it was hilarious.

Except for the fact that I shelled out...

one, two, three, FOUR dollars

on just drying my clothes.

Even so, I still giggle.

It Burns!!

2011-01-03T14:50:00.000-08:00

There is a massive pile of cookies in my kitchen. They are rock-solid. As in you could probably build a house out of them. Or a bridge, even. Or at least use them as tiny weapons that could cause great harm to the unsuspecting souls passing by. "Hey, free COOKIES sucka'!!"--they wouldn't even see it coming

But you get the picture: they were hard.

Now, there is a simple secret to eating hard cookies. You just nuke them. You stick them in the microwave and heat 'em for ten seconds--donut style. And then it's just like they're fresh out of the oven and a joy to eat.

Well, not these bad boys.

I stuck one in the microwave, desperate for something sweet. Ten seconds later, it was on fire.

Okay, okay--it wasn't literally on fire. But close. It was charred. Smoldering. Literally smoking and wheezing and sputtering. Completely alive and dangerous. It smelt so bad, like rotten eggs burnt in a pan for hours. I opened the microwave door in a panic, but I couldn't touch it. Half of it was black, sizzling and screaming, spouting off hot smoke. I pulled it out and threw it into the trashcan. But it was still burning and I was scared it would catch fire and we would all die. From a cookie catastrophe. So I doused it with water. It hissed at me--literally. It gave off steam and dared me just try and destroy it. So I doused it again. Three times, I smothered it with water; three times, it seared, it's heat never seeming to dissipate. It seemed to be a battle of wills and I was losing. To a charred cookie. Eventually, I managed to bury it's angry wheeze with a couple of wet paper towels. They were my saviors, my heroes; they died for good, and I will never forget that.

Needless to say, I didn't eat it. Nor did I try another one. No, that alarmingly-large pile of cookies has and will remained untouched. And the stench of that evil one hangs rancid in the air, an aroma that won't die. But I have a plan: tonight I shall make true cookies--real, lovely, obedient, normal chocolate cookies that will never put up such a fuss.

And if they do, I shall destroy them.

So Long, 2010

2010-12-31T14:32:00.000-08:00

I guess this year's been good.

Stressful.

Long.

Sometimes depressing.

A little unpredictable.

Actually kinda boring.

But good.

The highlights? I moved off campus. I did turn 19. Surprise. Melissa came home, Melissa moved next to me, Melissa lived with me. I had a job, I finished that job, I was once more without a job, but I just got yet another job that will hopefully last forever (well...not literally). Travis came home! I am still successfully unmarried. And, um...well...what else? I became bored with TV...I started working out...I hated school, I practically failed school...and.... Oh, ya--MY BROTHER GOT ENGAGED!!! She's pretty awesome.

This is them (Don't worry, awwing is natural).

So what didn't happen? No boyfriend. Not for me anyways (melissa). And I have yet to be published. But I think I can live with that for now. Plus I have a few things up my sleeve--something to rock the world. Hopefully. And I am even more determined to just let life happen.

2011 is going to be fabulous. For one, it is my TWENTIETH. A quarter of my life, finished and gone. I'll be able to say things like, "Teenagers are SO annoying" without everyone squealing "You're STILL a teenager!" Really, my 19th year has dragged--and it's barely half-over. But, goals:

I'll take a road trip. Somewhere random. But awesome.

I'll finish my world-class novel.

I'll keep working out.

I'll read every book I own. Which is a lot now (I love christmas).

I'll be better at posting on my blog.

I'll stop having catastrophic meltdowns and just trust that it will all be lovely.

I'll rock at my job regardless of the many nightmares I have had that tell me otherwise.

I'll take a break from this awful thing called school.

And maybe I'll even manage to snag a boyfriend. But that's hardly a goal. Also, I got me a new theme song. Thank you, OneRepublic:

In the Darkness

2010-12-10T08:31:00.000-08:00

Yesterday pretty much sucked. All my classes were long and boring and exhausting and then the bus smelt like rotten eggs. And I knew no one would be home, which just added to the depression. But I was looking forward to just collapsing onto my bed (and watching Samantha Who!), so I open the door with a sigh, close it, lock it, situate myself to the darkness, readied my room key--

for a second, as I started walking,

I wondered if this would be my depressing life forever.

Alone.

And then I ran into the kitchen wall.

Usually, I'm pretty good at sensing where I am in the dark. I don't like turning on lights--actually paying for utilities does that to you--so I've made the walk down the hall in the dark many a times. But I guess I took a wrong turn. And I just crashed into the wall. Full on, too. It's not like I saw it coming and pulled up short. No, I slammed into it; I wondered what the crap was keeping me from my room. ANd then I realized: it was a wall. That has always been there. So that's embarrassing.

But I laughed actually. Who wouldn't, right? I just plowed into a solid wall, a good two feet off my expected course. I rubbed my nose and chin and forehead and I was suddenly a little glad that nobody was home. And I'm sure heaven was getting a good laugh, watching that moment on playback again and again. I would.

I mean, I really ran into it.

God probably just wanted to slap the depression out of me.

It worked.

I can't walk past the kitchen without giggling.

Mad Gab

2010-12-05T14:41:00.000-08:00

The other day, Melissa and I were shopping (don't ask for what, that is an illegal question this time of year) and we were going to the car and I was beating her with the roll of wrapping paper when she stops, throws her arms in the air, and shouts, "_______________!"

What I heard? "I need the Witch of White Birds."

Um. "Sorry," I say, "is that a book?"

"What? No," she sighs, exasperated and choking on a disbelieving laugh, "I said _______________."

What did she say for real, you ask?

Answer: I need the windshield wipers.

And just on the way home, I was struck with how FUNNY that is, just because it really does sound exactly like witchofwhitebirds. Seriously. Try it: windshieldwipers vs. witchofwhitebirds. Ya. Exactly.

It just blows my mind.

Just Counting

2010-12-01T20:47:00.000-08:00

SIX more days of classes.

hallelujah.

THIRTEEN more days till finals.

which I am not prepared for.

SEVENTEEN more days till I can be home.

which I may not be prepared for either,

seeing as we'll be fighting over beds again.

TWENTY days till my little sister is suddenly 17.

** a slight pause to celebrate her...epicness. **

Three quotes I think of when you say "Laura":

1. "Inside the man, you find his...nucleus"

2. Twas, Twill, Twould.

3. "Please. Drink. My. Hot. Kool-aid."

I think this pretty much sums it up.

Anyways. Back to counting.

TWENTY-FIVE more days till Christmas!

I don't know what to get anyone. Stupid picky people.

And, most importantly, TWENTY-FOUR more days till Christmas Eve!!! which might be the best day ever.

[Here is where I would insert a picture from last christmas, but my family seems to be really bad at taking pictures.... Or we're just too distracted with the sparkly lights and piles of wrapping paper to bother with the hassle of pulling out a camera. So just imagine lots of smiling faces and awkward guffaw expressions.]

This will have to suffice.

It's only a few of us, but it's Christmas. And it's family. And I love it.

Um. Okay.

2010-11-17T13:09:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting in the library--as in right now--and it is very quiet. But I can't stop laughing.

Three seats down from me there is a girl. With a beard. As in hair flowing from her face. And she's just sitting there, doing homework...with a beard. And no one else seems to notice. Which is why I'm thinking it might just be a hallucination.

I am very tired.

But, see, I don't think so. She is the only one with a beard, after all. And I first saw it when she started talking on her phone, so I glanced her way--the sudden noise, you know--and then I went back to my homework. And then I looked again. And I kind of stared. And then I mouthed "What?" (sorta like this, especially the last three seconds). And then I just started laughing. But no one else was laughing and it is a library, so I fell to shuddering. And I just can't stop.

Is the world ending?
Am I losing my mind?
Is it just a freakishly femme boy?
Does she not know that she has something red and furry growing on her face?
Is it a disease?
Is it some weird school spirit day?
Maybe it's opposite (sexes) day? But she's wearing a skirt. And make-up. And looking rather normal--excepting that beard of epic proportions. It even matches her hair color.
Why is no one else laughing at this?

More importantly, does she have a Beard card? Because otherwise I'll have to report her to the Honor Code police. Facial hair is illegal.

And it's just a little bit wrong.

and awkward.

and a bit disturbing.

especially on a girl.

I am really questioning reality right now. If I had a picture phone, I would sneak a picture. I really want someone to assure me that this is real life.

And now she is caressing it. Like the beard is her friend.

And I'm still laughing.

The Greatest Game Ever Played

2010-11-08T21:17:00.000-08:00

A week ago, someone introduced Melissa and I to the License Plate game. We have a fixation with punching each other, so this was just a natural progression. And it's very simple: when you see an out-of-state license plate, you beat them in the arm. It's fabulous. I think it's the answer to all of life's problems. It's like I always say, "when in doubt, punch the crap out of someone."

Okay, so I don't always say that. But I will now. Because that's just a great motto.

Anyways, it just so happens we live in a "diverse" place where people from "all over" come and live. Or at least to go to church. So, on Sunday, coming out of church in the not-so-bright sunshine, I needed to punch someone. So we got raucous. Our roommate and neighbor were in the car and they didn't play.

Actually, I don't think that they understood

what was going on for a while.

Poor souls.

We were screaming out the classics, "IDAHO!" "CALIFORNIA!" and punching each other severely. We would reach back and forth to slap each other across the arm. She was driving and I was in the back, so I guess I had the upper hand, reaching forward instead of flailing behind. And I was getting annoyed by her constant thrashing, so I grabbed her arm and beat the answers into it.

And then...the moment that redefined everything I believed in....

On our slow traverse through the parking lot, with all of us laughing and Melissa whining about a dead arm and people looking at us funny and each of us screaming out states and bruising the white flesh. It was as we came to the end of the parking lot--the gold mine of pummeling-excuses--and we were breathless, eager, stalking the landscape with our eyes, hoping to catch one great finale. And we saw it. We saw it and screeched out at the same time: "NORTH DAKOTA!"

O. M. G. So it does exist.

Where the Wild Things Are

2010-10-24T22:12:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while. I’ve just been very unmotivated for the past while. Probably because it’s been progressively colder and wetter and gloomier, and school’s been harder and longer and boring-er. But here I am, back again. All thanks to Melissa and our stupendous laughs.

So, I was really hyper. And Melissa was getting annoyed with me which, naturally, made me even more giddy. She was making salsa and I was leaning back in the chair, mocking her in such a loving way. Then—I don’t know how it happened, really, we were eating salsa in the kitchen and our roommate wasn’t speaking because she lost her voice (which was pretty hilarious. Sad, but hilarious. Mostly, she sounded like Batman).

Anyways. She was there, and Melissa and I were sitting across from each other, bantering in an exasperating manner and, suddenly, I ask her to make a bird noise. So she chokes out this trill that sounded more like a deflating elephant. She claimed she'd just started laughing, so she tried again. It was just as bad/hilarious. Showing her how it’s done, I cooed like a pigeon. And she says “That’s not a bird, that’s an owl.”

Um.

We all started laughing—well, our roommate was wheezing, because her vocal cords were completely shocked; and when I laugh hard, I laugh silent; and Melissa was burrowing into her arm in shame, so there was actually no noise going on. We were all just choking on tears and laughing inside out. And it just got better.

After getting a grip on myself, I decide to test her obviously-lacking skills. Thinking of an animal that I have never really considered making defining noises, I say, “Make an alligator noise.”

So she rolls her eyes, still laughing, shrugs, and makes a noise. A whirring noise. Like a spinning fan.

I choke on my water, and we’re all back to laughing.

“That’s your alligator noise?” I manage, laughing incredulously, wondering what kind of nature shows she’d watched. And suddenly she chokes and sputters and stops breathing and starts shaking her head: “No, you said elevator!” So we laugh even harder.

If that’s possible.

Which it is.

Because we did.

I don’t think any of us really breathed for a while. We were gasping and laughing and gasping so we could laugh again.

An elevator noise.

She proceeded to make a fool of herself at my demand for quite some time. I got her to try a monkey noise, a T-Rex, and the classic Raptor bark. That was just great. If you ever run into Melissa, ask for her raptor noise. It’s brilliant. A bloody ripper.

Though, I have to say, nothing exactly beats her “alligator” noise.

There It Goes

2010-10-02T19:59:00.000-07:00

I came across a spider today. One of those big, brown, ugly ones. So I did what any mature, adult would do: I screamed for my big sister to come kill it.

She came grudgingly up the stairs with her choice of weapon. An empty orange juice bottle. Not exactly what I would have gone for, but I wasn't going to step in with any other suggestions, because then I'd have to take a swing of it. And, as you already know, I hate spiders.

Back story:

My greatest irrational fear is that I'll try and kill a spider

but it won't die

and then it will be angry

and jump at me

and kill me, probably.

So, Melissa sees it up in the corner of the door frame and takes a swing at it--to try and scare it.

I whimper.

