Summer magic.

Last Monday, I worked my way through a couple of airports en route to this most beautiful of places, Northwestern Missouri. They did this new thing at Sky Harbor where they swabbed my palms and ran the cloth through a computer. It was pretty nifty.

The past week has been spent reading and breathing deeply, grinning at every crash of thunder and staring up at the night sky like I was in love. Even the power going out made me disproportionately giddy.

If only a man could make me feel like this.

Listening to: Quigley Down Under
Reading: The Marvelous Land of Oz by L. Frank Baum

Domus.

I'm in Missouri again, that wonderful place that smells of soil and wet dogs. Of course, it is also a place of more limited internet time. I'll update when I can, but if you don't hear from me, it's because I'm reading or outside starting at the stars.

Listening to: I Was a Male War Bride
Reading: Warbreaker by Brandon Sanderson

Geek out.

Yesterday, Bonster and I went to a couple of comic book stores. The first was dark and creepy. We only stayed long enough to ascertain that, no, we definitely couldn't stand that smell. The second was light and airy and packed to bursting with awesomeness. While B. went to town initiating herself into the world of comic books, I spent the duration of our stay trying to remember the name of a high fantasy series that was made into a graphic novel. I didn't make much progress. I couldn't remember the titles of any of the books or who it was by. I could only figure out what it wasn't. Ah, well. Next time.

Afterwards, we went and saw Prom at a two-dollar theater. I'm such a sucker for cheesy teen movies.

Also, I'm in love. Don't get too excited. His name is Nintendo 3DS, and he grants one the power to carry The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time around in one's pocket. I'm already beginning to pine the way I did before I got a Kindle. What is this materialistic society doing to me? I need an electronics purge.

Listening to: "Me Río de Ti" by Gloria Trevi
Reading: Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice

Sweet tooth.

It's amusing to watch the cashier's eyes widen as you plop scones, danishes, oatmeal cookies, Oreos, peanut butter cups, and milk down onto the convey belt with the simple explanation of, "I had a sugar craving."

"That's a big craving."

Listening to: The Mummy
Reading: Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice

Kerplow!

I noticed a little display of fireworks for sale in Circle K this morning as I bought...whatever those things I had for breakfast were. I think they were some form of chicken. The fireworks display looked crowded and conspicuous, obviously trying to squeeze into a space that was not meant to be squozed.

Just ten minutes later, as I motored down the road, I passed a forlorn building that used to be a Hollywood Video, the paint faded around where decorations used to be. Someone had strung a temporary banner over the "Hollywood", one that loudly announced "FIREWORKS".

The firework laws may have changed here in Arizona, making ground fireworks legal during certain times of year, but it's obvious that fireworks aren't native to the area or even naturalized. In this condensed urban sprawl, fireworks dealers are having to fit themselves into nooks and crannies, putting up cardboard displays next to the c-store register, squatting in defunct businesses, and cramming pavilions into weird open spaces outside the mall. Their appearance screams, "What am I doing here?"

I make this judgement fairly, having once lived in a place where the presence of fireworks was part of the town's identity. Evanston, Wyo., has at least four permanent fireworks dealers, three of which are giant warehouses clustered competitively around the same intersection. I fear I rave about Evanston far too much, so instead of typing another gushing review, I will instead direct you here. If you're only interested in hearing about Evanston's love affair with fireworks, head toward the end of the post.

Here and there sit in an interesting juxtaposition, one place only beginning to try to live in harmony with home-blown pyrotechnics and the other long living off the fumes of black powder.

Listening to: "Hells Bells" by AC/DC

Reading: Along for the Ride by Sarah Dessen

Culinary innovation.

Yesterday was movie day. My family went and saw Super 8 and Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides.

Super 8 was incredibly awesome. I was struck most by the quality of the acting. I don't know how they managed to find so many child actors who can actually act. Immediately following the film, I was kind of questioning it's rewatchability. The plot was great, but it depends a lot on the viewer not knowing what's coming next. Upon further consideration, however, I have decided that this is not a deterring quality. I still rewatch Alfred Hitchcock films, and he was the master of startling moments. The acting alone is high enough quality to demand a second viewing.

Pirates was also incredibly awesome. I have to second the verdict flying around the internet: While it may not be as good as the original, it blows the second two out of the water.

Today's exciting moment is brought to us by Campbell's. Yes, the soup company. I finished the last corndog for lunch/breakfast, so when dinner rolled around, it was get creative or go hungry. I cooked the last thing of tortellini in the pantry, panicking while it boiled about what I was going to put on it. I recalled from my last encounter with the stuff that it was kind of dry on its lonesome. Enter ingenuity.

I'm not a brave cook. I don't experiment. I go by my grandpa's philosophy: If you can read, you can cook. When I'm pushed to it, I rely on  recipes like they're the last dry land in a roiling sea. Wow, I'm really going to town on the similes today.

Anyway, the point is that I found two contenders in the panty: a can of stewed tomatoes in tomato juice and cream of mushroom soup. I opened the tomatoes and decided their juice was a little too much like water for my purposes. They were relegated to the status of side dish. After I rinsed the noodles, I dumped the cream of mushroom soup into the empty pan and stared at it with regret. Sitting in a mound in the center of the pot, it looked like a bad life choice. Some daring part of my brain decided to kill two birds with one stone. My plan of action was to rinse the last bit of soup out of the can with milk and then use that milk to thin the soup out into a sauce. The regret only escalated after I poured the milk into the pan. I stirred hopelessly for a minute or two, convinced that my only two ingredients were going to stay separate. Then, miraculously, they started merging together, blissfully thinning out as I had only dreamed they could. Of course, the resultant sauce was still a little bland, so I popped open the spice cabinet to see what my options were. The outlook was grim.

We have the most ridiculous spice cabinet ever, and I don't mean that in a positive way. It contains only garlic salt, onion salt, crushed red pepper, parsley flakes, lemon pepper seasoning, peppercorns, and taco seasoning. You see my dilemma. I added a touch of the garlic and onion salts (Who buys salt instead of powder, anyway? My dad has no idea where they came from.), but they weren't really doing much. I wasn't really fond of the idea of either of them in the first place. In a last-ditch effort, I grabbed the taco seasoning. I remembered that my mom puts it in her spaghetti sauce, but that wasn't entirely comforting considering she makes a red sauce and I was working up from a very pale soup. Two puffs of red powder and some tentative stirring later, I was licking the spoon in amazement. I had done it. I had created something delicious.

My dad agreed.

Listening to: "The Best of Me" by The Starting Line
Reading: Uglies by Scott Westerfeld

Pipes.

Oh, my giddy aunt.

