Year in Review Pt. 2: The Second Six Months

It only gets better, folks.

July-driving driving driving, but much closer to home this time. The Beginning. With my purchase of the Warped Tour tickets, something within me snapped and I started buying CDs like a crazy woman, and I was designated Official CD Opener. I threw my cell phone across the room. The second visit to Corn and The Pig. Some pretty awful news comes, and then more awful news. Luckily knees heal. Nick starts recommending music and it is all Very Good.

August-driving driving driving. To Raleigh again and BV and BV again. I see Art's mother kill a spider and am terrified for the rest of my life. I steal a pen from Day's Inn. I break my previous record of being online talking until 6:47 a.m. with one very memorable 7:30 a.m. conversation. A chance is given which I take. My life is thrown into turmoil as I start filling out transfer student applications and figuring out how to turn my life upside down. Then I realize that I shouldn't, which begins the heartbreak of returning again to Utah to a school filled with empty memories of friends long-scattered around the globe. I didn't know if I would actually get on that plane August 24th, but I did.

September-the semester starts and I'm busy with classes and late nights reminiscing and trying to hold on to a golden summer. The life and death of the RElizabeth tree, may it burn on an ill-fated doorstep. I meet Taylor and Bart and make glorious plans for my apartment. They never happen, but at least we have potato sacks hot glued to our wall. I see a dead praying mantis and declare it to be a bad omen. It definitely turns out to be and signals a day I call the Worst Thursday Ever.

October-I start my (second) blog and meet Sam, who is my hero. I dress like a purple sheet for Halloween, Jennifer gets older, and I start frequenting the fifth floor of the library. The waiting begins and I flex my fingers for many months of playing Scrabble. I officially say goodbye to summer and I see the first snowfall of winter.

November-More waiting, endless waiting. I go to Las Vegas for Thanksgiving and meet Austin and Corban. I hang out with Ashbury. I fall in love with Ace Enders. I decide 9 a.m. is really too early to be awake except if one is just entering slumber.

December-Finals again, much overshadowed by Art's visit. All my friends start to worship him and we rent Pi because he recommends it. It really is a good movie and teaches us all that math will make you unhappy. I count the days until I can finally get home to where I fit, Uptight East Coast Loser Girl that I am. Matt Wright gets married which frightens us all. I hang out with Rachael and Kristin and meet David. I ponder New Year's resolutions. My CD collection quadruples or something. I dunno, math makes you unhappy so I'm not going to go count and divide and whatnot. Yuck. And yet again, I am killed with indecision and the long flight back to Utah. Also, I receive a phone call notifying me that Day's Inn has closed, and many people mourn its passing. And I decide to become a lit theorist because it's what I love.

Year in Review Pt. 1: The First Six Months

On my pathway to greatness, some milestones along the way. In a month-by-month format for you following at home.

January-the start of The Madness. Six hours of homework a day, every day, except weekends because I don't do homework on weekends anyway, even when I tell myself I should, so I make plans for that. Also, I go to bed before midnight every night largely due to Jeremy and also my fear of the lit theory gods.

February-On Valentine's Day I go on a date with one guy, then came home and receive a poem from a different guy asking me to be his valentine, to which I respond affirmatively and poetically. This is why I am a horrible person, but they were all premies anyway and so not real people. Is how I justify myself. Also, Dan and Andy move to Stover.

March-BEST MONTH EVER. I turn a certain age (and trust me, I will be lying about my age from now on, so you're not going to get any numbers out of me). Jeremy goes to Brasil to become Elder Brown(io), making it the first missionary departure. Many more follow.

April-I get proposed to. I also make my rounds, saying goodbye to all my friends, most for the very last time. Dan tackles me and steals my hat. Finals end, leaving me delirious and work-ethic impaired. I go back East to begin a summer of meandering fun, starting with a trip to New York. I meet Art for the first time. My sleep pattern changes.

May-drive drive drive. The first meeting of Art's Couch which, yes, deserves capitalization. Waiting for Kristin to finally get out of school which won't happen for a while. The Grease soundtrack gains new significance. I gain a new motto: "Don't watch people sleep, it is never a good idea." I say goodbye to Scottbowen, Timothy, and Tyler. And probably some others. I decide on Arcturus as my favorite star.