She takes a closer swing, hitting it so it balls up a little. Then, she winds it up, goes for the kill, and--BAM!--it suddenly jumps from its spot directly at Melissa. I scream, sure, but Melissa starts shrieking, running down the stairs, shrieking.

Laura trips into the room, laughing so hard she's doubled over. I try to explain what happened, but when I started saying it jumped at Melissa, Melissa would answer with a panicked scream.

We were all kind of laughing, Melissa was hyperventilating, bent over, scared to find the spider. I told her to check her hair. She screamed. She asked for us to search her hair, but we wouldn't go any closer. I wouldn't--self-preservation--and Laura was rolling on the floor, laughing.

Melissa kept screaming, "Check my hair!" But she was too terrified to actually undo her pony-tail, run her fingers through her hair. I would be too. She ran her hands up and down her body, still freaking out, and I was still trying to tell Laura what had happened--with the spider just leaping at her. Not that it mattered; Laura was laughing herself to death with or without all the facts.

It was pretty hysterical.

We finally found the spider, dead on the floor (and by we, I mean Melissa; Laura and I were laughing too hard to be of any use).

That moment, when the spider just made a sudden dive for her--I almost fainted. But then Melissa practically flew down the stairs, screaming and shaking, and I just had to laugh. Still, I am eternally grateful for her...bravery. If that had been me, I wouldn't have had the breath to scream, I would have just died. Right then and there.

DoNuts

2010-09-18T16:46:00.000-07:00

This is my life.

Once upon a time, I craved donuts. I love donuts. So Melissa took me to get donuts. This is why I love her.

Then I came home, and my father asked me about donuts. He asked me where Melissa and I got them: "Did you go to Dick's?" And I just said, "Oh, we don't have Dick's."

For real, that happened.

I immediately knew what I had said, but since I was in the presence of my father, I kind of swallowed my snort. Until my brother started snickering, and then I just couldn't stop laughing. And dad started laughing in his wheezy way, doubling over, tears flowing from his eyes. Melissa laughed indifferently. And I was just dying of laughter.

Total "LOL" moment.
More like "ROFL," actually.
Or even just a great "ROFLOL."

And, yes, we really don't have Dick's in Provo.

haha.

A Bit Obsessed

2010-09-16T22:21:00.000-07:00

So, for a while now, I've been hearing about "A Very Potter Musical," a parody done by some college. Last weekend, I got around to watching it. And it was hilarious. Seriously. I was laughing so much, so loudly--Melissa kept checking up on me. But it was just so great. It was long and some of it was lame, but most of it was fabulous. Like to-die-for funny. Watch it. It will change your life.

But, anyways, I was watching highlights again today and all the songs were stuck in my head. Then I was watching TV spots for the upcoming film and I was just on this Harry Potter high. And I suddenly wanted so badly for there to be a real Harry Potter musical. I would totally pay money for that.

Actually, I'd pay money for any production

to get Daniel Radcliffe out of my head.

I hate those movies.

Wouldn't that be so awesome? I would love it. It'd be sick.

So sick I just used that word.

Just to inspire you all to agree, here is a clip from the first song in AVPM: "Get Back to Hogwarts." And can I just say I love Draco? So if you're only going to watch part of it, watch his (her?) part. You'll know when it is. LOVE IT! It's--ahem--"totally awesome."

Doesn't it make you wish a million things at once? Like...that you could really be excited to go to school, or that you could sing about it. That life could be a musical--period--with dances choreographed and everything. And that you could be a wizard (Slytherin!) and just hug the crap out of Malfoy. Or even that you could just go to the Wizarding World Theme Park (I would sell my kidney to get there right now). And, most of all, that there was a real, real, real Harry Potter musical. I would love that more than almost anything.

Then again, I'm going through this weird, overwhelming, sudden Harry Potter craze.

In one of my classes, we were talking

about the characteristics of the Epic genre

(basically, an unlikely hero, supernatural elements,

years of complex journeying, and trials and such)--

think the Iliad or the Odyssey--and my

professor asked for some modern examples.

The first thing that came to mind?

Harry Potter.

Kill Me Now

2010-09-10T16:12:00.000-07:00

Okay, so this is highly embarrassing, but, whatever.

Last night, I was getting ready for bed around 11:35 and everyone else was asleep. So I'm writing in my journal about how happy a day it was (not.) and how I'm pretty stoked to go to bed and just sleep. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see this disgusting

huge

grotesque

ugly

frightening

brown spider. And I about died.

It was crawling along my baseboard at rather a fast pace and I immediately start whispering in a panicked voice, "omigosh, omigosh" over and over again. Before I can grab a shoe, it was under my bed and I was doing this nervous, panicked dance.

You know, where you feel like your skin is crawling

so you start jumping around, touching yourself.

That sounds awkward.

So I look and see if Melissa is awake, or my roommate who loves killing spiders. But the apartment is silent. Except for me. I am still dancing around, having a panic attack. I pull my bed away from the wall, but I don't see the spider anywhere. So then I'm curled up on my little desk chair, my hands shaking, and I know--I KNOW--I cannot sleep if I don't find and destroy that spider. I even contemplate sleeping right there, on my chair. Or pulling an all-nighter. Or sleeping on the floor, thinking even that is better than sleeping where a spider is hiding under me.

Instead, I knock on Melissa's doors. I knock with my knuckles, with my fist, with my palm. I scratch at the door, I text her, I whisper her name. Nope, she is dead asleep. So I go back in my room, little panicked tears escaping my eyes, and an inner dialogue that goes something like this:

"Omigosh omigosh omigosh

if it just comes out,

if I see it I can kill it

if I can just see it.

oh I'd so rather see it than not.

I need it out from my bed.

I'm gonna die.

I can't breathe.

omigosh omigosh omigosh."

And then I suddenly see it crawling up my curtain. And I start whispering "omigosh" louder and faster. But I can't kill it. Because, one, that would ruin my curtain. Two, I am a big believer in closing my eyes and smashing things as hard as I can, so I would probably break the window or the blinds or miss and it would DESTROY me. So I'm just standing in my room, doing my nervous dance, still crying pathetically, clutching at my throat like I would rather kill myself than face a spider. And then, instead of crawling onto my wall, it crawls into my blinds. And then I really freak out. Because that is definitely not a one-man job. I mean, if I were to open the blinds, it would jump out and bite me and I would die and it would lay babies in my corpse. So I finally call Melissa. And then I knock, and she finally moves.

Lucky for me, my sister loves me and understands--even shares--my fear of large arachnids. So she calmly comes in, pulls my bed away from the window, and prepares to pull the blinds while I stand ready with a shoe. Still doing my nervous dance.

Up, up they go and...no spider. OH. MY. GOSH. I almost collapsed into a heap and cried right there. Where did it go? I hate being plagued with that question when it comes to spiders. Melissa said maybe it crawled outside. Well, the idea of my window having a big enough hole for spiders to crawl in and out of wasn't exactly comforting. She told me to just leave my bed in the middle of the room and to just stop thinking about it.

Let me tell you, easier said than done. I was still screaming "omigosh" in my head as I checked all my sheets, pillows, and blankets. Then I burrowed under them, engulfing myself in a very stuffy cocoon. I plugged into my ipod, listening to loud, soothing songs and playing solitaire, pretending I did not feel my skin crawling.

Worst. Night. Ever.

That's Me For Ya

2010-09-03T16:25:00.000-07:00

Today, I was watching a TV show while brushing my teeth. And then something cute happened (on the show) and so I "awwed." Immediately, I choked on toothpaste; gasped, thus pulling my toothbrush deeper into my throat; coughed, spewing spit everywhere; and eventually tripped over to the sink to spit it all up.

It was hilarious and I was laughing as I gasped, minty saliva still dribbling from my mouth. Which was disgusting. Then I was just bent over the sink, watching myself fall apart in the mirror, giggling.

It totally made my day.

And it wasn't even that cute a moment, really

(on the show).

Also, my sister is famous. The BYU website has a slideshow of "Back to School" moments, and there she is....

cute, huh?

(She's the one scrunched up in green,

hiding her face from the camera she knew was there.

Meanwhile, her friend boldly sits,

soaking up the attention.

haha.)

Disappointment

2010-08-26T17:50:00.000-07:00

So, no spoilers, I promise, but I just read Mockingjay, the final book in The Hunger Games series.

(Pretty, huh?)

I really meant to like it--I was excited to love it--but I just couldn't. Within the first page, all I cared about was who she ends up with.

(I am such a Peeta fan, it's unreal.)

By the end of the first part, I just hated her. Incessant whining, constant complaining, self-important plotting. Ugh. It was awful, actually.

(That almost sounded british.

I think it was the combination of ugh/awful.)

I think I have always disliked Katniss, not only for her silly name, but her determination to be uninspiring. She has a flair for dramatics and a knack for disobeying orders, constantly questioning and having a forever lack of faith in people. Then there is the tired cliche of love triangles, hers even more determinedly cliche because of the players--Strong, fiery, handsome Gale versus the quiet, sweet, charming Peeta.

You have to have opposites, it seems, because

when it comes to a love triangle,

the girl never seems to have a general "type."

Or, really, any sort of decisive characteristic whatsoever.

It's forever a nauseating back-and-forth:

the friend, or the lover?

the rescuer or the defender?

the expected or the unexpected?

And it is like a law

that the girl has to be annoying

and obviously unworthy of attention from either man.

I was actually so mad that I didn't like the book. I loved the first one, even with her simpering nature. The second one was predictable and a bit lacking, but I thought the third--the final--could pull it all together. But I found myself rewriting it as I read.

Here's what I would have wanted to happen:

Katniss should be determined to have Peeta back,

she should hatch some sort of ridiculous plan to rescue him.

And when she gets there to save him--

BAM--

he tries to turn her in, he says she's wrong,

he says he's one of them.

So she hates him

and Gale rescues her and she almost kills Peeta.

Except she can't.

The next part is all about destroying the government,

turning the districts on the capital,

make the president go mad.

Then it's full-out war.

Her mother should die, her sister should die,

she should kiss Gale while wishing Peeta was back.

Then

she should be caught, brought to face the president

and Peeta should come in the room like a faithful servant.

She should be crying,

insisting the country could be saved,

that the games were wrong--even the problem.

And the president should say something about how he turned Peeta.

He should ask Peeta to kill Katniss.

Peeta should move to do so, and then he should whisper

something only she would understand,

and he would go after the president, and they would fight the guards

and in that intense moment, she should scream at him

and they should kiss.

Gale should see, realize he lost and be heartbroken,

and then the president would still be alive,

and Gale would die fighting him.

And Katniss would kill the president

on national television.

And the war would be over, and things would be fixed

and Peeta and her would live happily ever after.

I think I really could have liked that sort of book, instead of the altogether-unexciting events, journal-style moping, determined hopelessness and all-around randomness that the finale was.

It was such a disappointment.

If I Were a Witch

2010-08-22T23:45:00.000-07:00

Tonight, we were discussing Harry Potter. Rather thoroughly, and literally for hours. It was great--probably one of the best conversations I have ever had.

We were talking about the uselessness of Hufflepuff, the randomness of Ravenclaw, the overall awesomeness of Gryffindor, then the evil nature of Slytherin. And it dawned on me: I would definitely be Slytherin.

Really, though, I think I would be. I am not brave--at least not in that nauseatingly-heroic way--so Gryffindor is out of the question. I'm definitely not smart enough to be in Ravenclaw (I mean, a riddle to get in the commons? Come on). Still, I would like to consider myself to be polarizing enough not to be cast into Hufflepuff, a place obviously meant for the leftovers. So, Slytherin it is.

Wicked.

(a pun! a pun!)

Not to sound too nerdy--what, with my suddenly impressive and extensive pool of knowledge concerning Slytherins (I researched, okay?!). They are cunning, ambitious, and probably just a bit manipulative and selfish--at least always sure to look out for themselves first.

Sounds like me, though, doesn't it? I could pull it off, easy.

It was Dumbledore who said something about their cleverness, determination, and a "certain disregard for the rules." And then the Sorting Hat actually said...

"...In Slytherin

You'll make your real friends,

Those cunning folk use any means

to achieve their ends...."

"...And power-hungry Slytherin

Loved those of great ambition...."

So maybe it's not exactly good, but none of the houses are really flawless. And Slytherin does have one amazingly-beautiful, possibly-perfect thing going for it:

Yes.

If I were as gorgeous as Draco,

I would probably catch myself looking in the mirror as well.

Truly, the one downside? I would have to live in a dungeon with terrible lighting and probably way too many spiders.

But, hey, I do look great it green.

It's About Time

2010-08-18T12:02:00.000-07:00

I guess I should be better at this whole blog thing, what with my booming fan base and all.

My room has a soft orange glow to it. Like an Oompa Loompa. I got this sexy, sheer orange curtain--ironically, to keep people from objectifying me in my first-floor window.

(Get it? Irony? Sexy curtain, avoid objectification? ...clever.)

It's a pretty gorgeous room, I admit. Smaller than my last one, but prettier. And cozier. And, even though my bed feels like less than an upgrade from the floor, I like it here.