In the past, when I heard my friends talk about Organ Stop Pizza, I imagined a small, dark restaurant with little round tables and a little electric organ in the corner. I have no idea what could have possibly given me this idea.

I was in no way prepared for a two-story performance/dining hall that puts the gym at Penney High to shame and an organ that rests on a spinning platform and controls everything from an accordion and dangling marimbas to bubble machines and the creepiest cat marionettes you'll ever see.

We heard songs ranging from "Hey Jude" and "Bohemian Rhapsody" to "Under the Sea", including the entire soundtrack from The Sound of Music.

The pizza was pretty good, too.

Will I be going back? Just try to stop me.

Listening to: Eureka

Reading: Uglies by Scott Westerfeld

The spice of life.

I have this crazy idea that I'm going to make a vlog about Mexican food tomorrow, but don't quote me on that. For today, I've been spending oodles of time on deviantART again, which has me oozing artsy thoughts out my tear ducts.

Conversations with new people always sound the same. "What's your major? What's 'linguistics'? Where are you from? What do you like to do?" My answer to the last is generally reading, writing, and drawing, though lately I've been mixing it up by throwing in sleeping and spending way too much time on the internet. Of those options, the one people always latch onto is drawing. I guess it stands out more than the rest in our literate, online world where everybody and their cat wants to be a famous author and most college students have an undeclared minor in napping. With the rest of the options therefore being old hat, for their first follow-up question, people always ask me what I like to draw.

...

Do I have to answer that? The simple answer is either girls or dragons. The first sounds creepy, and the second automatically either alienates whoever I'm talking to or brings out their ubergeek. I don't have a problem with geekdom. I'm actually quite at home there, but I'd prefer a conversation about art to be about art and not about The Lord of the Rings. The more complex answer is that I like to draw a variety of things, and I don't understand why I have to list specific objects. I mean, really. Art is experimentation. Why limit yourself? Of course, I don't want the first impression I leave to be based on some crazed rant about how their question is invalid.

In the end, I usually end up hedging the question and steering the conversation elsewhere. The real question here is, why am I blogging about this instead of drawing?

Listening to: "Carry On Wayward Son" by Kansas
Reading: Uglies by Scott Westerfeld

Gummiberry juice.

X-Men: First Class has completely thrown off my sleep schedule. I didn't get to bed until 5 AM yesterday morning, and then I turned around and got up at 7:40 to go to the zoo with Bonster and Celery. I regret nothing.

Full of Wendy's tasty breakfast selection, we traipsed about, gawking at orangutans, cavorting in photo booths, and spending far more time than is customary at those penny squasher machines.

After the zoo we stopped by Jamba Juice to get something to cool down our systems. Were you aware that they have a secret menu? Naturally we ordered from it. I felt like I was being inducted into a secret club. Of course, at first I just felt like I was trying to pull some kind of prank when I walked up and ordered Fruity Pebbles at a smoothie joint. When they finished our orders, I accidentally grabbed Bonster's and tried it. That was awkward. It all worked out in the end, though. We'd always intended to try each other's off-menu flavors. I highly recommend the White Gummy Bear. Celery made an excellent choice in that one. There's a slight twinge of peach as it slides across your tongue, which I found entirely delectable.

With our Jamba Juice in hand, we motored on back to Bonster's house, where we watched Galaxy Quest and vegged out like zombies.

After much staring off into space, we settled down to some good, old-fashioned Mario Party 6. The CPU was incredibly annoying, so we spent a lot of time badmouthing Toad.

Bean and bacon soup for dinner and A Walk to Remember for dessert.

Listening to: "Iris" by The Goo Goo Dolls
Reading: Uglies by Scott Westerfeld

Kitchyup.

If ever there were a time to dream about X-men, this morning was it. When I say this morning, I mean this morning (or Friday morning, depending on the time stamp). I went to bed around five. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Our story really begins on Wednesday.

Shortly after noon on Wednesday, I arrived at Bonster's house for six marvelous hours of X-men movies, Red Vines, and frozen pizza. There's nothing like a good movie marathon. Perhaps the best part of the afternoon was the birth of the phrase "pectoral cleavage".

This marathon was in preparation for the release of the new movie, X-Men: First Class.

On Thursday, I drove over and met some friends in Tempe Marketplace for the midnight premiere. There is also nothing like a good midnight premiere. In fact, I propose that we sometimes do the same things over and over again (movie marathons, midnight showings, rereading Jane Austen novels until we have them memorized) because these experiences and the pleasure they afford us are unique, and we want to keep experiencing that one-of-a-kind joy. Of course, that really has nothing to do with my story.

There were nine of us (ten later on), traipsing around, eating frozen yoghurt (which I was forced to get by She of the Awesome Bumper Stickers, which I am interpreting as a sign of affection), and playing Egyptian Rat Screw on the floor of the movie theater.

The movie was simply splendid, made all the better by the types of people that tend to go to midnight shows. Maybe it's all in my head, but it seems to me that midnight movie crowds are more apt to laugh out loud, cheer, boo, groan, and applaud as a collective. (As a side note, I'd like to point out that elegant little Oxford comma in the last sentence. They're terribly marvelous creatures, if you ask me.) Last night's theater-goers were no exception. I think it's safe to say that everyone in that room agreed on what the best part of the movie was, as evidenced by the roar of applause for a certain cameo appearance.

I really have no good segue to put here, but is this the right time to mention the guy sitting in front of us with gauges the size of Snapple lids? If it is, then it's probably also the right time to mention how hilarious it is when Laura her-hees into a silent, packed theater.

After the movie, we all moved on to IHOP, haven to the night owl and the all-nighter. We placed our orders in a hodgepodge of bad Russian accents, Scottish brogues, rapid-fire French, and scrumptious German. Far from being put off by us, the waiter was the one speaking French. Around 4 AM, after a discussion about laser-mounted polar bears, much quoting of The Princess Bride, and a long round of Two Truths and a Lie, we finally vacated the premises. My abs got quite the workout. I was light-headed from laughter long before we even got our food. By the by, I've decided that anytime I'm at IHOP after midnight, I have to order the Swedish crepes. It's a thing now.

The sky was already lightening as we split off for our cars and headed homeward. Zany me, I decided that I had to go running when I got home. My logic may have been that 4:30 is about the time I want to go running once I start exercising regularly again, and I was already up...

The weather is something else around here at 4 AM. It's also a great time for rocking out to "DJ Got Us Fallin' In Love" on 100.3.

Listening to: "Nice Guys"
Reading: Uglies by Scott Westerfeld

*chirrup*

It is with feelings of both accomplishment and melancholy that I announce the departure of my friend, the Cricket. Tonight, I captured him (with a cup) and released him into the wild (through my window). It's for the best. Call me soft-hearted, but I was beginning to worry about him starving to death inside my room. Of course, I have no idea how he got in here, but now that he's gone, I'm going to miss watching his mute little voyages across my floor.