June-drive drive drive. I go to Raleigh for the first time with Rachael and fall in love. I could live among those trees forever, and I don't think I should ever have gone because I'm always missing it. Boys wearing pink shirts scare me. TAGURIT. Burger King in Richmond. I say goodbye to Dan. He calls me rad. BEST COMPLIMENT EVER. I don't dispense this one lightly or even really at all. I meet Corn and The Pig. Burkittsville and Harper's Ferry become major haunts. No pun intended, I swear.

"A Song for a Heart So Big"

Trying to be the example is hard, especially in this case. How does one confront perfection so often without getting discouraged? Because perfection is often harder than we make it to be, a harsher judge, a stricter critic. God-like perfection is... perfect. Understanding and kind and bouyant. Some things will always be hard for me. I am destined to fail and to fail repeatedly, forever, until I die. I embrace that failure, and I welcome it because I do not fear it. I know who I am. How many can truly say that of themselves? Well, I just had a good teacher and an early start. My failure does not lessen me. And there is a secret, soft smile that quiets my face and sweetens my dreams quite often to take away the sting of my too-mortal tears when I forget. There can be no greater Christmas gift.

Happy Birthday, Sarah.

Christmas is a time for family, and so I thought I'd do a little run-through of my family members so you could feel like you were part of the madness and merriment.

The Parents

Mom: She's crazy, which I like to make certain she knows. Frequently. By telling her. She doesn't really understand my brothers and I, but she makes good bread, and sometimes it's cute when she repeatedly thinks Gettysburg is south of home. I don't know why she does it, but I've known her for long enough to be able to head her off when she wants to make a wrong turn. She's the grandmaster of the guilt trip and she likes those home decorating shows. She also volunteered me to make 120 rice krispy treats for a friend's wedding reception next week. Typical.

Dad: We always pretend like we're punching each other even though I've never hit a boy in my life and don't intend to until Dan gets back from Australia. He's also the one who taught me to never hit boys. He's a staunch Republican (in fact, while we were debating at dinner the other day, I told him he was TOO Republican, which he didn't like), and constantly gets mail from the "President" or this committee or that committee, and he listens to Rush Limbaugh. And often agrees. Hence the "too Republican" comment. He likes old movies and Leslie Gore, and he thinks he's cool. Which he can be sometimes, but I think he's just pretty much too short.

The Brothers

Nobb: So, his real name isn't Nobb, and anyone caught calling him that other than me is in trouble. And it really, really hurts when he punches you and also I don't think he has a conscience. So watch out. I think people are calling him Rob these days, but it could still be Adlai for all I know. Out of all my family, he's the one I adore the most. Today we were trashing Nietzsche and Newton and my mom at dinner. He's brilliant, he taught himself Italian to read The Divine Comedy in the original. Yet the child cannot write a decent research paper, even now. I still remember staying up late to help him with his term paper for Miss G's class and then two years later turning basically the same paper in again when it was my turn. She had no idea we're related. He also bequethed to me all his CDs since he doesn't use them anymore, so my collection has grown significantly in The Smashing Pumpkins and Nirvana fields. He also saw a present I have wrapped for a friend, read the to,from tag and asked me who Heroin Bob was, recognizing it from a movie. When I told him, his response was, "best movie EVER!" And so you see why we get along. And no I'm not telling you the movie, go google it yourself. Or ask the Board.

Pon: His real name is also not Pon. It's short for Johnas Ponas which yes I made up in middle school. I'm certain my brothers hate me, but at least I'm amused. Activity: figure out his real name. He's the sweetest kid, and I mean that. No one brings out my maternal instinct more readily, and seeing him smile is still one of the best things in the world. On the way back from my grandparents' house, he let me listen to his Lost Prophets CD, so I introduced him to Sugarcult. He has good taste in music. And he laughed at the shirt I bought him. Just be careful around him, because he is one of the shrewdest businessmen I have ever encountered, selling candy at twice or three times its cost to dumb fellow-highschoolers and other adventures I don't have time to relate. He also programs calculator viruses to look like games and he gives them to people. Which I highly encourage. Because maybe he'll teach me someday, which will be the only reason I'd ever think about touching a calculator again. And that's my family. Except for...