Cute, huh?

Green, blue, orange--oh my.

Actually, the orange was a very smart move, seeing as my ceiling light has an orange design and all my pictures (including my awesome collage) have splashes of orange, and I even have orange magnets.

What can I say? I am just a genius when it comes to feng-shui.

Here's a close-up of my curtain.

Quite tangeric, eh?

(I think if there was a job for making up words,

I would really like that.)

This curtain proves to be a perfect investment: I never need a light on because the orange just MAGNIFIES the sunlight tenfold (I have always wanted to use that word in a casual context). Another irony, seeing as I just bought a pretty table lamp which I now never need use.

But it looks pretty.

So. There it is, my awesome room that you should all be jealous of. Or, I guess Melissa has the jealous thing down--she wants to buy a curtain now, just to try and live up to my awesomeness. A useless ambition (no one will ever be as cool as me), but flattering nonetheless.

(Look! Another anachronistic word I used all casual-like.)

(ohp, I did it again.)

Fire Alarm

2010-08-02T22:28:00.000-07:00

SITTING in the BYU library around three o'clock today, you might have thought it was the end of the world. I, for one, was watching TV online (which is probably what I'll be doing when the world really does end). Suddenly, an annoying flashing began. People groaned beside me and I took off my headphones only to hear a horrible, shrieking, pulsing alarm echoing through the library. The fire alarm. I groaned as well. But I obediently put all my stuff away, packing my backpack and following the crowd out towards the exit. Most were grumbling about disrupted study sessions, many were shouting loud enough for the world to hear about how the world is out to get them.

Really, some people's self importance.

One thing you need to know: the BYU library is enormous. There is a lobby/atrium where the stairs meet and the main doors stand. But, as the fire alarm rang, a wall started to close, blocking the atrium (protecting the books or sacrificing the students, depending on how you look at life). This curtain had big letters painted bright read shouting "EXIT"--with arrows pointing to the left or right, where glowing signs read "Emergency Exit." Still, some people panicked, reading that exit as a final warning, the last word they would ever read if they did not first beat the slow curtain and reach the open spaces and clear exits of the atrium. There was actually a panic. It was just a door closing. But people began pushing for it, squealing and shouting and running to make it through, shoving quite inconsiderately as they went. Some people tried to point out other exits--the doors other kids (dare I say smarter kids?) were already walking through, safe and sound, even their egos unscathed. But, for some reason, the closing accordion door seemed to represent a desperate threat: get through or die. People booked it, pushing through with a cheer as if they were lucky to be alive.

I was one of the few to make it through.

I guess that makes me cool, destined for greatness or something.

A chosen one.

People were screaming as the space became too small to fit through. I swear I saw hands push through, begging someone to notice there were survivors still. Embarrassingly, the alarm stopped ringing seconds later. So did the screaming. No one even died.

It was a valuable lesson: I witnessed just how few people could read neon-bright signs, complete with arrows and clearly signified exits, when faced with death by fire.

Partly unrelated, I also saw someone run into a pillar.

Illicit Conversations

2010-07-26T17:38:00.000-07:00

I had a meeting for work today, only it wasn't really a meeting. The whole team--nine interns, two directors--met up to casually interview the head of OIT (Office of Information Technology). We had previously sent in questions, and one of the directors was going to ask them all--it was our responsibility to take notes on the subjects we were interested in. Cool. I say all this just to justify my soon-to-be-apparent actions.

So, I was in said meeting, bored out of my mind, soon realizing my questions would be at the very end. I had my computer out, so I casually logged onto Facebook, expecting to simply waste time. But then Laura logged on. And it all went downhill. She told me a lovely story about telling some guy they should make cute babies together.

(Whoa, that sounds dirty.)

But it was a hilarious story, and I had to swallow a giggle. Remember, I am in a very solemn assembly of 12 people all focused in on technobabble that I could not understand; I was pretending to take notes, and laughing was not an option. And things just got worse.

Shelby: Who is this man?

Laura: He's not a man, he's a six year old boy.

And I about died. I seriously started shaking from laughter buried deep within me, just rising up into my throat, desperate to get out. But I couldn't let it out. I just covered my mouth and painfully choked on my laugh. And it continues.

Laura: Just kidding. He's 15. I'm so funny.

Shelby: you know when you have a laugh

that NEEDS to get out but you can't let it?

So you hold your breath?

Laura: yes indedd. then I faint.

Shelby: ya. that just happened.

Laura: and everything is so much funnier

when you're not allowed to laugh.

haha except he's not 6

but that's why it's funny

ah! I am so silly right now.

And I tried to log off, because my chest hurt from suppressed laughter and my neighbors were starting to look at my shaking self strangely. So I told Laura I was getting off. About...3 seconds later, I was back on, unable to avoid temptation. And this is what I came back to.

Laura: I just said that out loud

"I'm so silly right now" and sophie looked at me

It was great

And I nearly laughed out loud, picturing Laura, talking to herself, her blond hair bouncing a little as she bobbled her head in excitement. Like a little puppy.

Shelby: I'm going to have a giggle fit

Laura: Ha! Those are the best. I get them at work

and then customers look at me funny.

Then I say "don't judge me"

Shelby: I talk out loud when I chat online too.

Except not right now, because then people

would think I'm INSANE

Laura: Haha do it!

Just start whispering under your breathe

PaLEASE!

I was about to throw up, not laughing was so hard.

Shelby: Stop. making. me. laugh

Laura: you should say "stop. making. me. laugh." out loud.

Twould be hilarious

Shelby: Did you mean to say twould?

Laura: yes I did. Like "twas the night before

christmas" but more like "twould you care to dance?"

And here's where it got morbid.

Shelby: I just told myself to think of dead puppies

to keep myself from laughing

Laura: hahahahaha that just made me do a deep giggle

dead puppies being bunted over a fence.

hahaha that's terrible. then the thought

of Sophie being bunted over a fence made me cry.

Shelby: laura you are going to be the death of me

I keep wanting to laugh--over dead puppies!

Laura: you should just laugh, and then it'll go quiet

and awkward and everyone will look at you, and it twill be like the movies.

yest. twil. twill.

Shelby: twon't. I have to go. I can't do it.

For real. tbye

Oh, man, even writing this, I just want to laugh and laugh and laugh. In that meeting, not laughing physically hurt. Tears came to my eyes; my body was screaming at me, shouting to just let it out, release the tension, and just LOL. But I (mostly) kept myself under control. Aside from the tears and the inexplicable shuddering, I behaved normally. I think some of them--the ones I was sitting by, and none of the adults--knew I was dying from laughter. They found my pain humorous. Then again, so did I. It was probably the best work meeting I've ever had.

Oh, Laura.

Would You Like Rice With That?

2010-07-11T10:40:00.000-07:00

MELISSA and I went to Taco Bell the other day. First, Melissa got lost and I suffered from heat exhaustion which affected us both because I started singing Taylor Swift songs in different accents and at higher pitches than Melissa thought humanly possible.

With me, any noise is possible.

Anyways.

We pull into this middle-of-nowhere Taco Bell, mostly to get Melissa some sauce packets to send to Albania. But, since we're there, we figure we'll order two bean burritos. No big deal, right? Five minutes later, the girl comes back and says, "Sorry, we're out of beans--do you want to substitute rice?" Um. What? Taco Bell...out of beans?

Melissa asks for a soft taco instead; I dare to try a rice burrito--which the lady assures me is "actually good." So I guess they've run out of beans before.

For the next five minutes, we exasperatedly wait, laughing as they take orders then announce they are out of beans--would they like rice with that? Some people, of course, walked out; most had to have the news repeated because it is hard to believe that a mexican restaurant--with every menu item depending on beans--has no beans. And then they were just ridiculously slow. They were all little high school students, laughing at the dilemma, forgetting we were there. Still waiting. For a burrito with no beans.

Probably half an hour later, they bring our order to us--how nice. And, no, a bean burrito without beans is not good. Melissa swallowed her taco whole; I choked down way too much rice. And then we were out of there, still laughing and just a tinge insulted by the lack of beans in our diet.

I made up for it by eating 12 Reeses on the way home.

That's Hilarious

2010-07-02T07:14:00.000-07:00

ONE of my favorite things to do is listen in on people's phone calls. Not in a creepy, glean-information-so-I-can-kill-you way, but just in passing.

Walking around campus takes awhile;

you take entertainment and distraction where you can get it.

And it's just funny to listen to one-sided, out-of-context comments. People say some really random, stupid things. It all makes you wonder--and often infer--what their conversation is about, what the other person is saying, and why the crap they're saying it.

I think I sound like a real stalker.

I'm not.

Really, it's just in passing.

The other day, tiredly shuffling off to class, I turned down the wrong hall. So I sighed exasperatedly, wishing I could just skip class, obviously too tired to make it there safely. But then I passed this kid on the phone, and it made me smile.

I heard him said something like, "Oh, ya? I can't believe that."

And then, "That's hilarious."

Totally deadpans it. No, humor, no laughing voice, no laughing period. Just, "That's hilarious. Think of the driest, least sincere, bored voice you can--and then say that. And it wasn't sarcasm.

As a sarcasm-addict, I am rather apt at picking up on sarcastic people.

They are my friends.

I don't know why it was so funny. Maybe because he was talking about something "hilarious" without even a hint of amusement. It should have been sarcasm. It should have been a conversation between me and my little sister:

"I went to see Eclipse."

"Oh, ya? I can't believe that."

"But Edward was hot."

"That's hilarious."

Bad example--I would have definitely laughed,

not happily, but incredulously.

If this guy had just had any sort of emotion, it wouldn't have been funny. I would have walked past him without snorting and thus covering it up by pretending to cough.

People just don't like you listening in on their conversations.

I can't imagine why.

It's not like anyone judges them.

That's hilarious.

The Experiment

2010-06-24T23:00:00.000-07:00

I made pizza tonight. With pasta. On top. As in my pizza was topped with pasta. And not just any pasta—that would be boring. I put Thai curry noodles on top, all spicy and gooey and great. I also chopped up a jalapeño and pulled it all together with a scattering of cheddar cheese on top. That makes me all original and adventurous, right? And maybe just a tad disgusting.

Sometimes I think I’m pregnant.

But it was pretty good. The pizza itself was a thin crust chicken alfredo one, and then my kung pao noodles. Please note that this entire experiment was done in secret.

Like I need my roommates to judge me.

I casually cooked the noodles first, nodding and laughing nervously as they assured me it smelled good. Then I pulled out the pizza, moving my workspace to the smallest corner which I could then stand in front of, keeping curious eyes away. I hastily unwrapped the pizza, dubiously dumping the noodles on top. I ate a few to keep up appearances. Finally, I threw it in the oven, shutting the door quickly and pretending nothing was going on. I guarded that oven like it was my life. I didn’t want anyone sneaking a peek. When it was time, I pulled it out and quickly cut it, not willing to let it cool. Because then it would be there for everyone to see. So I sliced it, stored half of it, and then carried the rest to my bedroom where I ate in silent shame. Still, it was good. Unnatural, and with some contradictory flavors, but good. And rather spicy.

I guess my fears of being found out as a pasta-pizza eater are gone.

After all, here I am, bearing my perhaps-disturbing confession to the entire world. Now I will assuredly be judged.

In my opinion, you are all just jealous.

Near Death

2010-06-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

I hate EFY.

Yesterday, as I left Creative Writing (Last day, too, so yay!), eager to get home, I ran into this river of EFY kids. They were choking the path, a never-ending line of children coming from somewhere and heading everywhere. And, you know how they have to link arms and huddle together in their little companies? Yes, well, it makes passing through very hard. I decide to walk through the library to try and pass them--embarrassing enough, having to go in one door, say hello to the guard, then straight out the other, ignoring the other guard's quizzical stare. Turns out it did me no good. There were just more of them on the other side. I have to walk with them. Gross. But it gets worse.

I finally get into the WILK only to be faced by a large group of them, crying and holding each other as music plays. I suddenly remembered: it was their testimony night. So I quietly get around them, trying not to giggle at the sniffling and handholding. Then there was another group. I have to scurry past them. I think I am finally free. But another group, still linking arms and marching, decide to turn down the very hall I have escaped to. They cut in front of me, pinning me against the wall. Suddenly I knew exactly what it was like to be caught between a rock and a hard place. They were my hard place. I was literally walking alongside them, beside a couple who looked at me all funny. They were checking to see if I had an EFY badge. No, I most certainly did not. But I felt like I was an EFY kid. The leader told us--me--to keep moving. It was mortifying. Finally, I see the stairs, shining like a light at the end of a dark, terrifying tunnel. I wait for a break--a few oblivious couples march past, squeezing against me--and then I make a break for it. I practically skipped down the stairs, I was so happy to be free. I felt like a football player, making it through all those X's and O's.

I just--I can't stand EFY. They take over campus like maggots to a corpse. Gross, I know. But true. I have had to dodge way too many frisbees, ignore too many cat calls, and tune out all the EFY chants and claps and cheers.