Good luck, little guy.

Listening to: Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian
Reading: Uglies by Scott Westerfeld

Rearguard.

I slid out of bed this morning and into a sitting position on the floor like a gelatinous mass. During my unrestrained laughter at this unexpected cartoon moment, my dad told me to get ready because everyone was either already here or on their way. I pulled on my socks, laced up my boots, and got ready to rock and roll.

Before I clear up this fuzzy introduction, let's discuss these socks for a moment. These socks are amazing. They come up over the knee in glorious blue and grey stripes and invoke a feeling that goes something like, "You can't see it, but my socks put your socks to shame." I can't help feeling like a witch when I put them on, especially when they're combined with my calf-high leather boots. This is a good thing.

To shed some light on the previous paragraphs, I was rousted from my bed this morning for a motorcycle ride to and breakfast in Florence (the one in Arizona, not Italy). I didn't actually ride on a motorcycle today. I was on the back of the trike. Boy howdee, that thing almost makes my uncle's La-Z-Boy/Electra Glide look like a wooden stool. It is spacious! Of course, the back end is part of a Volkswagon Bug, so it shouldn't come as a surprise that it's a mite roomier than a motorcycle.

Brunch was awesome. To sum up: outdoor patio, sparrows, fundidos.

A parting word of advice: If you ever find yourself following a motorcycle down the road, watch what they do when they pass a bike going the other way.

This post is affectionately dedicated to the cricket silently wandering around my room. May it find what it's looking for.

Listening to: "Provo, UT, Gurls" by BYU Divine Comedy

Reading: Uglies by Scott Westerfeld

Giggle water.

While the rest of America has been enjoying Memorial Day Weekend, it's been Bonster Weekend here at my house. You have no idea how thrilling I find this. Bon is a stupendous human being.

We whiled away Friday afternoon with discussion and Paul Bettany. It took an extensive quest, but we finally found my copy of A Knight's Tale. I would estimate that I didn't remember a good third of that movie, which is both frightening and entertaining.

On Saturday evening, I went modern to a Great Gatsby party with Bon and Celery. They went as newsies. Granted, the ones in the musical were from the late 19th century, but men's fashion changes slowly enough that it didn't make a difference. A few highlights of the party:

1. Mocktails.

2. Eleven-layer bean dip.

3. Miniature cupcake-y goodness.

4. Throwing down in Egyptian Rat Screw.

5. Meeting someone else who has read Lackadaisy.

6. Meeting someone elses in general.

My favorite moment was when a group of boys arrived in an assortment of shirtsleeves, suspenders, vests, and fedoras. They had somehow managed to evenly space themselves as they entered one by one, and I was fully expecting a fourth man to walk out and for them to burst into song. But alas, no barbershop quartet were they. Indeed, they numbered only three. Their awesomeness as individuals minimized my disappointment.

Today, Bon and I kept each other awake in church through a series of asides and knowing glances. That girl is a marvel. I feel so lucky that she chose me as a friend.

Listening to: "Rolling in the Deep/Someone Like You/Turning Tables"

Reading: Uglies by Scott Westerfeld

Pomp.

At my cousin's graduation this evening, I was struck once again by how boring graduations are for those not participating in them and how even for the graduates the hype is greater than the true excitement. It's a strange phenomenon, this. The grand events of our lives are never as exciting as we're taught to expect them to be. Proms, graduations, weddings. Perhaps they would be more special if we didn't obsess over them so much. They lose their magic by being pushed over the edge into triteness and the land of unrealistic expectations.

Maybe that's why the tiny moments of pure bliss are so blissful: They're not cheapened by overemphasis. They spring up at us, and we are able to take true delight in them because by having no expectations, they exceed all expectations.

I am by no means promoting cynicism. I am simply lamenting a few sad facts surrounding what are meant to be the greatest moments of our lives. We build them up so much beforehand, we put so much pressure on them to be extraordinary, that there is no way they can even reach the bar. They appear to fall flat, so their true greatness passes by unnoticed. We're so busy watching the precise zenith of the sky that we fail to notice the shooting star just above the horizon.

You can't manufacture enchantment. Don't try to force excitement or enjoyment. Subtly craft a favorable environment, then step back and watch the magic happen.

Um...somewhere in there I think I stopped talking about graduations and starting thinking about how much anxiety there is around weddings. Then my mind wandered off completely into some mystical realm with stars and moonlight and glowing fairies and tall grasses and trees with scratchy bark and heady aromas and garlands of flowers and...

Listening to: "Brown Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison
Reading: Inkheart by Cornelia Funk

When you wish upon a star.

Laura spent the night last night. There's something rather marvelous about chatting into the wee hours of the morning, about gabbing until every third word is a yawn and the rest are slurred with sleep. I've missed that. With everyone always being so busy and this valley being so big, circumstances aren't usually conducive to spontaneous slumber parties. It's nice when an opportunity crops up.

Unlike my previous experience with similar chances to unload, there were no lamentations or raving. Rather, our conversation was a celebration of things that make us smile like fools.

My! how I've missed that girl in the few short weeks since school ended.

As a side note, I'm bringing old-fashioned interjections back. Spread the word.

Listening to: Pushing Daisies
Reading: Inkheart by Cornelia Funk

Itchy fingers.

I love the abject laziness of summer. The downside, of course, is that there is but scant material for blogging.

Today's theme seemed to be art.

An animation major just moved into my ward. I got to chat with her a little after church and discovered that she and I have the same problem: We can't pay attention unless our hands are moving. She showed me her pretty doodles from Sunday School.

In the evening, while I was clearing out my deviantART inbox, I felt the need to jot down an idea for an image. Rather than walk all the way across my room for my sketchbook, I plugged in my tablet, Twen, and wound up in Photoshop. An hour later I was chipping away at my portrait of Rinoa Heartilly again.

There's something relaxing about gradually shading and reshading and erasing and trying again. Outside worries get swallowed up in the minutiae.

This portrait is my first real project with a tablet, so it's an interesting learning experience. For a screen cap of the current state of events, click here.

Listening to: "I Like It" by Enrique Iglesias

Reading: Inkheart by Cornelia Funk

Chatter.

I just got back from a friend's birthday party. I definitely have attended more birthday parties in my adult years than I ever did growing up.

