A Personal Conversation Which I Am Publishing On The Internet For You All To Read, Because, Hey, It's The 21st Century

JENNIFER WESTIRFIRDE MERKLEY, YOU ARE IN BIG TROUBLE WITH ME.

I really wish I knew your middle name and that "Westirfirde" were it, because, woah, what a great middle name to have. Of course, no middle name in existence could have prevented tonight's awkward situation in the basement of the BYU Bookstore, where I was casually picking up some notebooks so I could do my homework and was accosted by that boy I met in your apartment and held hostage during a strained and forced and, through parts of it, terribly cold (as we were standing outside) conversation.

I don't know how to extricate myself from social meetings. I possess no instinct for graceful endings...normally, things are enjoyable until they end of their own accord, so I float along with it all, "going with the flow," as kids these days say. I think. Well, in MY day, they said it, and that's good enough for me. But. Back to the subject at hand: I didn't know what to do. Faking a seizure seems like a brilliant option, but unfortunately, I didn't think of it at the time. Now, I could probably come up with a list of about 28 different excuses I could pull, but not then. I was confronted with a face that was vaguely familiar to me, and had a name shoved back into recollection by his voice, and all of a sudden, I found myself playing along, pretending I remembered people and events that have long past slipped my memory.

And you know what? It's all your fault. You, and your finely-tuned culinary abilities and stupid, wonderful Christmas letter writing and soft, soft couches. I have one word for you: BAH.

Also: I miss our chats during Brit Lit. Christina Rosetti goes unchecked and wildly lesbian when we're not there to cover our ears and weep for the loss of our innocence.