I think I am an efyianphobic. There should be a group or something to help me work through this before I lose all control and just start strangling them.

The Attack of, Well, I Don't Even Know

2010-06-07T21:14:00.000-07:00

MELISSA and I were leaving Centerville again (what is it--the fourth week in a row?) in the late morning hours of Sunday. We were just getting onto the freeway, happily discussing cheetos. Melissa flipped her head back, glancing upward and away as she prepared to make an educated comment. Instead, she screamed--squealed--shattering my eardrums. My flight response kicked in, but I had nowhere to go so I just hunched forward, pulling my legs up and falling into a panicked ball that would make a possum proud.

"What is it?" I shouted, while she hyperventilated in a high-pitched way.

"Don't look!" She shouted, pulling over with a suddenness that scared a passing car. I was cringing, not moving, imagining a killer rat or a poisonous snake wrapping around my headrest. She shouts at me to get out of the car. I do. She curses, rummaging through things. I do not see a rat. She pulls out my laundry bin, screaming and letting it fall quickly so she can jump back.

"My pillow case!" I complain. She laughs nervously.

Finally, I dare ask what it is. She says she saw a spider. Such a scream surely meant a tarantula or a black widow. But she described it as smaller than a quarter. Sure, it was nasty and I was not getting back in that car till it was destroyed, but I didn't understand the need for such a scream.

After fifteen minutes--yes, fifteen minutes parked on the side of the freeway, unpacking what we had just packed and finding nothing--I asked if it was possible that she was just insane. She didn't think so. But, after those fifteen minutes, she admitted that we had to go. I told her I would not get back in the car with the laundry right by my head (where she had seen the spider). So she packed everything in on her side. Such a nice sister. I sat with my feet curled under me and my purse on the dash. For a long while, it was qiuet, the air tight as Melissa kept looking back and forth, shuddering. I thought of how easily I could scare her--just a quick scream and pointed finger. But then I thought about her already-terrifying driving skills and how such an act would surely whip us to our deaths. So I refrained.

When we got home, I made her carry my laundry up to my apartment and go through each article of clothing until she was sure no spider was there, busy laying babies. We never found that spider. In anything. And I have never unpacked so meticulously, or nervously. When I was left to fend for myself concerning my suitcase, I uttered so many under-the-breath "omigosh" that my roommate stopped to ask if I was okay.

It was pretty crazy, and a bit embarrassing. But at least it was memorable. And, hey, I can always use it as proof of Melissa's questionable sanity. :)

Life's Better as a Redhead

2010-05-28T18:11:00.000-07:00

SO, this super-lame weekend, I was thinking that my life has pretty much been the same for YEARS now. Nothing really unpredictable ever happening. School, school, school. And I was supremely bored. So I got a haircut. Another predictable moment, seeing as I got an a-line again. And I wondered if it was too "mommy"-ish, so I wanted to color my hair.

(So let's see how many times I can say so)

And I dared to be different.

I went red. Fiery, spicy red.

yummy.

I was kinda more than freaking out. The dye was orange and frightening. When I rinsed it out, there was a pool of tang in the sink. Lovely. But I think I like it. Maybe.

It makes my green eyes pop, yes?

So (there I go again) I think looking in the mirror and being surprised will entertain me for awhile. And this is only semi-permanent. The box says "28 shampoos," so (ugh. bigger vocabulary needed) in all actuality, probably two weeks. Lame.

I'm kinda starting to like it.

But no more pink lipstick for me.

Spoiler Alert

2010-05-23T22:23:00.000-07:00

Well, it's over. There's never been anything so emphatic in my life. For six seasons--spanning from 2004 to 2010, covered through 121 episodes (roughly 7,260 minutes)--I have loved Lost. Mostly, anyways. Sometimes I hated it.

Like, when they killed Charlie.

Or Juliet--twice.

And when they brought good/evil into it with the mystical brothers,

one remaining nameless to add to the...mystery.

And the guy who wouldn't age that just made no sense at all.

Or anything Dharma.

And then there was that phase where I despised Jack.

And Kate.

But I have always loved Sawyer.

Nothing beats the first season. Except, maybe, the "flash-sideways" of the final season--the alternate reality where everyone got their happily ever after.

Or so I thought.

Nope, turns out they are all...

DEAD.

Ya, as in no longer living.

(No, dad, the island was not Hell)

They just all died, formed some sort of imaginary limbo-life where they could find one another, and, once they did, they met in a church where the doors swung open and that necessary white light filled the room, drowning out the faces as the silhouettes wandered into a supposed eternity of happiness.

bleh.

Part of me is okay with the idea. But a bigger part of me thinks it is a huge copout--a quickie "abandon ship" on part of the directors, writers, producers. Dead? Come on. Sure, that meant Juliet could get back with Sawyer, and Sayid could finally have Shannon, and Jin and Sun were alive, and Charlie kissed Claire--that is all what made it okay. But the cheesy concept and hurried finish...it just felt wrong. For a show that started so strongly, it sure ended weakly.

It was like Knowing.

As in it was okay up until the last fifteen minutes.

And then I was like "What the? Are you serious? This is it?"

Yup.

So it is over. Like most things, it ended rather anticlimactically and overly sentimental. Still, it's Lost, so I remain a forever fan.

Mostly, anyways.

I Should Definitely Be Better At This

2010-05-20T14:09:00.000-07:00

SOMETIMES, it is really hard for me to keep up on this blog. I just lack the...inspiration. That primarily being laughter. Yes, I lead a pathetically depressing life. Sometimes. I think part of the reason I haven't had a story that induces laguhter, is just because how fast everything has gone.

Like, hello, it is mid-May already. When did this happen? I have already faced midterms for the terms. I turned nineteen (Nope, don't feel any different). I moved in--was it a month ago?--to my new apartment.

Let me tell you, the feng shui is lacking.

Except in my room, which is, indeed, awesome.

I tried to tell my roommates our living room lacks any real flare and that ambiance was even a bit depressing, but they just shrugged their shoulders and went to their seperate rooms.

Sigh.

This whole "private room" thing has its downfalls.

Not that I would ever willingly go back to room-roommates.

This is a really random post. Boring, too. But I am serious: nothing remotely funny has happened to me since I last wrote. At least nothing that would be alright to share on the world wide web.

Doesn't that pique your interest?

So I will end with that.

Funny.

2010-05-12T14:38:00.000-07:00

YESTERDAY, in my Creative Writing class, we were analyzing a famous poem alongside its first draft. My teacher warned us not to favor the first draft. Because anyone who loved the first was like someone who liked grilled cheese over caviar--they would be uncultured and lame.

A kid raised his hand and asked, "Who is Caviar?"

No joke.

Funny, huh?

So, now, I am one day going to name...something/someone Caviar.
Then it would be really funny.

Bad News, Bad Smell, Bad Day

2010-05-05T14:34:00.000-07:00

I think my roommate might be dead.

There is this terrible aroma blanketing the entire apartment. At first I thought it was an old, wet washcloth, hanging by the kitchen sink. But, after a few minutes of eyeing it, terrified, I dared sniff it and, though it was gross--like a wet dog--it was not the source of the smell.

I sniffed a lot of things after that. The trash, the bathroom, the neighbors. I even took to sniffing permanent markers, just to get that awful smell out of my head. But it still reeks. And it smells as if it is coming from my roommate's room.

One of my greatest fears is that she is dead. I am living with a corpse.

I last saw her Friday night. I heard her come in. I heard her lock herself into her bedroom. And then...nothing. I have not seen or heard her since. And there is this inexplicable thought in my mind that she might, indeed, be dead. And I am smelling her putrid, lifeless body.

One thing I know for sure: she is terrified of crabs. But she owned one--just recently--and it escaped. That is why, she told me, she has yet to clean her room. Because she think she will see it and die.

That is what she told me.

So, my theory is that she went into her room friday night, crawled into bed, felt something crawl across her, saw that it was the crab, had a heart attack and DIED.

Makes sense, doesn't it?

I told my friend of my suspicions and another girl turned around and said, "You know, if your roommate dies, you get automatic A's for the entire semester."

/stun.

I don't know how to react to that, nor can I condone the rush of hope that filled my breast.

Just kidding, I am not so heartless.

...Mostly.

So, does anyone know what a dead body smells like?

I hesitate to post this. If it proves to be true, then I could most definitely be arrested for...something. I would be a prime suspect. Why didn't you report her missing, the police would ask daringly. And I would whimper and cringe, and they would pull this blog up. You think it's funny?, they scream, throwing their fists against the table.

Oh, now I am terrified.

So, a discretionary note: I do not really think my roommate is dead. Even with all the evidence presented, I find this to be an irrational fear. So, there. I just ruined my own story/drama.

Happy Almost-Birthday to Me

2010-05-01T11:41:00.000-07:00

FINALLY. I am almost, almost nineteen. It's about time. I think I have been eighteen way too long; this past year has just dragged on and on. Perhaps because so much has happened.

I (sort of) graduated HS.

Okay, let's just say I just moved past HS.

I came to college.

I am now a middle-aged sophomore at college.

I have faced three finals weeks.

I have now lived in three different places.

Melissa came home.

Ha.

No one in my family is yet married.

Still.

I have no job.

Nothing new there, I guess.

I have no boyfriend.

That's embarrassing.

There are so many movies that I have seen and want to see.

...I don't know how that is pertinent.

See? Lots has happened. This whole blog has happened. Think about that: all this wonderful, humorous happenings took place in HALF the time I have been eighteen. Man, I wanna be nineteen already.

Speaking of time dragging and being filled with lots of events...

I have watched almost four seasons of Bones since April 19.

And I just realized how pathetic that is.

I need a life.

Hey, what are birthdays for, right? Change. Newness. BAM--problem solved.

On May 8, I will no longer be lame, but I will have a life.

Promises, promises.

(Note the subtle reminder of what day my birthday really is.

This means you have no excuse to not remember.

So, remember, and celebrate my awesomeness.)

Moving

2010-04-25T19:44:00.000-07:00

I am moving. To a new apartment. Outside of Heritage. Hallelujah. But, my room is a disaster zone. Nothing like packing it all up to realize how much you have.

Then, on my floor:

Yes. And Melissa thinks we can fit it all into one vehicle. Ha.

It is important to note that, on the bed, the boxes are two deep. That's right. But I fit all my clothes into one bin, and all my kitchen stuff into one box (and two bags). The rest...my (awesome) collection of movies, my (fabulous) collection of books, my (great) array of crafts, some (okay) shoes, and.... Well, that's all I can account for.

So maybe I am a (tiny) bit of a pack rack, but only of funky knickknacks and such. I am thus forgivable. And all this stuff is necessary. At least, from what I remember packing it is.

Melissa just needs a bigger car. Or a U-haul.

This Is My Life

2010-04-21T09:45:00.000-07:00

THE other day, I went to the store to buy packaging tape, but I got distracted by the most beautiful, breathtaking thing. And now I covet.

This is a skirt by Downeast Outfitters aptly named "Breathtaking Beauty." Heck-freakin-yes. It is a pencil skirt, and yet it is so colorful, so flirty, so...me. Don't you agree? To make matters worse, as I was ogling over this, from the corner of my eye I saw the loveliest pair of shoes. And I just stood there, concocting the perfect outfit to make men swoon and girls glare with jealousy.

Actually, do boys swoon?

But then, in a rush of depressing reality, I remembered I have no money. I have no job. And so I walked away.

(Applaud me for such self control)

Yet, I could not let it go. So, here I am, professing it forever: my love for a skirt named Beauty.

Dis/Heartening

2010-04-13T22:30:00.000-07:00

I am a Gleek. I love the music, the characters, the realness, the honesty, the humor. I love Sue and Schu and everything/one else. It would be an understatement saying that I was simply excited about tonight's episode. Returning after a seemingly-eternal haitus, Glee finally came back into my life. The preview's made it seem all peppy and romantic, with Schu and Emma's first date...and Rachel's awesome rendition of a song I really wish I could dance to without feeling judged.

But.

For more drama, more plot, more whatever--the show went ahead and dashed all my happiness to pieces. First, Finn won't date Rachel. And she ends up with some {{INSERT BAD WORD}} just trying to use her. The truly horrifying part? Mr. Schu goes and makes out with Idina Minzel, who, though pretty cool, is definitely NOT as epic as Emma. Emma. I love Emma. And Mr. Schu just ruins it with some lame "inner searching" crap. And his ex-ish wife is of. the. devil.

Really, the best moment of the night--hand's down--goes to a lovely quote by the lovable blonde cheerleader:

"Did you know dolphins are just gay sharks?"

Love it!

Therefore, I am hoping that there is still hope. After all, nothing was better than Sue in "Vogue." Genius. So, I remain--for now--as Gleek-ey as ever.

P.S. What's with the pictures, you ask? I want to make my blog more appealing to the human eye. Supposedly, people are more willing to read when pictures are involved. That's why adult's reading rates go up when they have children--picture books.