The Pets

Mr Green Genes: deceased, do not contact

Tolstoy: deceased, do not contact

Oscar: deceased, do not contact

Hamlet and MacBeth: deceased, do not contact

Virgil: deceased, do not contact

Yeah, all of these guys died while I was away at college. Most were fish. One was a gecko. Try to figure out which ones I was in charge of naming. It shouldn't be too difficult. But in the end, there's still

Winter: a cat. Shrewd, cold, calculating, arrogant, and a definite princess. I am convinced my parents are giving her crack, because how else should I explain the white, powdery substance they call "arthritis medication" they put on her food that makes her go insane? She's 13 and beautiful, and my greatest fear is that I will come home and my older brother will have eaten her. Which would be really funny, actually.

"How Can I Entertain These Thoughts?"

Are you ever up at 2 in the morning with nothing to do and the thoughts just start coming in and eventually you get crazy enough to decide you really will be taking 18 credits next semester? If you do, then woah, we're twins.

"It's Christmas and I Want Everything Now"

I am not Jewish. No one in my family is Jewish. This is sad to me, because, being non-Jewish, I have no avenue to display that I know the proper spelling of yarmulke, which is, in fact, yarmulke. Just like that. Except I think I did just show off my spelling prowess, which means that blogs really can solve all of your problems, possibly extending to the realms of death and taxes. I'll let you know how that goes this April the Fifteenth.

Anyway, I digress. My point: I am not Jewish, even though I know how to spell yarmulke. Not being Jewish, I am instead Christian, and so I celebrate Christmas along with the rest of my family. No, being Christian is not the only other religious option should one be un-Jewish, but it's the option my Anglo-Saxon, Mayflower-sailing, God-fearing, corn-eating ancestors chose, and it's one we've pretty much stuck with. I think. Mostly. I refuse to do that genealogy trash my mother gets into, so I wouldn't really know.

Right, this is going to be one of those posts. Perfect. So, we're not Jewish, I hate my family, and the house is all strung out for Christmas, announcing to our neighbors our December holiday affiliations. Normally, this would be no problem. Houses decorated for Christmas are cheery and warm and festive. Except my mother collects nutcrackers. And by "collects," I mean there are enough standing guard on our piano to effectively wage war against a medium-sized country (think Greece) and win. There they sit, smiling, smiling, smiling, with their costumes and their painted black eyes that never close. It's one of the most frightening things I have ever witnessed. We're talking Art's-mother-killing-the-spider frightening. Well, almost. Well, not really at all, actually. Sorry to bring up bad images. But you're not the one being confronted with an army of beastly, wooden child's-toy-gone-horribly-wrong-s.

Each year the things multiply. My mother got three new ones this year and made me identify which three they were out of the bunch. I closed my eyes and picked at random, praying for mercy. Turns out, I guessed correctly, which supports my theory that I am magical. I was going to count them, but I think I've sufficiently freaked myself out now to spend the rest of the holidays perched on my doorstep, shivering and begging alms from pleasant passers-by. Come on by and chuck me some alms and feel free to gape at the freak collection taking over my house. Egg nog anyone?

"Cheerios...I Love Them Dearly, and That's How it Goes"

I was reacclimating myself to my house after a four-month absence (and it's strange how very dream-like these last four months seem when I'm back home, the place I've lived since I was three, with Rachael and Kristin laughing so loudly outside my door they don't even need to knock), and my mom was showing me all the food she'd made or bought for me. For some reason, I was investigating the cereals and saw the familiar bright yellow of a Cheerios box. My mom noticed my interest and informed me they had purchased extra milk because I was going to be home and they knew all I'd be doing would be eating Cheerios. ...Fabulous. I keep forgetting to update them on how much I've changed, so they keep surprising me on how much they don't know and how many topics they innocently stumble upon.

Well, I am the most easily guilt-tripped person ever. The mere fact that my parents had bought extra milk so I could eat Cheerios overwhelmed me with guilt, so I of course grabbed a bowl and started pouring. And I ate that entire bowl. And two more over the last few days. I am determined to eat that entire box. Maybe in the bottom, instead of a cheap toy encased in impossible-to-open plastic, I will rediscover my cure.

Because you know, if Cheerios were a man, I would totally marry him.

"Fell Asleep on Tuesday Woke Up Monday Afternoon"

I had a flight at 8:10 Saturday morning, Delta, direct to the Washington Dulles airport. I would officially touch East Coast ground at 2:09 p.m. EST (we are in standard time now, right?). So you can bet that didn't happen.