Tonight (or last night, depending on how you like to figure things like that) was a shining example of why I don't do crowds. Okay, it wasn't as stellar of an example as the last birthday party I went to, where I had to take refuge in the backyard because there were so many people there that agoraphobia was kicking in, but it was still a pretty good example. I get lost in big groups. There are too many voices vying for attention, too many people I don't know, too many inside jokes I'm not a part of. A strange mixture of pride and deference kicks in. Something inside me goes, "Okay. If you want to talk that badly, go ahead."

I like my conversations to be one-on-one or three-way. That's the ideal I've found where everyone has an equal chance to talk if they want to. Of course, there are always exceptions. There are some people I can only stand one-on-one because they become inconsiderate when a third person is thrown in. There are even some people with whom I wonder why I even bother being part of the conversation; they seem to be carrying on just dandy by themselves. I met with exhibitions of all of these tonight.

Most of my time, however, was not spent engaged in conversation at all. I was people watching. The entertainment this afforded me was decidedly worth going for. People say some of the most interesting things. Okay, fine, I may have laughed louder than was strictly necessary sometimes, but come on, I've been home all week talking to myself. I'd rather laugh too much than not at all.

This post doesn't really seem to be going anywhere in my head. Hm...

Listening to: "Dirty Little Secret" by The All-American Rejects
Reading: Inkheart by Cornelia Funk

Woof!

The weather could not have been more comfortable today. It was perfect zoo weather (though I didn't go): overcast all day and the temperature barely crawled above 70.

My friend K and I went to the dog park in the afternoon with her canine friends Haley and Jersey. There were all sorts of super awesome dogs there. A boxer named Bo demonstrated the correct way to galumph. An adorable little corgi mix spent a good hour multiplying her own adorableness by doing things like standing in the cooler full of water K brought and propelling herself across the ground like a torpedo with her front legs tucked under and her chin dragging across the ground. Haley busied herself sprinted across the park after balls, her fluffy tail streaming behind her, while Jersey introduced herself to every dog in the place.

It started raining right before we left. Arizona rain always astounds me. It's so gentle and refreshing, and the smell of wet sand is almost exotic.

It was most assuredly barefoot weather.

K also made me one of her scrumptious fruit smooties.
K : smoothies :: Willy Wonka : candy

Listening to: Smoky and the Bandit
Reading: Dawn of the Dreadfuls by Steve Hockensmith

Gamer girl.

Some good soul lent me a couple of classic PS1 games for the summer. I'm going to be kicking it with Spyro the Dragon and Squall Leonhart.

Got up at 7:15 AM today.

Life is good.

Listening to: "The Middle" by Jimmy Eat World
Reading: Dawn of the Dreadfuls by Steve Hockensmith

Rise and shine.

It looks like 7:30 AM is nest-building time for the local avians. It's also a great time to sit on a bench swing eating a bagel. Sure, the sun is shining right in my face in our East-facing backyard, but the weather is a delightful 67 degrees with a light breeze. Once again, I have been duly rewarded for getting up the first time I woke up.

Listening to: birdsong

Reading: Dawn of the Dreadfuls by Steve Hockensmith

Ice cream Sunday.

Happiness is eating a bowl of maraschino cherries while your friends chat amicably around you.

Listening to: The Vlogbrothers
Reading: Dawn of the Dreadfuls by Steve Hockensmith

Halvesies?

My poor blog. It was hit by the lethal combination of the sudden nothingness of summer and a few days without internet. The internet was my bad. Something weird was going on with the connection, and I didn't know that I was supposed to unplug the router for a few seconds. I hit the reset button instead. A few days and a grandpa later and we were right as rain again.

My brother was here for the week, talking cars with my dad and pushing people's buttons. He's always interesting company, even if he does talk way louder than he needs to.

Perhaps the highlight of my season of freedom thus far was going to see Thor on Wednesday with my friends and family. It was a fantastic film. I especially loved the design of Asgard. If you hear of any housing opportunities, I'd like to move there. Some of the liberties they took with the mythos amused me, but they were understandable. You have to bend a few facts if you want to stick an old Norse deity into a comic universe. The one thing I didn't understand was why they had Odin missing his right eye. I can understand fudging why he lost an eye, but why switch which eye it was? That's just unnecessary. Which is a great lead-in for my Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief rant, but I'll save that for another time.

Even better than the movie was the aftermath. Bonster, my friend Sidney, and I started calling dibs on attractive male celebrities. After three solids hours of claiming actors, we were starting to have a little trouble thinking of more. It was glorious. My conversations with Sidney are always so productive.

Listening to: Charlie St. Cloud
Reading: Wolfcry by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Vociferate.

If I had been living on campus this semester, I'm sure I could've heard that familiar refrain building in intensity all week. It's the same at the end of every semester.

It's just a ghost of a sound on Reading Day, not even a whisper. It starts out as one of those sounds that rustles through your memory, but when you turn your head to catch it, you realize you were just imagining it.

As the days go by and more and more people finish their last final, the echo solidifies into a real sound that slowly grows louder and louder until at last it reverberates from A Mountain to Barrett in the mighty voice of a Southern Baptist preacher.

Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!



Listening to: "I Have a Dream" by Martin Luther King, Jr.
Reading: Wolfcry by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Oh, C. K. Dexter Haaaaven!

I think we all have a lot of best friends over the years. There's the childhood best friend, the one you remember fondly as life gets more complicated and you yearn for easier days. There's the high school best friend, the one with whom you make all sorts of promises about living next door to each other and winding up in the same nursing home. There's your college best friend, your home away from home. There's your other half, your significant other, who I hear should become your best friend. That's what I'm looking for, anyway.

Then, of course, there's your built-in best friend, your companion before you knew you needed one, the one person who knows you better than anyone because she saw everything that went into making you you. She's so special she gets her own title: Mom.

I find it interesting that most languages have a similar word for our female parents. Most of them are some combination of the [m] and [ɑ] sounds. Mother, mama, madre, mater, mère, mutter. I don't care what you write down as your kid's first word, those two sounds, a bilabial nasal and a low back unrounded vowel, are the easiest speech sounds for a human to create. Those sounds are the first attempts at speech that a child is going to make. That's just linguistic fact. It seems right to me that they should go into the title for the first person to be important to us in this life.

I love my mother. She really does know me better than anyone else in the world (despite claims you may hear to the contrary). She knows how to deal with me when I'm in a mood. She knows how to make me smile. She can read all of the double entendres I hide in my Facebook stati. She gets the sly references I make to classic films and old British TV shows (probably because she raised me on them).

She's absolutely magnificent.

Listening to: "Lucky" by Jason Mraz ft. Colbie Caillat
Reading: Falcondance by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Roll for initiative.

I've been listening to a lot of podcasts lately from the likes of Wil Wheaton and Penny Arcade, and it's really got me in the mood to play a little Dungeons & Dragons. My fingers are just itching to warm up some polyhedral dice and see what happens.