And I totally just made that up. Cuz I am that awesome.

Inspiration, or Lack Thereof

2010-04-13T12:24:00.000-07:00

THERE is a lack of inspiration in my life.

I feel like doing something drastic.

Maybe I will drop out of college, get a one-way ticket to Tuscany and spend the rest of life basking in the sunshine, seeped in the aroma of vineyards, writing and living off love and poetry. Everything carefree and romantic, it would be perfectly inspirational.

(I am pretty sure I am using these pics illegally.... But I got them off the WorldWideWeb, at betterphoto.com. So, support, and I won't feel so bad.)

That would be wonderful, wouldn't it? You would all be jealous.

Too bad it will never happen. Reasons?

1. My mom would hunt me down, drag me back, and/or kill me. With good reason. After all, she is paying for the education in question. So either I would have to fake my death or not post this so she wouldn't know where I've gone. Neither choice is very nice.

2. I have no money. So, even if I got over there, I would quickly starve and die. If I was not first robbed/murdered/raped.

3. I would actually, probably, very likely, entirely possibly get bored.

So ix-nay on that ery-vay ad-bay lan-pay. I will just have to find some other way to inspire myself.

I need a boyfriend.

Cough, Cough*

2010-04-10T22:57:00.001-07:00

I made Lemon Bars. They turned out terrible, but I still ate them. Hello, sugar. And, of course, I could not wait for them to cool--who does that? So, I cut off a small piece and, as I was talking to my buds, I put it my mouth. It was burning. And, it was covered in powdered sugar. Terrible, terrible combination. It is in my mouth, and first thing is, it is hot, so I kind of gasp, and the sugar is just sucked to the back of my throat and I start hacking. It was bad. And I tried to get the piece of burning-lemon-confectionary-dessert out of my mouth, but it was burning and it was everywhere and I was coughing and my friends were laughing and it was a huge mess.

WHEN I finally get everything out, I am still coughing--choking, dying, suffocating, all of the above--because this stubborn crumbly is lodged in the back of my throat. For the next ten minutes, I am making all sorts of throaty noises possible, just trying to get it out. And my friends stifled laughter was making me blush, so I went in the hallway, screeching and growling and everything. It was awful, and it was hilarious. At one point, I am standing in the kitchen, back arched, arms thrown back, neck stretched, and I am making some sort of intense rabid bear mating call (or something like it) and my roommate walks in. She takes one look at me, blinks, and says "Well, I came in at the wrong time."

LOVELY.

THAT is my story.

ON another note, how should I do my hair? Straight bangs, swoop bangs? Short hair, same length? New color, old color, real color? I just don't know. My hairdresser had to go and move (Amber. Way to be.), so I would have to find/trust somebody new, and I would have to pay them with money that I don't really have. But I wanna do something, because it is a new term, new place, new people.... And I am bored of my present state of hair. So, maybe just a self color? Cherry Cola, yes? Yes. And if I keep straight bangs, I am capable of cutting them myself.... Still, my hair is an awkwardly long mess, and I just toss it into a ponytail every day.

SIGH. Why is life so hard?

AT least Glee is coming back. I don't think I have ever been so excited for something in my life. Here's to it being good.

Profanity Alert

2010-04-02T00:41:00.000-07:00

TODAY, April 2, is my roommate's 20th birthday. To celebrate, we brought her into the kitchen at midnight, screamed Happy Birthday, and proceeded to have the best party ever. This is thanks to three things.

FIRST, we made Cake Waffles (or are they Waffle Cakes?). We poured funfetti cake batter into a waffle iron and let the magic happen. Only, the first one came out awful. We shredded it just trying to get it out. But then we just overgreased it and, magic-of-all-magicalness, it came out perfect. We served it up with three dollops of whipped cream and a substantial amount of hot fudge. Then we called Sarah in and sang the WORST/best rendition of "Happy Birthday" ever. Really, the world is either very lucky or unlucky since we did not record it. The latter, because it was truly awful; the former, because it also happened to be hilariously bad. It made Sarah cringe and say, "I hope we didn't wake up the neighbors."

SECOND, Sarah was dancing for us. She interpreted various animals' mating dances. Such as what a stink bug, a cat, or a whale might do to attract a mate. I thought the sloth dance was probably her best bet for enticing anyone.

THIRDLY and finally, Sydney said the funniest thing. I think people should stay up past midnight--they tend to be much more entertaining. I have to give Sydney a bit of a break, since she had 1) been working all night on a boring book and a terrible paper, and 2) she was all twitterpated and googly-eyed. But, none of that detracts from the HILARIOUSNESS of her most recent escapade into giggly hysterics.

SEE, this was just as we perfected the cake waffles. And Leslie said something completely unrelated to the birthday at hand. In response, Sydney shouted, "You just suck the fun out of everything!" We all laughed (slight inside joke), and she pressed on, yelling at the top of her lungs, "Fun Sucker!" Except...not. She inverted the first letters of each word, instead saying something...well, something rather BYU inappropriate. And it was hilarious. I burst out laughing, Laci choked on her food, Sarah sort of gasped and started to ROFL, Leslie stared bug-eyed, and Sydney collapsed onto the table in shame. We were all nearly crying from laughter, and Sydney was bright red, shaking her head in embarrassment, rushing away to compose herself. Sarah took on the motherly role, assuring Sydney that things like that always happened and it was alright. I took on the big brother role, mocking her endlessly for her slip-up, just staring at her, a laugh gleaming in my eyes. She couldn't even look at me without shaking her head and laughing. Every opportunity possible, I brought it up; every time, it just became more and more funny.

I can't get enough of it. And, no, Sydney, you will never live this down. Ever. It is even more infamous than your Viagra faux pas.

FUN sucker.

IT still makes me smile.

That's Not My Name

2010-03-24T00:02:00.001-07:00

I have been really tired these past days. Yesterday morning, in the shower, I had a dollop of conditioner in the palm of my hand. As the water poured over me and I blinked groggily, I literally forgot what I was supposed to do with it. I could not remember. I just stared at it and stared at it, moving to rub it across my face when I realized, no, that could not be it. Finally, I remembered and all was well. Except I was exhausted. Then, last night, at three in the AM, when I still couldn't fall asleep, I decided to try again. So I got out of bed, made my bed, went to the bathroom, got a drink of water, snacked on some cereal, and then fell into bed again.

IT didn't work. So I put it my ipod and fell asleep to the Ever After soundtrack, wishing the whole time that music was not pounding in my head.

ANYWAYS.

I have this terrible habit of doodling. It is terrible because it really is awful. I cannot draw anything. At all. My margins are filled with two things: flowers, and stars. Anything beyond that and it turns uglier. Funny side note: I tend to hide said margins whenever in class. I will subtly rest an arm on it, I will lean over it, I will turn the page--anything to keep people from seeing just how literally terrible my doodles are. Except today, I was too tired to remember that a star, indeed, had five points. Instead, I took to doodling my name. OVer and over again. Then, I wrote out my favorite name ever (Brayden Eloise--future daughter, that is you). And, suddenly, like an angelic epiphany, a life-changing revelation, a new name came to me.

ARE you ready?

ASPEN EMMYELLE

IF you are anything like two of my sisters, you will have trouble with--what I consider to be--phonetical words. Which is sad. But, just for you, I will spell it out. Slowly. Like my sisters needed (I love you guys).

FIRST, Aspen. If you cannot figure that one out, your life is lacking something. Such as an english class. So, moving on.

THEN, Emmyelle. I thought it was pretty straight forward. I look at it and I say "emmyelle"--sounds just like it looks, I promise. You have Emmy (M+E) meeting Elle (Like the letter "L"). Emmyelle. Even better, it is like you are spelling out M-E-L. Emmyelle.

PUT together, Aspen Emmyelle. Yay for pretty names! I love it. You wanna hate on it, don't. Because I will sic my future daughter on you. Her name will be Aspen.

Note to Self

2010-03-14T21:32:00.001-07:00

MY roommates and I had a wicked game of Pictionary. Using my dry-erase markers, and our two mirrors, Laci, Leslie, Sydney and I split into teams and went at it. It was intense. Only, Laci and Sydney were mostly butchering us. And we all discovered something very important: none of us can draw under pressure. Nothing remotely recognizable came out of those pictures.

ESPECIALLY when we tried to draw a carnation. It seems no one knows what a carnation is. Laci finally got it by drawing a car and then the US (which is, in fact, a nation).

Psch.

SARAH eventually joined us as our official word chooser. While we had been drawing things like rabbits and wedding dresses, she made us draw jazz shorts. Spandex. Cha Cha. Quesadilla (It looks like a pizza, which doesn't help matters). Leslie and I were behind, 15 to 23. The winning number was 25. They were so close, and then in a sweet twist of fate, Leslie and I started winning.

I don't know why; it's not like our art had improved.

WE caught up 21 to 24. ANd then we lost. To "can opener."

LESLIE thought my can opener looked like an alligator.

More of Me, Bordering on Evil

2010-03-03T20:28:00.000-08:00

I saw Slumdog Millionaire tonight. Yes, the rated "R" one. Only it was at the BYU International Cinema, so it was BYU approved and censored (Gotta love illegal editing). And, I have only one thing to say:

it was aMaZiNg.

MY heart was pounding, I was cringing; sure, sometimes I averted my eyes. But I walked out of the theater feeling so happy, so enthused. Cliche as it sounds, that movie opened my eyes. I loved it. The actors were so good, the music was fabulous, the filming and editing was just great.

AND, sure, I obviously missed some of the movie, but I could not for the life of me figure out why that was rated "R."

I mean, The Notebook has gratuitous sex--PG-13; Lord of the Rings and even Narnia continuously stack up the bodies--pulled through with PG13 or even PG; The Grinch--aimed for children--relies on crude, sexual humor, but it's PG. So I am just wondering why a practically-fairy-tale story with some cursing, some thematic elements, and some honesty gets slapped with an "R", making me feel guilty at the thought of viewing it.

I know this is an old argument, hashed over again and again. Basically, the rating system sucks. They have it backwards. I would like to think that watching Slumdog Millionaire did not damn me or destroy my soul. Really, it was one of the best movies I have seen in a very long time.

(And, let's face it, I see a lot, so that's quite a compliment).

BESIDES, I am sure even my own mom would rather me watch this movie over some of my other infamous "strayings." Such as my obsession with Moulin Rouge. She'd probably tell me something about the 13th Article of Faith or For the Strength of Youth. And, with those in mind, I think I can still see Slumdog in a positive light. Because it made me happy and it made me feel something.

AND it taught me a valuable lesson: Never go to India, because you will be robbed blind by adorably clever, little boys.

Crafty

2010-02-25T23:48:00.000-08:00

I am obsessed with DIY home decor. Mostly because I am poor and the dream room of my very own apartment is far from attainable. But I am determined to have an awesome room. That is, if my contract ever comes. Because I need that contract.

FIRST, I became obsessed with flowers. It used to be the traditional gerber daisies and roses. But I have fallen in love with Lisanthus, Peonies, Ranunculus, and english roses. As well as a remaining love for roses. And spray roses. And the occasional zinnia. I just love those big, fragile, fluffy-looking flowers. So, one goal for my future room: a permanent bouquet of flowers. Bright. Colorful. Happy. Perfect. Then, I found this awesome craft website (craftzine.com) and they told me how to be all cool. I got this wicked sweet idea on how to make a fantabulous mirror. Look at this, will you.

IT pretty much makes me ecstatic.

ANYWAYS.

I also want a crazy clock. Which, I discovered, actually tells time. I did not know this--I thought it was artsy freakiness. But, no, the numbers are in the correct position, just twisted a little. It too is awesome.

THEN there were ideas like paper lantern chandeliers or picture frames from embroidery hoops. Collages, photo boards--making a mirror a photo board. Using vases filled with colorful things as cool centerpieces. Framing random junk just to be mod. Curtains out of sheets, curtains with quotes. Fleece flowers, throw pillows, wallpapered tack boards.

I just love crafts now. And, just watch, my room will be awesome--for cheap, which makes it more awesome.

Oh, Valentine

2010-02-11T20:23:00.001-08:00

TONIGHT I was surprised by a call from the most wonderful Michelle. She told me she was coming over with Kim and asked, rather vaguely, if I would like to do something...something that "would make people happy." After assuring they were not putting me up for prostitution, I agreed. And they came to my door and made me smile. Michelle even gave me a valentine--with Nerds! She knows me so well.

THEN they told me they wanted to hand out valentines. To total strangers they just happened upon. So, of course we did it. They had a couple dozen to give out and we just wandered Heritage, handing them out to random people and laughing at the silliness and the euphoria that comes with doing a good deed. Most people looked at us like we were insane, but then they read the card and smiled and walked on.

PRETTY sure, their lives were changed.

AT one point, we went through the central building and Kim bounded up to the receptionist and gave the guy a valentine. He took it and tossed it aside, smiling wanly. We then decided he must have thought it was some sort of special ed group service project, with us being KIm's Best Buddies or something. Which was funny, considering.