First, when I got there, I decided to check the monitor for my flight, knowing that the foggy conditions might create delays or something. I think that was the last rational thought my sleep-deprived, fever-hindered mind came up with. But good thing I checked, because my flight wasn't even listed. Dang. Quick phone call to the parents, who checked it out online, and...

Now I had a connecting flight to Cincinnati that would land at 1:40, catch another plane at 2:40 to Dulles. I wasn't terribly worried, as there are three major airports in my area to choose to land me in. And trust me, I never, ever ever fly in and out of the same airport. I didn't even know I'd be flying to Dulles until Thursday afternoon. It doesn't really matter to me, as long as my parents know where to go to pick me up. And also, I'd never been to Cincinnati before, so I didn't mind, even though I really hate layovers.

This is why I hate layovers. Because things always happen. Like my flight from Salt Lake being delayed, so I had 15 minutes to sprint through terminals, knocking slow-moving (and they were everywhere) people out of my way. I made it to the gate with two minutes to spare, at which point the lady told me my ticket had been cancelled. Great. She was typing stuff on the computer, complaining she didn't know how to fix it. So eventually she gave up and let me go through and get on my flight anyway. Whew, made it! I probably didn't even have to HAVE a ticket, all I had to do was look like a tired, green-around-the-gills, possibly consumptive, poor, starving, but still-smiling college student with long, blonde hair and I could get ANYthing. I musy try this theory out sometime.

Then I landed and my parents and Rachael called at the same time. And by "same time," I mean "same time I walked through the tunnel going to Baggage Claim that made my cell phone lose service." Jerks.

Baggage Claim was the best part. It was about 4 p.m. We were there until 7. Because I had made my connecting flight, but my luggage hadn't. I hadn't eaten since 4:30 that morning, I was drained, feverish, sluggish, and my brain had actually made me tell my father, instead of saying my flight had been delayed, that it was "latered." As you can see, I wasn't up to peak performance.

But I finally got home and Rachael and Kristin came by. I really think it was all a dream, especially because most of the time I just sat there, unable to contribute, but I called Russell and left him a message that we were coming over. For those of you who are not fortunate enough to be able to know the Virgins: sorry, kids. That family is freakin' hilarious. And I know them.

Then today I spent a lot of time sleeping, even though I was in church for three hours. That means I not only took a five-hour nap after church, but that I took a lot of naps during church. Except for when we were discussing the concept of hope. No way was I going to let THAT opportunity slip through my scrawny fingers.

"I'm Making Plans...But Have They Come Unglued?"

So, this week. I'm almost starting to believe that I'm magical. Wait, correct that, I AM magical. No way could I have pulled off half the things I did if I didn't have the aid of some type of superpower or perhaps a clone. Interesting that I could still feel like such a stump, but I'm very much used to that feeling.

On the other hand, I am so very unmagical. First, I do not have a lightning-shaped scar on my forehead, which is one of the great tragedies of my life. Second, magical people do not need to take pages of notes to remind them of things like who to tell what when and how. Third, I am still in Utah, and if I were really magical, that would just not be. Fourth, I want some fudge really, really badly, and I am ordering it to appear, and nothing is happening.

Fifth, was I just counting? Oh, yes. Yes I was.

P.S. I am not kidding about the fudge.

"Food for One Thought Shared with a Crowd"

I learned some key things today.

I learned how to do a slapshot. This will come in handy for my hockey career, as was pointed out to me by Arthur Nicolaus. Good thing he's so on-the-ball.

I learned that cold ravioli should never never be eaten. Ever. They invented microwaves for a reason. It didn't seem like such a bad idea at the time, though.

I learned that it is very dark outside at 6:30 in the morning. And cold. Almost as if the Sun had given up and refused to give its warm, kind, life-giving light, dooming me to certain failure on my French final. Don't worry, I noticed all this only after my final, so I had a glimmer of hope motivating me through the three-hour ordeal. That might or might not have involved counting cinderblock tiles during parts of it.

I learned that wasting an entire day is easier than it looks, and I don't know how cut out for this college thing I am. I'm holding out for the Christmas break to motivate me, but you know and I know that it won't. I need some good, old-fashioned competition to keep me on my toes, and I also need for my university of choice to not be in Utah. That's what I'm wishing for for Christmas.

I learned that buying someone a birthday card doesn't necessarily mean I will send it. Five months and counting....