There are a few problems, though.

Let's start with the most blaringly obvious one: I don't have anyone to play with right now.

"Well, Rebekah," you say, "why don't you go ask some of your friends to play with you? I'm sure you can think of several offhand who would be thrilled." Um, yes, I can. But I'd rather not ask those particular friends. It's nothing against them, you see. I just know from past experience that I'm a thoroughly neurotic roleplayer and a thrown-together group of your run-of-the-mill nerds is the one thing precisely calculated to turn me into a psychotic, twitchy-eyed banshee. I have witnesses.

The trouble comes from having a different idea about what I want to get out of a tabletop RPG. Most of the people I know who would be interested in this sort of thing are of the hack'n'slash variety, the kind who like to spend half an hour scouring rooms for treasure and to waste half the night buying supplies. No offense to those people, but what the duck? I thought we were playing a roleplaying game. You know, wherein you play a role. I've always been more interested in developing the characters and the story than in racking up XP. I want the players to talk to each other as their characters, build up these fictional lives, not just stare raptly at the DM waiting for stimuli to respond to.

But where do I find people who are interested in that sort of thing? If I put out a call for players, I'm bound to flush out every hack'n'slash on my Facebook friend list. The only method I can think of is to quietly send out feelers to people like I'm some kind of shady black market vendor, but where do I start? How do I find someone with the brand of humor and creativity that I'm looking for?

Maybe I should just clone myself with Calvin's Duplicator.

Of course, even if I did, I don't have any manuals. I've done that whole I-don't-need-no-stinkin'-manual thing before, but after listening to these podcasts, I kind of want to try the 4th Edition system. I could go for a little structure.

But even then, I would inevitably end up as the DM of any group I managed to scrape together, and bog nab it, I wanna play! It's like skipping your childhood. I'm not ready to be the parent.

I suppose if this is the extent of my life's problems right now, then I really shouldn't be complaining.

Listening to: 17 Again
Reading: Falcondance by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Synapse.

It's simply grand how often lately I've been able to say, "I understand where you're coming from." I'm finally able to take all of these quirks I've built up over the past 20 years and channel them for the benefit of others. I get to step back from a situation and say, "Time out, guys. Don't judge. I've done that, too, and this is why." I can connect with people in ways I never expected.

It's magnificent.

Listening to: "Never Say Never" by Justin Bieber ft. Jaden Smith
Reading: Falcondance by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

MIA.

I meant to blog about walking beside the sprinklers on campus yesterday and getting my pants soaked, but I went to hang out with a couple of friends, and after the chocolate, the strawberries, and the cookie dough, I decided that I was just going to spend the night.

Unfortunately, while my dad knew that I had been hanging out with some friends that evening, my phone died before I decided to crash there.

When I finally got home this morning and plugged my phone in, I found a bunch of worried voicemails and texts from people wondering where I was and whether I was okay. It turns out my dad had called the Institute looking for me, and the people at the Institute had called just about everyone they knew. People I've barely spoken to were called during this massive manhunt (which only lasted about three hours).

I felt so bad when I found out about all of the worry I had caused. At least it makes a funny story. And hey, now we know where to check first if someone really does go missing.

Listening to: "Dream Weaver" by Gary Wright
Reading: Falcondance by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Lackadaisical.

"I always keep it in my truck in case of emergencies," I said as I hefted the gallon of strawberry-scented bubble solution out from behind my seat.

With only a little further ado, Bonster and I took the lift up to the top floor of the Institute parking structure, where we proceeded to blow bubbles out over the sidewalk. Actually, there was a bit of a headwind, so we found that waving the wand majestically resulted in higher quality bubbles than blowing. Cassie joined us until she had to go to class and dropped her ninja-on-a-parachute a few times just for kicks.

The entertainment doubled when we started attracting a crowd. One of the Institute teachers was constructing spiritual messages to accompany how the bubbles descended and pointing us out to people walking by. I felt like all of the people craning their necks up at us were waiting for us to jump or whatever the cheerful alternative is.

It was like a movie, an awesome, awesome movie.

Listening to: "BEST Cartoon Theme Songs EVER!!!"
Reading: Falcondance by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

An abundance of metaphors.

Time is strange. It plods on, keeping a perfect tempo, yet we never perceive its even measures as they really are. Yesterday, it seems, was January, and these past few months have whipped by before I had a chance to notice they were here. And yet, the events of January and February and even March seem so hazy and dim, as though they happened millennia ago, that they may as well have happened to someone else. If the happenings of a mere month ago already seem like distant memories, how much more unreal are those which happened a year ago?

The events of a year ago really did happen to someone else. They happened to someone who was drowning in despair and loneliness, who was desperately counting down the days until she could escape this place and these people for somewhere else with someone else, who couldn't see far enough past her own dark wasteland to spare a thought for others or even remember who she was really supposed to be.

She was a bit like the protagonist from basically every RPG ever. You know, the one who wakes up with amnesia, no idea who she is or what she's supposed to be doing, only to be sent out on some grand, epic quest to save the world by an old bearded man. She had tunnel vision for the main storyline, chugging through tasks as fast as she could to get to the end goal, only wasting enough time leveling up as she had to, to survive.

I still remember the moment when she remembered who she was. It was like her hand suddenly grasped a life preserver, and she was able to raise her head about the churning sea and gasp for air.

This past year has seen the sun breaking out in streamers from between the dissipating clouds, the light bouncing like crystals off of the gentling waves. Speaking of, I think it's beautiful when light reflects off of water onto an overhanging surface and creates those dancing waves of light, but I digress.

The gameplay has completely changed. This person I am now is the kind of person who stops and talks to all of the NPCs repeatedly until she's sure she's heard everything they have to say. She takes every little side quest she can find and executes them with vigor. Okay, maybe not every side quest, but quite a few of them.

There's an incredible difference between me and that girl who was living in my skin a year ago. I hope it shows in my actions. I'm happier. The world is full of light and music and goodness. I'm not perfect at it yet, but I'm trying to think of myself less and others more. Most of my worry right now is for a few of my friends, who shall remain nameless because the crap they're going through is just that tough. I'm approaching the end of the semester and the beginning of summer at peace with all of creation. While I'm supremely looking forward to seeing my Missouri mates again, I'm leaving behind the promise to Arizona that I'll see it again in a few weeks.

This is me being abstract.

Listening to: Easy A
Reading: Falcondance by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Happily ever after.

"I have never been this sleep-deprived in my life." Such has been my refrain the past few days. Apparently, watching TV show marathons on Netflix isn't as okay during the regular semester as it is during finals week. I keep staying up late to watch Robin Hood, and then I have to get up early to do my homework because it doesn't get done at night (because I'm watching Robin Hood).