BUT a truly great moment was when we gave two valentines to two guys who happened to be carrying--get this--a guitar, an accordion, and three hangers. I'm not sure what the hangers were for, but they asked if they could play a song for us. Um, yes, please.

THEY played a love song and it was pretty awesome. Especially when the one with the guitar had to lean heavily onto a car to play and the guy with an accordion told us not to look...because the stance was awkward or something. Only, not really. He was just leaning on a car. It was pretty funny.

WITH one valentine left, we knew we had to top the serenaders, so we went on the hunt for one, final worthy soul. And we found her at a crosswalk. She was bundled in her jacket, slouched in the cold, shuffling mindlessly on. Michelle skips to her and, in a bubbly voice, asks if she would like a valentine. The girl immediately broke into a grin and said, "Thank you! That just made my night!" Oh! Heart. They successfully changed a person's life, made a difference, etc.--what they had aimed to do in the first place. It was a perfect finish.

IT was rather happy. I have never really celebrated Valentine's Day before, but that was nice. Aside from being kind and warm-making, it also yielded some hilarious moments. Such as when Kim stood at the open window of a guy's dorm and shouted "Do you want a Valentine?" Obviously she forgot the implications of being a valentine. She was practically offering herself to whoever would take her. Which explained the strange look they all gave her.

OH, Kim. But it was a happy night and I'm glad they cared to invite me. It really was happy.

SO, Happy Valentine's Day. With or without a "Valentine," I hope you have some love and some smiles.

<3

Look What I Did!

2010-02-03T13:36:00.000-08:00

THERE is this scholarship contest where you create a "picture" that somehow shows where you're going or what you want to do with your life--whatever. And, so, because I am poor, I entered. And this is what I came up with.

BECAUSE I am still fragile, I wouldn't mind nice comments, but mean ones will make me cry and that would be...mean.

ANYWAYS, it's a little random, but clever, I think.
[I am a bit proud, can you tell?]

ME likey.

The Map

2010-01-25T16:07:00.000-08:00

I went to declare my minor today, expecting to just say, "Hey, I wanna minor in editing" and--Click.--typed in and done. Instead, I'm handed a pile of paperwork, am told to fill it out, contact my advisor, get their approval and bring it back. Oy vey! And I was reading through all of this impressive workload, and it asked what classes I had already taken in the hopes of getting into the program. ...Um, none. So that inspired me to plot out my entire existence. I went through all the classes I have left to do--GE's, Major, Pre Reqs, and now this desired Minor--and I listed them all out and proceeded to sort them into semesters and terms. Two hours later, I had a clear idea of what I would be doing and how I would be doing it. That's right: Props to me.

I am now on track to graduate college and finish school forever in Fall 2012. Which is earlier than I had originally anticipated. I will be 21 and awesome. I even put in a hopeful break for a hopeful study abroad in London! That is scheduled for Summer 2011. Which would cost roughly $6,500, taking in all expenses and tuition. I'm a big believer in Study Abroad's and I will definitely be doing it. I will. I just need a job. And some self control.

MY tentative Spring, Summer, and Fall 2012 schedules also have free spaces for classes I may have missed. It's like my safety net. And I even saved LDS Family and Marriage for my final semester--just in case I'm not relationship-marketable before that. So those last few months will be my swan song to BYU; my final glory days in the educational sphere; my last chance to easily snatch a man.

IT is a load of work, though.

I found some GE's I'd missed and I'll be plowing through those this next year, and then--my senior year, especially--I just get a bunch of beautifully enjoyable classes like Poetry, and Teen Fiction, and British Lit. and The American Novel. I am seriously so excited for those. They'll be hard, and I'll probably hate some or the other, but the idea of just LIVING in literature sounds like heaven. Oh, it's gonna be good.

LISTS just have a way of lightening the load; making one feel more in control. I feel confident and poised and more willing to suffer through the likes of Biology 100 and Family Finances if it just means I get to partake in Creative Writing and the ever-so-awesome Senior English Project which is just a semester devoted to you writing a masterpiece in your chosen focus. How cool is that?

REALLY, I am happy from the two hours wasted. And I successfully avoided homework. Another bonus.

Oh, To Be A Woman

2010-01-21T16:47:00.000-08:00

AT exactly 1 o'clock this afternoon, I was sitting lazily in a hallway, waiting for my class to begin. And as I was sitting there, a woman walked out of her office and then came back with a Snickers candy bar. Immediately, I began salivating. It was awful. My mind became obsessed with getting a candy bar. It's all I could think about. So I gathered all my stuff together and went madly searching for the vending machine. When I found it, there was a slot to take a card. And I was so excited, because I had no cash. Of course. But, even as I slid my credit card in every which-way possible; even as I tried my student ID card; even as I fingered the change whole for any forgotten coins--my happy ending was far, far away.

OH, the misery, the horror, the frustration that ravished my soul. I was drawn away by a ringing bell and I forced myself back to class, far away from chocolate, peanut butter, nougat, etc. So, so very far. And for the next three hours--two classes--I was lost in a world of imagination, picturing biting into a glorious, perfect candy bar.

AS soon as my class finished, I rushed forth, determined to find my happiness in the form of chocolate. I had no cash, so a vending machine wasn't an option. I had to get an essay Blue Book for an exam, so I went to the Bookstore. But the Blue Books were in the bottom of the Bookstore, while the candy was hidden away at the top. And you aren't allowed to take something to a different level to buy it.

OH, life! What cruel games you play upon the weak and desperate!

I bought my Blue Book and, still, I could not shake the vision of chocolatey substance before my eyes. So I go to the book part of the Bookstore, where a variety of candies are sold for cheap to the passing needy. BUT THEY WERE OUT!!! Alas.

MY hands were shaking.

I wandered out of the Bookstore in a daze, wondering where and how I would find my heaven; questioning what I had done to be tortured thus. Perhaps, I decided, a candy bar wasn't in my future. Not for today, not now. So I called my mother, praying she would convince me to just walk home. But she didn't answer. I called my sister. No answer. So I crossed the street rashly, heading 2.5 minutes out of my way towards the Creamery and my salvation. Just then, my sister called back. And I told her--I told her she was too late; I had made my decision.

HOW she wailed; how she pleaded for me to stop, to rethink it all, to just let it go and move on. But I couldn't. I wouldn't. And so I walked. I got to the store and made my selection. A Crunch bar, and Snickers. But I felt silly only getting a candy bar--how they would whisper about me!--so I bought a muffin mix as well.

AS I walked out of the store and ripped by Crunch from the wrapper, I let it linger on my lips, letting the aroma fill my nostrils before biting into it, moaning as the chocolate glazed my tongue, as the crunch shuddered through my ears. It was bliss. It was heaven. It was the best walk home I've ever had. It was all worth it.

Food, Glorious Food

2010-01-12T21:31:00.000-08:00

TONIGHT I discovered just how much I love cooking.

...the smell

of stinging onions

juicy garlic

fresh cilantro

pure virgin olive oil.

...the taste

of peppered squash

fried tomatoes

burnt butter

perfectly melted cheese

...the color

of yellow peppers on spinach

egg yolk breaking across toast

chicken turning golden brown

green enchilada sauce dotted with black olives

IT'S just all so fabulous. My roommate, though, has trouble seeing it as such. And I have quickly discovered that a love for cooking--and even for food--is not innate. As much as it horrifies, shocks, and amazes me to admit, not everyone enjoys a glorious kitchen.

My roommate does not enjoy said glorious kitchen.

THE night started as any other. I shuffled over to my kitchen cabinet, mused about what to make, was inspired by my last box of Penne, and so pulled out my chicken to make some amazing pasta. Of course, the chicken was frozen. So I did what I felt was only natural: I defrosted it in the microwave. And, as I did such, my roommate, in her familiar exclamatory tone said "You put your chicken in the microwave?!"

Um, yes. ...Doesn't everyone?

SHE shrugged, that incredulous look gleaming in her eyes. Even when I explained I was defrosting it, she stared. I asked--slowly--if she had never defrosted something. She said unapologetically, "Ya, we put it in the fridge for a couple'a days. I've never heard of puttin' it in the microwave." I was flabbergasted. And when I put said chicken in the frying pan with some oil, cilantro, cayenne, and onion powder, that look came back and she asked me--exclamatory again--what I was doing with chicken in a pan/oil. Turns out, she's only ever baked chicken--barbecued chicken--in the over. And this just wouldn't do. So my other roommates and I began to ask her what she did for food if such things were unbeknownst to her.

AS fate would have it, she gets tired of cooking, is picky in taste, and only trusts her mother's recipes. And, more horribly, her idea of ethnic foods has been tainted by Americanism.

I ask you, what has America contributed to the culinary world? Truly?

That would be Hot Dogs.

Hot Dogs--the things made from Advanced Meat Recovery

(that is the absolute leftovers of a slaughterhouse)

or Meat Slurry

(a "reconstituted meat"--liquified.)

And this is where she takes her cooking advice from.

SHE cringes at the idea of cutting an onion--"I have onion powder"--and gags at the thought of homemade bread or fresh basil. She admits that she didn't start cooking till now and, even now, she only makes tomato-juice-and-hamburger spaghetti. Or barbecue chicken. Or "taco" soup--without anything remotely mexican about it.

SIGH. When it all boiled down to it, she just said she had no interest. She was fine with her soggy cereal. Indeed, it would probably be dangerous to expect her to cook because, at random moments, she just abandons whatever she's doing/eating and runs off to do something else entirely, leaving that whatever for long periods of time. (Truly, it's gross how soggy her cereal gets--practically dissolved into the now-pukish colored milk, dripping in globs from the spoon and still she shovels it in.)

TO those who feel I'm being too harsh, rest assured that she laughs with us, well aware that her culinary skills are...lacking. Both her mother, father, and grandmother cook--randomly throwing meals together that she still talks about--but she seems unwilling to follow their footsteps. Perhaps cooking is genetic.

IN any case, I remain happy in my passionate affair with food. I love making something from little somethings. I love the tastes and textures and ideas; how you can control it but still be surprised by it. So, my roommate and I have reached a compromise: I will no longer lecture her on the merits of a kitchen if she no longer reacts randomly to what-I-thought-was-obvious things. And maybe one day, my happiness about the stove will make her curious and she will forget her soggy cereal in favor of more...flavorful endeavors.

Oh, if only.

Hypothetically Speaking

2010-01-03T22:46:00.000-08:00

LAURA accompanied me on my trek home....or whatever I should call Provo. Dad was driving me, mom was afraid he'd fall asleep on the way home, Laura was forced to come. But it was a blast--further proof that the best of all memories are made in cars (sarcasm).

WE played the Question game, which is just like Truth and Dare only nixing out the dare option. Only it unravelled...or led...to the battle of the hypothetical questions. Laura hates Hypothetical-ness. And she cheats her way through situations by adding different factors or loopholes or whatever.

("I can do whatever I want;

it's all hypothetical, so I'll make up anything!

na na na na.")

CHEATER.

BUT I thoroughly enjoyed it. Hypothetical questions are fun. They're quirky and impossible and silly--what's not to love.

FOR instance,

If your breaks no longer worked and you had to run over

either a pregnant stranger, or the dog you've had forever,

which would it be?

Would you rather be stuck in a sea of screaming

Twilight fans, or surrounded by screaming Hannah Montana

fans?

I mean, come on. Those are golden! Who doesn't like to think about things like that? The answers--they just reveal so much about you. So very much. And then, as Laura complained, you can bring up the answers you give at later times completely out of context.

("You said you'd kill a pregnant woman!"

"You like Hannah Momtana!")

IT'S basically awesome. Or at least it is hilarious. I was very entertained. So, thank you, Laura, for making me think of such awe-striking thoughts as to what I want, or what I would do. I feel like I know myself better. And I know you, Laura, so much better to.

Twilight lover/murderer, you.

/evil laugh.

The Future is Coming

2009-12-30T22:08:00.000-08:00

I was sent a link to discover what the year 2010 had in store for me. I've never been big on horoscopes and I'm still not, but this one made me smile. They're so general, it's easy to find similarities between your life and what they say about your life. Still, it's a little creepy how I found myself nodding. And creepier still how I wished it would all come true. Of course, there is nothing specifically mentioned for me to hope to come true. But the ideas are lovely.

"Taurus always gets tagged with things like "pleasure-seeking" and "materialistic." That's probably unfair, in most cases. You're just as good at dishing out the pleasure as you are at seeking it, and who doesn't like a few nice things around? Sadly, there's been just too much struggle in your life the last couple of years when it comes to those two very important parts of your life. Thankfully, 2010 marks the end of that long uphill struggle. Your pleasurable pursuits have been a little more restricted than you'd like over the course of the last two years or so. That's over with now, so ... game on!
"The big events this year will not so much be a matter of major happenings as they will be things that have been in the works and are slowly revealing themselves. In the last two years, you've put a lot of work into what makes you happy, while Saturn transited your solar Fifth House. Now that those pressures are finally being relieved, you'll find you are finally gaining traction. Certainly, your love life and your career will feel the difference, but beyond that you'll notice things going a lot better in other departments of your life. You may have already noticed some of these changes starting to kick in; the real results start happening around your birthday in 2010."