I learned that with the tiniest bit of snooping you can get anyone's address to anywhere. Fear me.

I learned that I am fantastically bored. I kinda just learned that right as I was typing this, but what the heck happened to, "if you get bored, call me"? I am bored. I have called. Looks like I'll be hanging out with myself for a while. I hate when my friends' friends get in the way. (See, look, that whole center-of-attention syndrome again. I told you spoiling was bad for me.)

I learned that being someone's sister-in-law gives you ultimate power and authority over everything. Especially if that sister-in-law is me.

I learned that just because you hate someone and talk trash about them, you can still ask them for favors. Imagine that. I would work on using this one more, but I have a hard enough time asking people for favors anyway, so there could be problems with that.

I learned that in less than three days I will be home in the sweet sweet East Coast air. With people who walk fast and don't look at each other, who know how to correctly pronounce "pen," who don't do crazy things to their hair or act like they've just gotten back from surfing, who know to put pants on when it gets cold, who know what colors are, especially green, and who, best of all, don't assume that when I say I'm from Maryland that equals Massachusetts. Great state I'm sure but uhh when you ask me if I'm from the Boston area, I will tell you how stupid I think you are. Then I will make you buy an atlas. Then I will kill you with it.

"Take me from the past of all my mistakes to where the future lies"

I'm putting a stop to everything right now. How far I go when I say "everything" depends on a few things. First, no more taking sides or being angry or defensive. I know I have friends who look after my happiness, but the thing is, when my Nicolaus who is basically in charge of my happiness and the biggest proponent thereof feels he has made me terribly unhappy because of his selfishness, well, something is wrong. Second, please don't hate me. I know that is asking a lot, especially of some people, but I usually get to know someone pretty well before I decide to hate them. Well to the point that it's impossible for me to hate them. So you see how many people I hate. Third, I am not offering an apology. That seems wrong, I know, but I don't feel capable of apologizing selflessly at this point. Anything I have to say I would say in an effort to make myself feel better, I'm afraid. It will come, but it will come when I have thought things through extensively, on a night possibly a year from now when the memories come flooding back and I am utterly filled... filled with remembrance and joy and fondness and a tinge of regret covering everything with its fine, condemning film. People get hurt and no one is to blame. But the way we act when we are hurt, THAT we have control over. This time, I was too much of a child, too weak and perhaps too weary. But I am trying. I want you all to know how desperately I am trying. I just have a hard time letting go; I should have fled to Macedonia long before. Next time I will. There is a story of a people so depraved and so lost that everyone fears them and their damnation seems certain. Like Faust, they have sold their souls, and sold them almost from infancy. But some people are courageous enough to come to them and offer them a chance to change, a hope to hold on to. They bury their swords and vow never to touch them again. Anger is a mask for many things, and I thought it was what I needed, and I sought after it. It is a sword that I am now burying, and should I ever pick it up again, may I be damned.

"My Own Little World Is What I Deserve"

Now onto my next post whose topic was brought about by my last post, and is actually something that has been on my mind a lot recently.

Stop spoiling me.

The problem is, I like being spoiled. I like it far, far too much. It is my tragic flaw, so, wanting to avoid death and damnation as much as possible, I try to keep from it. Other people can be spoiled with no problem; they probably accept it graciously and move on to better things. But I've always been the Only Girl, and with that comes spoiling privileges which I have been fighting against ever since I first noticed the inequality.

I am not my daddy's little princess. I might share his sense of humor and his small toes and his love of golf, but I am not going to start barking orders to his underlings or my brothers or some such nonsense.

There is nothing special about me. No reason to defer to me or cook lunch for me or do anything for me, really. If I do something nice for you, it is because you deserve it; no one has a debt to repay to me.

I want to be treated decently and fairly and to feel loved and accepted and wanted. That much even feels like spoiling to me. So, I don't know. It's a slippery slope I walk, and I am trying hard to find a balance.

"You Won't Be There to Say I'm Not Allowed To"

Jennifer is making lunch for me. My roommate, who worked tirelessly to prepare everything today and stressed out and did a wonderful, beautiful job, came home and asked me what I wanted for lunch because she was making it. For me. I do not deserve such people in my life. But that is for my next post.

For Jennifer.