Which means that I've been averaging three to four hours of sleep a night, plus that five-hour nap I got on Wednesday.

So when I read that the broadcast of the royal wedding started at 2 AM, I figured, why not? What's one more night in a series of poor REM cycle choices?

I actually got up later than I wanted to. I came to around 2:45, freaked out for a few seconds, sprinted to the TV, and settled down to watch before Kate passed Buckingham Palace on her way to Westminster Abbey.

There seem to be two reactions to the nuptials among my circle of acquaintance: giddy excitement and scornful anti-apathy. A lot of people are asking the question, "Who cares?" Well, they can't be entirely apathetic, can they, or they wouldn't be taking the time to argue about why we shouldn't care.

For me, I don't particularly have a reason why I should care. It's more like, why not? Part of me is an Anglophile, and it's a part I'm rather fond of. England is part of my heritage (along with most of Western Europe and a few Native American tribes). Even more than that, though, I left a piece of my heart in London when I breezed through a few summers ago. I definitely enjoyed catching glimpses of places I've been during the broadcast.

The world always bands together for great tragedy. Why can't we all share in a few moments of happiness, too?

Plus, I'm a sucker for pomp, pageantry, and ceremony, just like I'm a sucker for classy vests, French food, my brown sugar songs, broad shoulders, unkempt lawns, and bubbles.

My favorite moments were the shared glances and whispered comments between William and Kate. I also rather enjoyed anything having to do with Prince Harry (he's my favorite).

A quick list:

1. While Kate was walking down the aisle, Harry looked back then made a comment to Will with a roguish grin.

2. Anytime Will and Kate glanced at each other during the ceremony. They looked like co-conspirators.

3. Alternately watching Pippa Middleton and Prince Harry with the little kids of the wedding party.

4. The two kisses on the balcony at Buckingham Palace.

There was a lot of hype building up towards the first kiss. So much so that when it came, it was so quick that I felt it was kind of anticlimactic. But then they replayed it, and the way Will and Kate looked at each other made my heart melt (this is a common problem). That look, as they say, said it all.

I don't care what has happened in the past or what will happen in the future for the royal couple. I know that in that moment, at least, they were in love.

The world still loves fairy tales. I think it's okay to care about that.

Speaking of, while the cameras were panning over the crowd while everyone was waiting for the couple to come out onto the balcony, I saw someone holding a poster that said, "Kate, you're beautiful and your prince is charming." It made me smile.

Oh, I also loved seeing the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh together. I adore cute old couples.

Listening to: "Touch Me" by The Doors

Reading: Falcondance by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Death by English paper.

Sometimes I feel like I'm entirely too confident in my own scholarly abilities. To illustrate, I'm going to tell a little story.

Saturday I went to the zoo. I tried to help with prep work for Linger Longer, my ward's monthly after-church snack, but technical difficulties ensued. I probably took I nap. I know I eventually wound up on Netflix watching Robin Hood.

Sunday I showed up to church early to continue the prep work for Linger Longer. I did my danged-est to stay awake in church, and I was even fairly successful. Easter lunch with my family was at noon. Around two I declared my resolution to go home and take a nap. When I finally made it home, I watched eleven straight episodes of Robin Hood, which for the record looks nothing like a nap.

After staying up late on both Saturday and Sunday and then getting no Sabbath nap, I was having trouble stringing sentences together on Monday. Literally. I was that far zombified. Which made what followed all the more interesting:

12:30 PM - Met with English group to discuss and finalize presentation for Tuesday. Laughed because none of us had started our papers, also due Tuesday.

1:00 PM - Puttered around on Facebook, deviantART, blogger, and Neopets.

2:30 PM - Zonked out.

5:30 PM - Went to Jimbo's Good Times Grill. Ordered the corned beef sandwich.

6:30 PM - Rationalized watching three more episodes of Robin Hood.

10:00 PM - Did my REL 320 homework.

11:30 PM - Decided to get a few more hours of sleep before starting my paper.

2:00 AM -Decided I could sleep for another 30 minutes.

2:30 AM - Decided that 3 o'clock would be a better time to get up.

3:00 AM - Decided I could sleep for another hour.

4:00 AM - Posted "Operation: Panic is a go" as my Facebook status.

5:00 AM - Decided I would miss my Institute class. Took a shower.

5:30 AM - Ate a bagel and watched Charlie's newest song on YouTube.

6:00 AM - Began writing in earnest.

8:00 AM - Printed.

8:15 AM - Hit the road.

8:45 AM - Power walked to my 9 o'clock class. Made it with two minutes to spare.

This procrastination thing needs to stop.

Listening to: "Taste of India" by Aerosmith
Reading: Snakecharm by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Cum nave.

My Latin teacher brokered a deal over our last quiz of the semester this morning. We could take it worksheet-style, open book, open friend, if we agreed to do some English-to-Latin on Monday. Really? Is it Christmas already?

I'm sure that some of the students in my class view English-to-Latin as a daunting task, but I love it! (I had to rework that sentence four times. College is messing with my innate sense of grammar. What is happening to meeeee?) Being able to write in Latin isn't generally seen as terribly important. Latin is mostly learned for the purpose of reading ancient or medieval texts.

But really, if no one had ever practiced writing it, we wouldn't have wonderful things like Latin translations of Harry Potter, now would we? The world would be a lesser place without such.

That, and it's just kind of fun. I mean, once I'm done translating a sentence, I just want to stand up and go, "Whooo, yeah! What now?!" Actually, sometimes I do that when I'm reading Latin after I figure out a particularly tricky sentence. But come on, how much more justified is it when I'm doing it the other way around?

On a completely unrelated note, I stumbled across some pirate-themed music today. I don't know whether to feel nerdy or awesome. Perhaps both? Did you know that there was such a thing as a Scottish, pirate-themed metal band?

This isn't the Scottish pirate metal, but I've been listening to it repeatedly tonight:



It's purtifuls. Say it out loud. Think about it. There ya go...what? No? Oh, okay. Sorry. We're all entitled to make up new words, you know. It's our prerogative as speakers of language.

Listening to: "Down With The Ship" by Naomi King
Reading: Snakecharm by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Thither.

These past two days, I've been following my gut. It's been taking me some interesting places. I can feel a shift taking place in my priorities. I've spent a very long time staring straight ahead, moving to where I needed to be as quickly as possible, forgetting to look up or left or right. I think that many of us have a tendency to get stuck in our rituals and to forget that there are things outside, different things to do and see.

I usually go about my day habitually. I don't even think about where I'm walking. My feet take me places before I'm aware I'm going there.