SO, there it is: my lovely year. What for sure will be happening?

I will turn nineteen (Gosh, I feel older. And younger. But mostly older).

I will move OFF campus (hallelujah).

Melissa will be home, eventually becoming my roommate.

I have to get a job (stupid money).

For said birthday, I will definitely be seeing Iron Man 2.

THEN, the dreaded New Year's Resolutions. I don't like goals; I like dreams. Wishes. Hopes. So, what do I want to happen?

Boyfriend, definitely.

My writing--in some form--will be published (Contests have been entered, things have been written).

I will not be married.

Be able to pay for college (stupid money).

Lose weight rather than gain wait (Hey, it's the traditional New Year's whatever).

To make it one more year and be the better for it.

2010 just sounds funny, doesn't it? Like there should be flying cars or people living in space or the downfall of America as we know it. Something, at least. But it seems like life just goes on. Another year, a new digit. It's crazy, standing here--feeling pulled between adolescence and adulthood. Everything is clamoring in my head for my attention. I think about my future--since when? I used to be a little girl who played with barbies and was socially awkward. The latter is still true, I suppose, depending on who you ask. But now I think about grades, classes, aspirations--realistic ones--reality, other people. It's all new territory, flying cars or not. In any case, I'm glad I get another year to figure things out. In the words of a rising legend (insert sarcastic tone), "Life's a climb, but the view is great."

YOU know what I mean.

Craziness

2009-12-28T20:03:00.000-08:00

FOR me at least, christmas is all about being with family, so I thought I'd give you a rundown about my family. Cool, huh?

FIRST up, my parents (Of course, they are Two people, but who doesn't pair their parents together?). I came home eager for one thing especially: Avatar. Heck-freakin-yes. And my parents knew it. And I easily got them to agree to take me and the entire family to see it--in 3D. They all were less than eager. Ashley thought it looked "stupid," mom thought she'd get sick, dad was just going along to please me, Travis used the word "dumb" more than once, and Laura had no desire. Mostly it was Justin and I, but me primarily. And so we went. And it was freaking amazing. The plot line--not so much--but the graphics were killer. But best of all--everyone (except travis) loved it. Or at least enjoyed it. Sweetest of all? Mother--probably the least willing--loved it the most. Even more than me, I think. And how she groveled for forgiveness for ever doubting my expertise in the movie arena. Ah, that was wonderful.

NEXT, Ashley. This christmas Ashley got a Tribble. For those of you who don't know (which is probably every single person on this earth aside from Ashley) a Tribble is a...creature in Star Trek. It's a ball of fur that purrs. And Ashley got one. The best part of Christmas Day (after the presents and food) was making the tribble squeal. We discovered rather quickly that any sudden noises made the thing vibrate and "purr" loudly in an annoyingly repetitive way. So at random intervals, we would shout, bark, yap, scream--all in hopes of making the little ball of fur dance. It was great.

JUSTIN--who should be happy now that I mention my love for him here--made a stop-motion movie of the nativity story. It was pure genius. And he made an awesome set of fluffy clouds and starry nights and glue and wire and paint and cardboard and tears and sweat. And lots and lots and lots of pictures. Here is the link to the uploaded, completed version which will surely change your life.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uHgdOl9jw6Y

MELISSA spoke to me!! I love her. Nine days!!!!

TRAVIS drove Laura and I to see Sherlock Holmes. And that movie is so amazing. It's genius. It's entertaining. It's awesome. I love Robert Downey Jr.; I Love Jude Law. It was great. I'm seeing it again for sure. And Travis then took us out to Cafe Rio which was delicious. I love that place. We also rocked out to Weezer (Lying on the floor! lying on the floor I come undone!) which just brings forth a plethora of memories.

LAURA shall be my last mentioning. What to say, what to say. Oh, yes--"Wild Child." We snuggled up so very close and watched that movie. It was a stupid british film where Emma Roberts pretended she had the talent of her aunt (sorry, not happening). What kept us watching was Alex Pettyfer. Holy-freaking-gorgeous. Blonde, british, blue-eyed god of glory. He was insanely attractive; we were both drooling. yummay.

ALL in all it was a great holiday. I love holidays. Almost as much as I love family (awww!!!!). So, here's to a new year with tons more memories!

My Roommate, the Robot

2009-12-15T00:26:00.000-08:00

TODAY, I agreed to go to the creamery with Sydney--for her own well-being. Because she was suffering from a little cabin fever or something. Finals do something to people. They go crazy. Sure enough, as I was clinging to her as I skated across frozen sidewalks, she was pulling away from me, showing her dominance over the snow by stepping violently into it, marching determinedly through it.

PSYCHO.

AND on the way back, she completely lost it. She went all Terminator on me and marched around shouting "DESTROY!" as she kicked up the snow and bounded about like a robot. I about died, I was laughing so hard at her. Then on the way to FHE, she did it again. She just plowed through the snowbanks, screaming "DESTROY" even as we tried to carry on a conversation around her. Leslie and SArah didn't seem to notice anything; they just went on, talking merrily about the cold and finals. But I was cracking up, watching Sydney--so serious--march through the snow, screaming like a madman. She was walking like a Nazi, too, you know, because there's better snow velocity when your kick your legs up like that.

JUST "Destroy! Destroy! Destroy!" again and again. Finally, I wrangle her closer as we approach an area of shiny pavement. Leslie, in her most motherly tone, says "There's black ice over here." And I slow down because I see it shining, so threateningly. But Sydney is still shouting her chant and as we come to it her feet go flying--her chant came to an immediate stop. Luckily, I was holding on so tightly I saved her from falling. And what did she do? She laughed a little, then melted back to seriousness and pranced about the snow some more.

PSYCHO, I say. Psycho.

IT was hilarious.

I Love My Life. A Lot.

2009-12-09T20:30:00.001-08:00

OH, happiness! I feel so...Glee-ful :)

[Glee had THE best finale of a show I have ever seen.

OMG.

I just keep thinking about it,

then I keep smiling.

And then I smile more.

And then I wish I could watch it again and again

and again.

Oh, heart!]

SO, mostly, that made my day all the merrier.

[Seriously, now:

can't stop smiling]

LESLIE and Elly and I were on the edge of our seats, practically dying. Well, I was mostly dying. I think I get too emotionally involved with fiction--I was practically having a seizure with all the stress in the beginning and then, oh--then that ending! We all started screaming. I almost hyperventilated.

NOW I have to wait till spring. Hey, at least it's spring and not fall again. Oh, Glee! I loved it at first, the second bothered me, I grew into it as it went on, and now I am a FIRM fan. I even joined the facebook group, so that settles it.

IN Glee related news, on the way home from St. George--a very long way home, mind you--I was enjoying my glee playlist. I have nine songs and I know them all by heart. So I was singing them. Because I was bored out of my mind and you can't listen to Glee music without singing, it's impossible. And, mind you, I am a terrible singer. But I got through 6 (six, read it, six) songs before anyone even began to shut me up. Which I think is a pretty good record. That's about 20 minutes of me pretending I can sing with the likes of Kristin Chenoweth and people singing like Celine Dion. Ya, brownie points to me. But then they all told me to shut up so I had to stop. Still, I was oh-so-very gleeful.

IN un-Glee related news, I am back to believing the North Dakota conspiracy. Why? Because as I was filling out my voter registration, it said in the General Information section that "North Dakota does not have voter registration." Why, you ask? Why indeed. Something is not right when a US state cannot vote. Smells...fishy. Or alien-ey. My dad seems to think it is because only crazy people live in ND and the government doesn't want crazy people to vote. (Of course, if that were true, California would be out of the equation. Because they are psycho's--did you know there is a Chihuahua crisis happening there right now? Ya. A chihuahua crisis. Google it.). I dunno what it is, but ND is just...weird. I mean, you never hear of anything over there and you never meet people from there and, now, you find out they can;t vote. cRaZy.

NOW I am finished. And I am still gleeful.

[Really?

Really? I love it.

So much.]

December!

2009-12-04T15:05:00.000-08:00

IT'S that time of year!! Too bad it doesn't feel like it.

BEFORE Thanksgiving, I couldn't stop listening to Christmas music--which is truly weird because I hate people who listen to holiday music before December. But I just wanted to be home and it made me feel happy inside. Now--well, now, I just don't want to. I'm sick of it; I'm distracted; it doesn't feel right. Which is sad. Because I love Christmas. I just wanna be home.

FINALS are stupid. School is stupid. I wish I could be home, lying under the tree, listening to cheesy Christmas songs, my feet resting by the fire place. I don't want to think about what this or that piece of art means to me; I have no desire to write an argument paper concerning devotional; there is no part of me that wants to study the history of gothic architecture or the language development of three year olds. But I have no choice. Because I am here to get smart and get A's. Which I actually think I'm on the right track for.

BOM2 is proving a more difficult class just because there are so little points involved. So, you miss a few, your grade plummets. But I think I'll have at least an A letter grade.

ANTHRO, I should pull through with an A. Especially since--happy moment--I got 187/190 on a research paper for a book I didn't even read. How is that for BSing skills? Thank you.

H150 I have at least an A-, but I think I could get an A.

HUMANITIES is hard to tell because he doesn't use blackboard and he gave us no grading rubric. If I were to guess, I'd go with a high B.

HUMAN Development--gag me. I hate that class. Probably a B. And it's annoying because I just discovered I didn't even have to take it--I had a previous class that could have double counted. Sigh.

BUT that is the breakdown. And once I suffer through these next two weeks, I will be a Sophomore! Booya. I, at 18 years of age, will be ahead of my 23-year-old sister. That is a definite esteem booster. :) Except now Laura will take this information and will be determined to either become a sophomore in college when she's seventeen (so that she can say she beat me to it) or she will try to actually graduate before me. Which would basically be very sad for me. But that's just her--overtly competitive. In fact, mother, you should beware because she will probably try and beat me to having a boyfriend and/or first kiss. ANd her 16th birthday is coming up, so she is gaining on me. Of course, that's not a subject that is entirely hard to pass me up in.

I love you, Laura :)

SO, yes, it is the most wonderful time of the year. And I'm sure it will feel more like it once I get these two last papers out of my way, then pass my five finals. Then I'll be home and it will be christmas and I will be cozy and fighting with family and hugging it out and eating yummy food and, yes, listening to Christmas music.

AND, just in case you were wondering, 32 more days till Melissa is home!

It's Been Awhile

2009-11-29T19:10:00.000-08:00

SO, Thanksgiving has come and gone, the turkey has been slaughtered and stuffed, BYU has won its game, christmas season has started, someone got their first kiss, I lost faith in american society thanks to a little thing called Twilight, and yet in fifty years I'll have no memory of it because I didn't bother to take the time and write about it on this very blog. So, sucks to be me in fifty years. But the weekend was fun. Oh, I love extra-long weekends. Being lazy, getting fat, doing nothing, forgetting homework--it is all a great part of the holidays.

(I would have used an exclamation mark there, but my english professor told me I have four exclamation points in my life so I better use them wisely. And that just seemed like a moment where I could go without. So--yay for me--I still have four!

oh, dang it.)

I'M back home* with my roommates and we're already crazy. I am happy to report I have scared both Sarah and Leslie twice already (a pretty easy job, mind you. Though Leslie is becoming a harder target) and I also made Elly pee her pants (figuratively speaking) by talking to her through her vent. My room is back to being set up perfectly--I am surrounded by books and movies and pillows and high beds. Except I have to go back to school in the mornin'. Sad.

YOU should be happy to know that I only have five things left on my checklist. Four being my research papers. Still. It's pretty impressive, considering. And there is only two more weeks of classes. Then finals. Oh, joy.

BUT I am tired and yet fulfilled and happy and I want to curl up and sleep. Note to anyone who cares: I smell like mommy cuz I hugged her so tight.

I love family.

This is all.

Oh, and Michelle:

oemgee

Jay Kay

hahaha

*Dear mom, you are still my number one home, but it's just easier to call Provo home. Don't take offense.

Oh My Bored.

2009-11-19T21:00:00.000-08:00

I am so bored. Terrifically so. I just want it to be Thanksgiving already. I wanna be home, in my mommy's lap, eating my daddy's food, whining about playing Settlers of Katan, hugging Laura for the first time in, like, forever, and eating turkey. (That would be one sweet, multitasking moment).

TODAY I found out I can type relatively well without looking at the keyboard/computer.

The sky is a blue place of greatness which makes my heart go a'flutter.

BOO'YA! Go me. This is a fun game.

I want to go to bed and dream of sugar plums and ft fairies.

OKAY. I'll stop. But you get the point: I'm bored.