-She is the one who always sings in the shower (and everywhere else too, really) just because she likes it. She'll put on her headphones and her brown felt hat and sit at her computer, belting out Aerosmith like she's Steve Tyler himself (only with a much smaller and comelier mouth, I assure you).

-She's always concerned about me. Whether I've eaten or slept or studied or done anything I need to do. She keeps track of my life far better than I do, which is great because I honestly need someone to follow me around and keep tabs on things. That way, I will never double-book a night up with dates and end up missing the hockey game (true story; it was really sad).

-She has been there through it all. Seriously. Numbers 14-21, she knows them and their stories intimately. She gives me advice and is the go-between. When guys want to know about me, they go to her, because she knows what's up more than any other being on the face of this planet, and that sometimes includes even me. She knows how capricious I can be and how my boredom develops and has seen my descent from a carefree, cold child to a rather tormented individual. Only Jennifer knows how much more it hurts me every time, and only Jennifer calms me down from my guilt and my grief and my self-loathing. And only Jennifer knows the contents of The List. (Which version are we on, by the way?)

-She is more like a sister to me than a roommate. Taylor made that comment at the beginning of the year, saying we acted like sisters. I've never had a sister, so I didn't see it at first. But who gave me a lecture today about doing things to make myself happy? (Oh, how familiar it sounded too. I am such a hypocrite sometimes.) Who got in a fake shouting match last night that probably created alarm in various individuals? Who do I spend Thanksgiving with and tease and get in conversations with her mother on the phone and know her siblings?

-She made me bagel bites. And they are good. And she felt bad for making them crispy, even though that's the way I like them.

-She can drag out conversations forever. When I intend to be in bed by midnight (well, in all fairness, I'm usually distracted by my computer too), I can often be found at 4 a.m., sitting on my bed, deep in frustrated conversation with her over the complicated matters of the universe. Also in the conversation category are stories. Jennifer's stories last a long, long time. But still, she is usually the one I make tell the Proposal Story, unless she is not there (like last night).

-She frustrates me to no end, that silly Oregonian. Like Cam"p"bell said, "Liz, you're weird." Wait, no, that was the other cool thing he's ever said about me. Let's try this again. Like Cambell said, We are very, VERY different. To illustrate my point: I was Jenn's date to her work Christmas party, and we were discussing the Christmas tree-chair-fire setup for Santa's arrival. She said the chair should've been a different color. I said it had to be red, so it was fine. She looks at things aesthetically, I look at things culturally or analytically or whatever. Now that we know this, our arguments usually progress and end much faster. Silly communist Oregonian who doesn't know how to pump her own gas. That's not her fault, though. In Oregon if you get out of the car at the gas station, they shoot you. (This may not be actual fact, as I have never been to the state and WILL never visit as a result of my having been banned. From the entire state of Oregon. Hoo shah.)

So there you have it. Jennifer is one of the reasons, and probably the main reason, I am still alive after three semesters in Utah.

The movie I saw was Ocean's 12. I think my opinion was expressed pretty clearly here, along with the first comment, which is mine.

"Kids Are Day Offs"

Today was rather unexpected. Here I sit, it's almost midnight, and I am so full of food I don't even want to think about it. That's what happens when you go out to dinner TWICE. IN ONE DAY.

It's Aaron's birthday today, so Kelvin his roommate and a friend of mine called me up to tell me the happy news and ask me if I wanted to go get Something Corporate tickets (answer: YES!)for their show in February and grab a meal and a movie with the group.

Me and three guys at dinner. How did it end? Did it end with my leaving my phone number for the waiter? Why, yes. Yes it did. They bullied me into it, and I'm not one to back down from a challenge. Even though I still think David should have left his number instead because he was flirting it up madly with the poor guy. It was hilarious.

After the movie was over, I checked my voice mail and had all sorts of messages waiting for me, one of them requesting to pay me back for the FOUR HOURS I spent late last night going over a book proposal. So out to eat I went again! I mean really... four hours. Of mixed up, jumbled pages and numbering things and trying to think long after my brain had shut off. I deserved it. I have no self-control.

"An Exhausted Smile Screens My Words"

This story has been told and re-told so many times that I'm suspecting the details have all been warped out of all recognition. Yet I still won't write it down. Just ask me for the details if you want to hear the Proposal Story and haven't heard it yet.