Who wants to live like that?

Not me, apparently. Something within my psyche has shifted. It's not even that I'm aware of my thoughts changing; my impulses are changing. Where once I would've greeted someone and carried on my way as though I were on an urgent mission (even though I usually wasn't), lately my reaction has been to turn and walk with them. 

I'm still anally punctual to my classes, but now I'm not so uptight about my free time.

I have been amply rewarded for this new...what do I call it? Instinct is technically incorrect, but like instinct it feels. If this action were any farther from conscious decision, it would be right up there with breathing. I like it.

I've gotten to spend time with unexpected friends, both old and new. A few people I hadn't seen in a while. One person I'd only spoken to once before.

There's an ephemeral quality to friendships here at college. Some are forged to last, but everyone has such a crazy schedule that it's hard to find time to spend together. Other friendships get you through a semester or two, but dissolve like memory when you no longer have classes together. There are the friends you smile and wave to when you walk past, but you can't remember their names. It's a treat to get to catch up with some of these people.

Another reward for following my feet and walking with these friends is that I find myself on strange sections of campus at unexpected times. It's like a mini-adventure. Suddenly I get to see an old world in a different cast of sunlight.

I love the changes I've been noticing in myself lately. I love how deep they go. They're not superficial. They're bone-deep improvements. I know that they're improvements. Anything that can make me feel this joyful has to be good.

If this makes no sense, that's what I get for trying to write and watch Avatar at the same time.

Listening to: Avatar

Reading: Snakecharm by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

The kick.

I take naps. I'm a nap-taker. It's actually kind of a hobby.

There are a few downsides to this. The first is that my naps tend to be time-consuming. I try to set alarms to limit how long I'm out, but either I end up setting them back repeatedly, or I just sleep right through them, waking up two hours later than I intended wondering what happened.

Another con is that I emerge from these monstrous naps incredibly groggy and with a weird taste in my mouth.

Today I woke up from my nap to my phone ringing. This isn't uncommon. Of course, I can't figure out why I can always sense my phone vibrating from a call (it's perpetually on soundless vibrate), but I can't hear my alarm blaring for 20 minutes. I guess it's just one of those things. Maybe a phone call is the signal to my subconscious to give me the kick (Inception, anyone?), whereas my alarm is only, you know, an alarm. Psh! Who pays attention to those?

I tend to be rather snappish during these post-nap phone calls. I don't mean to be. I'm just not yet processing input like I should be.

Unfortunately for my dad, he tends to be the one making these post-nap phone calls. Fortunately for my dad, I was able to figure out what was going on today when he called me, and I responded to his inquiries with enthusiasm.

I think my biggest clue today was the phrase "New York Steamer". A New York Steamer is a special sandwich made at Firehouse Subs. It's positively scrumptious! It's all corned beef and pastrami and provolone and saucy goodness. It's like biting into a steaming mass of pure, undiluted Delicious. And my dad brought some home for dinner.

See, this is why I could never be a vegetarian.

Listening to: "Believe" by Trans-Siberian Orchestra
Reading: Snakecharm by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Tally ho!

I feel like blogging is slowing infiltrating my life. Ever since I discovered the Stats page, which shows pageviews and information about where my blog traffic is coming from, I've been spasmatically checking it even more frequently than I refresh the Facebook homepage. Sorry, Facebook. What a sad commentary on my habits.

I don't want to say that it is a sad commentary on my life because, really, my life is quite good. My complaints are minor and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

As a blogger, I was tapering off there for a few months before that challenge. Now I feel like I have a duty to mankind to sally forth. I've lost count of the number of friends who have told me that they love reading my blog. (Here's a shout out just for you.) There's something intensely gratifying about entertaining and possibly even inspiring other people.

As I'm writing some of these posts, I just keep thinking, This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever penned. I should just stop now. No one is going to like this.

It's a relief to hear that someone is amused by my random tangents.

One friend even got me thinking about writing in general, and now, with her encouragement, I'm working on a new story written in blog form. It's a modernization of The Princess and the Pea. That's all you get to know for now. I'm worried that the more I talk about it, the less I'll work on it. I'm hoping, though, that the style will encourage me to stick with it. A blog post doesn't take terribly long to write (most of the time), so maybe the gradual style of the story will keep my focus.

For those who had to endure the few weeks I spent raving about National Novel Writing Month last November (a challenge I did not complete), I have not abandoned my story about Peter Priesthood. I'm too darn pleased with my own cleverness over that one to give it up. It's just on vacation while I go over here and try to get inside Pea's head.

Sometimes I wonder whether I'm really as clever as I think I am.

This blog needs more pictures.

Listening to: "The Mob Song" from Beauty and the Beast
Reading: Hawksong by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Quaver.

As I like to tell people, I'm convinced that my ward would implode if we had fewer than two special musical numbers a week. Three seems to be the standard.

I'm going to gloss right over the part where I sang a vocal solo today (though my friends, who were accompanying me on viola and piano, were positively magnificent) and rave for a while about the other two numbers today.

First there was a bell choir. I wasn't entirely aware that such a thing existed before today. Apparently, I was only living half a life. It was stupendous! It was enchanting and ethereal. I'll admit, I spent a few moments fantasizing about an entirely bell-based fantasy movie soundtrack. Some of the chords they hit gave me goosebumps.

The second musical number was a vocal piece by an impressive tenor. That man was belting it! It kind of made me want to start attending the opera, though his music didn't precisely have an operatic quality to it. I suppose the best way to describe his vocal stylings would be "confident". As a side note, this is, oddly, the second time today that opera has come up.

Now I'm going to gloss right back to my own performance because I want to comment on the phenomenon of me performing in front of a crowd. It's not something I love, but I can do it. I'm quite capable of mentally bracing myself. What I am incapable of controlling is my physical response. I don't know what it is, whether it's adrenaline or something else entirely, but every time I perform I start trembling. Theater, music, public speaking. None are exempt. It's not as pronounced when I'm one among many, as in a choir, but when I have any part to play that singles me out, the trembling revs up into overdrive. Even a single line in a play is enough to do it. Heck, even giving an answer in class is enough to do it to a certain degree. The unfavorable conditions seem to be any wherein all attention is solely on me. This wouldn't truly be an issue if it weren't for my second year at girls camp. Oh, girls camp...

