OOP! Deh It Is.

Sometimes, I get emotional. Not in a bad way, just like. Sometimes something is so beautiful it makes me cry, you know? Well, last night I read a paper my friend Courtney wrote and it was that beautiful. So I went in my room, and I couldn't quite let it out, you know? So I opened my false book (yeah, it's actually a box, but it looks like a book. It's pretty sweet. Don't rob me. There are no moneys in it.) with all my most prized possessions in it, and I pulled out my Mockingbird script before I even know what I was doing. I still know the lines, but I wanted to see them too. And I read them, and I just let go. I bawled. Briefly. And it felt awesome.

So, then. Sometimes, I wake up and braid my wet hair out of my face. And my cowlick is pretty close to my brain, so I guess it knows when I'm having a Jean-Louise kind of day, eh? Every time something is beautiful to me... there it is, again. There she is, and there I am, and we fit still. It makes me happy. :)
Getting two letters in one day? It can be nice.


Also, life is really funny, I feel. Like the fact that when I was at the Wilkinson Center bus stop at BYU yesterday, I saw this man, with fabulous wedges that a gal I know has, actually. Sooo. Here's a picture of that:
Do you like how I protected their identities? Me too. But I still think if you run into him, the shoes would give it away.
Yes. I did. Something to think about.

Also, to the RM that Charly and I have probably progressed to loathing:

First we thought you were awkward and wanted our tight little freshmen bods (hahaha, I'm KIDDING. We both think reading is a work out) to birth your babies. That may still hold true, but you have progressed to being something I cannot abide. When you shuffled into class after the three day weekend in a horribly-faked panic because you hadn't read for American Heritage, and I answered that I had and your face lit up, I was irked. Mostly because you were speaking to me. And you were leaning into Charly's personal SPACE to do so. Sir... could you not talk across my poor, sweet friend? I told you I was done, and you asked if it was difficult. I replied that it took me like nine hours and I took 16 pages of notes. You asked to look them over, just so you'd know how to take notes. I eyed you angrily, (you of course, loved the laser beams of straight-disgust and scooted closer into Charly's space) and warily pulled them from my bag. You SNATCHED THEM AWAY LIKE A HUNGRY RACCOON EATING TURTLE EGGS. You then proceeded to "look them over" for the next hour and ten minutes, and copy them word for word. Then, the last five, you scramble to copy our Physical Science notes - or in other words, everything you could've gotten down yourself if you'd actually even half-listened to the lecture.

Couple things - Charly and I don't like boys. We don't like each other, and I mean. We're attracted to the male variation of human. But we don't wanna date. We're BABIES.
- This is COLLEGE. This is not high school, where you could piggy-back right into A-town on the sad hump of some smarty-pants. You won't even understand my notes unless you read the freaking book.
-I'll be honest right now. I expected more integrity from a returned missionary. I get that they are real people, have flaws, but they have also been representatives of the church for the past year, so I know I'm stereotyping, but is stereotyping that wrong when I expected a GOOD quality? That is my WORK you are jotting down, idiot. I slaved over that and lost a day of any kind of social normalcy or interaction and sold my soul to that textbook for that sixteen page masterpiece! Flipping STOP right now.
-You touched Charly's arm today. Something reminiscent of a caress. Nope. Don't you ever. And you put your arm around her back, to RUB my shoulder on the other side of her, to get my attention. Um. Pretty sure a throat-clear, or even a tap - though I still would've hated it more than life - would've sufficed.

Charly and I were talking about it, and the mystery of your love for us as we walked out of class. Why would you keep sitting by us when we are so lukewarm to you? We don't even speak to you unless you initiate. We don't even greet you when you sit down. Not because we are being rude, but because we are not being, at all.

So. Not only are you on some crazy wife-hunt (which is much like a witch-hunt, only intensely more dangerous and psychological) in your two weeks home, you are one of those kids who cozies up to cute girls in classes, girls who are HALF YOUR AGE, sir, (being seriously creepy ages you. It's like dog-years, but much, much more rapid.) to steal their work from them and thus save yourself the effort that is any kind of college course at all.

In the words of my mother, when I called her, seething my loathing for you,
"Ew. Just. EW."

I love that woman.