Anyway, today was the infamous Black Friday, the first Friday after the Tuesday night University Strings concert. I didn't study outside today, despite how beautiful the weather was. I'm sure I'm blowing everything out of proportion, but really, what good is a crazy proposal story if you can't make a big deal out of it twice a year and refuse to study outside?

I did plenty of studying, though, let me assure you. With the early-morning, hours-long French review that ended with Stephanie, Jane, and I discussing our lives in intimate detail and spilling over into the library atrium. That continued into a practical lesson of how exactly to lure boys in. All you need is a killer smile, apparently. Then happened the two hours of geology review that only stopped when my shot concentration and grumbling belly told me to get out of there and get food.

The rest of the day wasn't exactly filled with studying as I had planned, but filled nonetheless, and given that this is the first reading day I've ever even attempted studying, I'd say I'm ahead of the game.

If you need me, I'll be under my electric blanket with my stuffed rabbit, crying and humming hymns to myself. Oh yes... it's FINALS WEEK.

"Please Consider All Things Trite"

Just tying up a few loose ends. Bear with me.

First, let it be known that now he shall be known as Big Chief Art the Rainbringer AND Clone Hunter. So let it be written by the Plan Leader. So let it be done.

Next. An actual conversation from Brit Lit today. (Woohoo, I am done forever! Unless I get less than a B. Then again, I can always change my major.)
Me (pointing to the professor): She's giving a lecture.
Warren:
Me (realizing what is causing the confusion): No! I mean a guest lecture.
Warren:
Me: There's a poster advertising it downstairs.
Warren: Ohhh. I was like, "Duh, that's her job."

And finally, I would just like to announce that I've fallen in love. It took me long enough, too. Nick, my hat goes off to you. Yet again. And check out the title of this post.

"My Brand New Fashion of Waking Up With Pants Off"

I am writing this because I am angry. I realize that some of you will probably be angered by what I have to say, and I apologize in advance for that. Just remember, we all have problems.

So, story time. I had an orchestra concert tonight, which meant I had to wear concert black. No problem, black is classy and swanky and I love wearing it. In fact, I was excited because I can wear pants in this orchestra, I'm not required to wear a skirt. As I was getting ready, I of course put on my black pants that I bought a couple years ago and have loved ever since. I hadn't worn them in a while, though. And you know what? They don't fit. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Size three from the Gap and they are far, far too big on me.

Stop your whining, you say. Make me. I really dislike how the higher-end stores slant their sizes so that more people can fit into smaller sizes. Where does that leave me? I cannot ever go shopping with my mother again. She already thinks I'm anorexic, if I go around asking for a size zero, she is going to strangle me. And then stuff a cheeseburger down my crumpled, torn esophagus.

The solution is just boycotting pants. If you have a problem with this, go out and find me some pants that fit, and I will wear them. But until then, I'm practicing the freedom of pants. The end.

"When You Were Gone and So Alone"

I don't know. I just don't know. Tonight, I was hit by this overwhelming wall of loneliness and I was forced out of my apartment by it. I have friends; I know people care about me. I got an e-mail from my mother just today telling me she was mailing me Christmas decorations so I wouldn't have to hang out with the Hell Birthday people just to get a string of lights. I was talking to a friend online. But the loneliness still came, so I went out searching for human interaction.

It worked. I don't feel overwhelmed anymore. I came back to some messages letting me know how people care. The thing that caused the loneliness is still there, though, lurking beneath the surface. Not knowing what is causing it is necessarily creating some deep confusion.

In French class today, we were discussing superlatives, and I came across the word pire, meaning "worst." My mind, seeking to store it in long-term memory, remembered a line from a French poem I have memorized.

C'est bien la pire peine

The word for pain (peine) is the same word as punishment in French, which I find interesting. But it is the worst pain... the worst pain is not to know. Not to know, but to hurt still. That's a basic translation of the last stanza.

I just think I've changed. Last year, I could be the trivial friend. That was my job. I entertained people, and we had fun. Then I realized what it was like to not be the trivial friend for once, and I can't be happy in that position for long anymore. Joking about sincere emotions no longer has the appeal it once did. I need something deeper, something more real to hold to. Add it to the catalogue of things I no longer am and realize when my freshman year friends return, they will not know me.

"Until I Met You"

I love using a book to lull me to sleep. Gradually, gracefully, I slip between pages into unconsciousness.

Today, I fell asleep with Kant in hand.

My universe has changed a bit.