ALSO, I made a checklist of all that needs to be done for the rest of the semester. (Note: there are only twelve more days of scheduled classes.) On that list is five (5) research papers. As in 7-10 pages with 7-10 sources of gloriousness. Five. Ya. This is where I freak out.

I have my Humanities paper--anything we've covered this semester. I'm thinking Emily Dickinson or The Hudson River School. Then, my Human Development paper--research on any-terribly-boring-thing we've learned this semester. Probably eating disorders because there are always sources on that; or there's the "mean girl" scenario which is pretty entertaining. I have my Book of Mormon paper--which shouldn't be too bad since I already did a rough and just have to correct it. I have TWO (2) research papers due in the next three-friggin-weeks for Anthropology (do not get me started on this class). What on? Why, the professor's own-friggin-books of course. UGH. Not to mention, I also have a group (read it--group) paper due in Honors Writing. How do you write a paper as a group? You don't. You have a lone writer that you give all your notes to, then that writer writes it and the group then tells you how bad it sucks. Who is the writer on that one? Me. Joy. Plus, our group president just had Lasik surgery--as in yesterday. So I don't know how that's gonna pan out. But that paper is only 3-5 pages without sources, so it shouldn't be too bad. Still. Twelve class days, people. Twenty-one days total.

wow. I did not realize that. Major suckage.

But it's okay. I've been really good; I've stayed on top of things, I have relatively high grades and I have plenty of time and now I have my checklist. So why am I bored, you wonder? Well, because my brain is tired of working so I don't know what to do during my break. Because I can't think. Because I don't remember what fun is. And because one of these research papers is due on Monday and I haven't read his stupid book. Curses to you, anthropology. Curses.

I Went Insane

2009-11-12T15:43:00.000-08:00

SO, on Wednesday, my dad needed my student I.D.. I tried to call his cell. But if there's one consistent thing about daddy it's that he never answers his phone. So I called home. I. called. home. Home being the crucial part of that phrase. It says it right in my phone: I called HOME at 6:59, right after calling dad at 6:58.

WELL, someone answers, and this is the conversation.

Me: Hello?

Someone: Mumbling

Me: Hello?

Someone: mumbling, statically

Me: Mom? Hello?

Someone: (whispering) I can't talk right now. I'll call you back.

I swear on my life, it was Laura. And that's weird. Because, remember, i called HOME. That place where Laura is not at. Laura lives in St. George. Not at HOME. And I called home. I did. I have the proof. And so it really weirded me out. Really. Weirded. Me. Out. Really being the crucial part of that phrase (I don't know why, it just is). So I called mom's cellphone. She answered. And it was mom, not laura. So I asked her if I had just called. She said yes. I asked if I had talked to her. She said yes. I told her it had sounded like laura. She said Laura was in St. George. Thank you. But that doesn't change the fact that Laura had answered, whispering about not being able to talk. Mom said I was a psycho and gave the phone to dad. I told dad I was insane and he said I was a psycho and hung up.

I have never been more confused. And they were very unhelpful. So I watched "Glee." And then Laura called. Freak. Out. Laura. Called. Laura being the crucial part of that phrase.

SHE said she was sorry for not being able to talk earlier. I asked if she was playing me; if mom and dad had put her up to this. She laughed and said I was psycho. I told her I had called home and she had answered. She told me she was in St. George. Thank you. But she assured me the conversation I had had when I called HOME was, indeed, the same conversation we had. How? I don't know, because I had called HOME. Where Laura assuredly was not. So I asked, again, if she had been put up to this. Because it wasn't funny.

I never called Laura. My phone says so. I never put in a call to Laura. Only home. Home being the crucial part of that phrase.

OH my gosh, it still makes me feel crazy. I have no idea what happened. Only that mom and laura both claimed to have a conversation with me at the same time--when I was calling HOME.

ANY ideas? Because, right now, I'm leaning towards an alien abduction where they took over my body and did something crazy-freaky weird. That's what I'm feeling. Nothing else makes sense.

Bubbles

2009-11-05T22:42:00.001-08:00

(my bubbles)

SO, I got a Jamba Juice today. A delicious "coldbuster." Not because I was sick, but because it. is. SICK. OJ all the way, baby. Anyways, Leslie was with me and we were walking home and I started bowing bubbles in my jamba. Which is highly entertaining.

YOU know, with drinks and thinner stuff and such, when you blow it just bubbles in a boil-esque fashion. But with the slushi, it rumbles and then--pop!--a bubble bursts forth. It is so awesome. We were just walking across campus, blowing bubbles and laughing. Her drink was thinner, so it wasn't as awesome. I was having a merry old time blowing slowly so the rumble was big and the explosion small. But then Leslie made me laugh. And that laugh went into the straw. And it made it bubble. And, boy, did it make it explode. It blew out of the lid and all over my face, my shirt, my hair. OJ got in my nose. Which is about as comfortable as a wedgie in public.

IT was bad.

IT was also hilarious. We both had to stop walking, we were laughing so hard. I was covered in my precious cold juice and we were just laughing. Sydney's parents were waiting at are apartment, but I couldn't chat. One, because my green shirt was speckled--no, bedazzled--by orangeness. Two, because the orange drink was stinging my nose, my eyes, and covering my face. And, three, because I was laughing. So hard.

THIS is why I don't get why some people don't appreciate their own klutziness. I for one think it is highly entertaining. Imagine if that hadn't happened. What a lame day it would have turned out to be.

Hallows Eve

2009-11-01T20:22:00.000-08:00

I'M not much of a Halloween fan. It's cold and people do creepy things--like stalk you cuz it's funny, and people think Halloween is a free pass to be creepy. No, it's not.

ANYWAYS.

SO I didn't have any real plans. I woke up late and then I was bored so I curled my hair but didn't go anywhere. I also did homework and wasted time because everyone was gone. But, good news: I skyped Laura for an hour in a half. She found the "Accepted" scream (on Youtube) hilarious. And I talked to Justin for like an hour (Look, Justin, you're mentioned!) And then at 9 my roomies and Elly and I went to the International Theater to watch this Swedish horror flick that looked really creepy. It's called Let the Right One In and it's fairly recent. It's all about this little girl who is a vampire and the little pale girlish-looking boy who falls in love with her. It is so random, so gruesome, and so not scary. It was just disturbed. And random. At one point, the girl falls/jumps from a tree onto this random character but can't kill her all the way, so the woman gets infected and then, at the hospital, when she wants to die, she asks the doctor to open the blinds and the sun pours in and--BAM!--she bursts into flames. What the? Yes, it was so weird. And just uncomfortable.

BUT right as the movie started, this "pack" of "zombies" came clambering through. College kids just think they are so funny. The guy in charge of the theater got so mad. He's all, "I'm calling the cops, fagots." Um, ya, wow, anger issues.

ALSO, there was this seven minute preview for a movie coming next week. The whole trailer was just chinese people doing some freakish form of yoga on the beach. It was hilarious.

SO, after the disappointment of a movie, we decide to stay up and watch the time change--at two in the a.m. We watched The Invasion and it was all super intense--until the online copy cut off twenty minutes from the end. It was right in the middle of the chase; they were being taken down by the invaded and then.... Nothing. I couldn't find another version so they didn't get to see the end. Haha sucka's.

WATCHING the time change was magical (regardless of what Ashley says). It was supposed to turn to three in the a.m and then--it was 1. We got a redo! It was like an hour of our lives never happened. It was erased, gone forever. Which is pretty cool. But then I just spent my new chance in bed, sleeping because I was tired. Because it felt like four...three....two (??) in the morning.

BUT that's my Halloween. I know, scary, right? Negative.

Your face.

Your mom's face

your dad's body

haha.

My Life is Brilliant

2009-10-29T14:06:00.000-07:00

(my love is pure...I saw an angel...of that I'm sure...she smiled at me on the subway...she was with another man...and I won't lose no sleep at night cuz I got a plan. YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL!)

ANYWAYS. Ashley has found me a bit of heaven. Ahem* Drum roll, please......

I am the owner of a Macbook Pro.

Look at it, in all its sleekness. And it's mine.

HOW very pretty. Lovely, lovely. It seriously made my life. Unwrapping it from its box--it changed my world.

SO, this is love. Sweet.

Um

2009-10-25T15:35:00.000-07:00

THE other night, Elly, Leslie, Sydney and I went to the international theater. They were showing "Dark Water," a Japanese horror film. Ya. Japanese movies are psycho. To the extreme. It was all really random and then it just got disturbed--with this asparagus-esque girl stalking a woman and her child, dripping from ceilings, filling up bathtubs. Joy. But, with all its freakiness, it was pretty creepy. And that night, I was lying in bed in the dark and my mind started to wander...to dark water. So I put my ipod in and played solitaire for an hour and then, as soon as I turned it off, I heard this creepy dripping noise and my heart stopped. Like, holy hannah on toast. Freak. Out. But it was okay; no green children tried to drown me.

I played card games with Elly yesterday.

WE played a game that is sort of like Scrabble...but not. It's called Slam and you take a four letter word and change out one letter at a time to make new words. Like FATE to FAME and so forth. Well, we wanted to be awesome and make the game-for-8-year-olds harder. So I was all "What about MUCK?" thinking PUCK and SUCK. But Elly gasps, and says "NO!" Ya. Somebody has a dirty mouth. So we didn't play MUCK....

ACTUALLY, we wound up playing Phase Ten with Adelay and her lover-boy. It was pretty fun. Except everyone had a vendetta against little ole me. Especially said lover. He decided the Skip card stood for Shelby. Joy. (It's just because I'm so good and they felt threatened).

AND, fyi, Newsies songs are stuck in my head.

"Santa fe!!!!"

So Much For Excitement

2009-10-23T14:46:00.000-07:00

I was supposed to have some wicked sweet story. But it has been a week and, alas, no wickedness or sweetness.

I am considering swallowing some pistols. For I am without a computer and, therefore, without my life. It really is hard not having my beautiful, lovely laptop. Sigh*

IT all began when my computer started breathing. Yes, breathing. Long, deep sighs of sadness. So I texted ashley and here follows the conversation:

Me: Ashley, my computer is breathing.

Ashley: explain

Me: it keeps whirring.

Ashley: can I have [it's] numba'? Can I have it? Can I have it?

Me: [number]

Ashley: It looks like you're in need of a check-up

Me: What?

Ashley: Give it to me, baby (Uh huh, oh ya!)

Me: How do I live without a computer??

Ashley: I'm sorry.

LOVELY, isn't it? My question is since when are computers in need of check-ups. Like babies. Like little children going to kindergarten? How did my computer become synonymous with sniffling babies? But I guess computers are people too and, sometimes, they need a doctor. It just makes life hard. And it is ridiculous.

ALL because my computer wanted to breathe.

SO that is my life: without a computer for a week. In college. I might go insane.

(Case in point: I am using a Toshiba right now. It fails. I want to snap it in half. Forget check-up's--I want to send this computer to the ER.)

Haha, Sucka

2009-10-16T12:57:00.000-07:00

FOR Ashley, who felt unloved in Laura's great shadow.

Ha.

So, because she tempted me, I will now show the world Ashley's version of Awesomeness.

Look at de wittle Ashley!! Oh, so cute*

And, yes, she did wear dresses.

Once upon a time.

Till dad introduced her to Levi's.

Now she hates Levi's and dresses.

which is ironic.

Ah, Ashley.

No, she does not play hockey.

She skates as her dogs pull. And she protects herself in this manner.

Such a poster child for "Safety First," isn't she?

AND, to fully show my love for her, I have here a song that is the epitome of Ashley the Great. Be prepared.

THAT is my tribute to Ashley. She is awesome. And I can't NOT think of her when I hear the awfulness that is Hampton the Hamster. (Ugh. I'm gonna eat a pistol...)

the Eulogy

2009-10-15T18:33:00.000-07:00

BUT not really. Because Laura didn't die. And this is for her. Because she is awesome and I am so proud to call her sister. (Actually, I call her Laura, but you get the point).

LAURA is a sophomore at Tuachan High School, which is a charter school focusing on the performing arts. Blah bleh blah blah blah. Right. Whatever. BUT, today, she was cast as a (supporting) leading role in the school play!!! As a sophomore! Which is aWeSoMe!! AmAzInG!!! sPeCtAcUlAr!!! Just plain EPIC. Oh, it makes me so happy. I am so proud to call her my little sister.

SHE gets to play a nine year old girl in White Christmas! How cool is that?! super. And I get to see her (don't i, mom? Yes.) and it is going to be awesome! At Tuachan!

ANYWAYS, back to the eulogy part of this.

this is laura.

this is normal face for laura.

I heart laura.

plus, it looks like she farted.

Hence the joyful expression on her face.

haha.

Here is Laura.

Melissa cut her hair.

It was a dark time.

Her acting was the only way she survive*

(*may be a fabricated statement,

but mostly true.)

and here is proof of her further awesomeness.

if this does not prove her worthiness for such a part, you are insane.

AND Laura remains awesome.