"We Have Lost All Feeling for One Another"

Last night I saw Saints and Soldiers. My friend asked me what I thought of it when the movie was over and we were walking out. I was slightly distracted by text messaging Rachael and by the fact that I didn't want to discuss how I felt then. So I looked over and said, "It was compelling." When pressed for more, I didn't give it. I don't need to expound for paragraphs about this movie. All I need to say can be said in less words than what I grudgingly offered to this friend.

I cried.

Very few movies have that power over me. It was true what I said before: the movie is terribly compelling. I guess you just have to be a closer friend to understand what that word means and what it means to me. Music has a powerful effect on me anyway as does war and death, so those three mixed together, all the loss and heroism and valor of it combined to move me to tears. I don't think it will have the same effect on everyone. I think a lot of people can see it and not care. A lot of people cried and didn't know why they were crying or cried merely because they cry at everything slightly emotional.

Ryan Little is an amazing director. His short film "Auteur" immediately got me hooked on his work ("This is NOT a film about dolly grips!"), and his short film "The Last Good War" was beautiful and emotionally powerful and ensured that Ryan Little would be permanently encoded by the end of Final Cut last semester. This endeavor ensures that I follow his movements and anticipate his forthcoming works.

I just remembered that I have a hunting license.

"You're What I Never Wanna Be"

Do you ever feel bad for mean people? I mean, just sit there and pity them because they're mean and they might be stuck that way forever? I know I have a lot of personality defects, and I try hard to change them, but I keep slipping back and back into my habits and natural inclinations. But at least I'm not mean to people. I have friends and I treat everyone with at least decency. What if that weren't the case? What if my personality defect was that I was mean and I kept slipping back into it and alienated everyone in my life and lived, cold and lonely, under a rock? Or what if I went about my day, thinking I was all cool and everything, and no one ever told me I was mean? What if I hurt people and never, ever knew about it and people talked about it in whispers while I walked by but no one ever confronted me because, hey, I'm mean.

I think I'm in touch with myself to not get too paranoid about this, but I still pity the people that everyone knows are mean but no one ever tells and they can't change anyway, because it's rooted in their personality. Maybe I should take up some kind of collection for them.

"Do You Ever Wake Up Tired in the Morning?"

Nick's blog is gone. As in, completely vanished. And Stalkernet has no entry for him. He could have died, and I would have no way of knowing. So if someone has a car and would like to drive me to Aloha (pronounced a-low-ah), Oregon, that would be awesome. I actually just want to hear him say the word gross again. I want to get a recording of it and play it over and over. Also, I have to tell him what kind of lotion Chrissie uses. I don't know why he wants to know, but it seems important.

I just realized I'll be failing a French test this evening. Funny how my mind managed to forget that for a while. I think I had a dream about it, and for some reason, I had forgotten to take my French Club card with me, so I couldn't even get into Cheese Night later. Yep, that's right. Cheese Night is tonight. And I don't have time for it. But I'm going anyway, because, hey, it's cheese! And night!

What I should be doing instead is finding a copy of "So I Married an Axe Murderer" and watching it. And all kinds of other fun stuff. I apologize if I don't update my blog better in the next 100 hours minus 12. I'm busy. And don't ask questions.

"Promise Me"

What makes a promise, exactly? A written contract between two parties? A verbal one? How loosely do you define it? Not too loosely, I hope, because then people will start calling your names behind your back with appendages like "psycho." I think this comes somewhat from an innate knowledge we have that promises are sacred and not to be entered into lightly. Decent, normal human beings recognize this. They recognize that we need promises to bind us together, to create a foundation of trust and understanding.

What happens, though, is that we focus so much on being honorable and keeping our promises that we overemphasize the promise-making process, and in that formalization, we forget about the promises we make in our words and actions.

These unspoken promises are binding nonetheless. At least for the promisee. The promiser can claim ignorance and get off fairly easy, and the promisee will let it happen, because, hey, nothing was ever promised.

Then why does it hurt to have a promise broken where no verbal contract was ever made? Why is there still a sting of betrayal that you swallow so people won't call you crazy and say that you demand too much?

Leading people on is never, EVER a good thing, and trying to weasel out of it by saying that you never made any promises, well, go back and look at what you said. Words are powerful things. Don't waste them.

This is for you, Kristin. Don't ever think that you don't have a right to be hurt.