It appears that story time is in order. The scene: girls camp, my second year. Fifty 13-year-old LDS girls are on a two-mile hike with a few chaperones and some older girls when it starts pouring rain. Well, it started drizzling, and then it started pouring. It didn't last very long, so we all decided to carry on with our hike. The problem came when we got stuck between two slopes. We had to choose between trying to go back up a slick, grassy hill or down a rough, muddy one. We all chose the latter. The older girls (known in our part of the world as Big Sisters) went slowly down one of the sides, digging footholds and positioning themselves in such a way as to enable a hiker to be gripping a steadying hand at all times. I was the only second year who chose this method. The others all chose to use the hill as a giant, muddy slip'n'slide instead. I lacked their daring. In retrospect, I should've gone their way. Something about going down that hill messed up my right knee. At the bottom, my knee was kind of spasming like the muscles didn't quite know what to do with themselves. I probably should've asked my parents to get it checked out as soon as I got home, but I was 13. It never occurred to me.

This story has a point, promise! You see, since that day so many years ago, whenever my fight-or-flight trembles kick into high gear, it is my right knee that feels it most pointedly. It starts going haywire. So haywire, in fact, that I was worried it was going to give way while I was singing today. I don't think I've ever had to stand on it while it was acting up that bad. Looking back, I've mostly managed to wind up in a sitting position when it's done that. Huzzah for theater sets! Today was unexpected, to say the least. I was expecting the trembling, but I was not expecting it to that degree. I was mostly hoping the bishopric didn't notice and start worrying about me.

I suppose it's for the best that I've never seriously entertained ideas about being a performer.

Listening to: "Bangarang" by Pogo
Reading: Hawksong by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Wishing well.

I don't mean to turn this into a blog about my feet, but I've just gotta talk about them a teensy bit more because one of life's true pleasures is dipping your feet into a body of water. I don't care if it's an ocean, a pool, or a puddle. There's something enchanting about being only partially submerged. It's like being grounded and weightless at the same time.

Laura and I were sitting by a fountain today. I couldn't resist. I didn't completely stick my feet in, but I did have fun making tiny splashes with my toes.

To make our short visit even more stupendous, we each made a wish and threw in a penny. I love wishes! We all have so many opportunities to make them. Fountains, of course, are the standard classic. Personally, I get 11:11 wishes most frequently, but I feel like they're the worst ones to have to make. Don't get me wrong, any wish is okay by me. But wishes are a big responsibility. You can't just spend them frivolously! They're a chance to look inside yourself and say, "Okay, self. What's the one thing you truly want right now, in this instant?" Sixty seconds isn't much time to figure that out. I love birthday wishes, too. I always feel accomplished when I get all the candles in one go. However, my absolute favorite wishes would have to be eyelashes. I don't know why. Maybe it's because they're so rare. Someone else has to find your eyelash, you know, and offer you the wish. Perhaps that's why I like them: They're gifts.

Whatever kind it is, there's always a hint of magic in the air after you make a wish. The ploop of the coin hitting the water. The last digit abruptly rolling to two. The puff of smoke billowing up from the stubby candles. The dainty eyelash floating off into forever.

It's the universe saying, "As you wish."



Listening to: "Wishery" by Pogo
Reading: Hawksong by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

Ambushed.

Today I was hugged by three guys at the same time. When I asked them which one of them it was that smelled so good, they proceeded to sniff each other dramatically in an attempt to find out.

I knew there was a reason I spent so much time at the Institute.

Listening to: Bones
Reading: Harry Potter y la cámara secreta by J. K. Rowling

Fictional fantasizing.

I feel kind of like Blizzard and their promised Warcraft Adventures: Lord of the Clans game. I've spent weeks advertising my best friend and making people promise to meet her while she was here. Unfortunately, her baby started throwing up this morning, then got feverish, so A caught a flight home this evening to get the wee bairn to her pediatrician. Poor little darling. Of course, now I feel kind of like Blizzard. "Let us promise you this fabulous game. Oh, wait. Just kidding!" I'm still mad at them for World of Warcraft, by the way. I can't deny that the graphics are snazzy and the gameplay is cool. I just hate that it's an MMO and users have to pay a monthly subscription fee. Come on! Just give me a single player RPG and let me go be a hermit. Wha's wrong witchoo?

But I digress. The true tragedy here is that my goddaughter is sick and not that I don't get to show her off to my friends. My priorities aren't as screwy as they seem.

Somehow in the midst of all this, I still managed to laugh my head off today. It all started when Bonster told me that Pocahontas had actually been married to Kocoum, but she was kidnapped by the white folk, which was considered equivalent to divorce or death or something in her tribe. She went on to marry John Rolf and change her name to Rebecca (which spelling makes me sad). We got into this discussion about how Kocoum was way more attractive than John Smith in the Disney movie, and we totally would've picked him. We also agreed that even Thomas, the lanky redhead, was more attractive than John Smith, though I suppose it's hard not to be when you're voiced by Christian Bale. I am of the firm opinion that we should have more Welsh actors in Hollywood. Then I made the comment, "Of course, I'm sure we can all agree that the most attractive animated Disney character is that guy from Mulan." After that we both sort of lost it and got a weird look from the girl across the table, who had somehow managed to miss our entire conversation.

And now, because I got on the subject of World of Warcraft (which I should never do), I can't help but post the following video.



Sometimes I just loop this on my iPod. Is that bad?

Listening to: "(Do You Wanna Date My) Avatar" by The Guild
Reading: Harry Potter y la cámara secreta by J. K. Rowling

Silver linings.

In the midst of a really crappy day, there always seems to be a bit of sunshine. Today there were a few.

First, while I was sitting in Latin this morning, there was a loud pop! and the lights went out. A second later, a similar pop! was heard from the adjoining room. Since we were in a room with healthy windows, our teacher staunchly carried on. It turns out that a good half of the campus lost power because of "a rodent that damaged equipment at a campus substation". I find that incredibly amusing.

Second, I got to take a nap outside on my bench swing.

Third, I really looked at the clouds today. I haven't done that in a very long time. I'd almost forgotten how fantastic they could be. I almost always look at the stars, but I seem to forget the clouds. Maybe this is because it's usually too bright out here to look up, but simple negligence is definitely a factor. Cloud-gazing was soothing. I couldn't decide whether I wanted to nuzzle them or pull them apart and pop them in my mouth like cotton candy.

Fourth, I discovered that a bunch of classic children's books have been translated into Latin. I spent a good twenty minutes adding many of them to my Amazon wishlist. Dr. Seuss seems to be particularly popular among the Latin crowd. Most exciting to me, though, is Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis. Um, yes please! It is my goal to collect copies of the first Harry Potter in every language that I learn. It brings me great joy that Latin is an option. Of course, things might get a bit tricky when I get around to learning Scottish Gaelic and Lakotah, but we'll deal with that later.

Listening to: Castle
Reading: Persuasion by Jane Austen

Happy feet.

I feel kind of negligent for going from blogging almost daily to skipping an entire weekend, especially considering that I spent the entire weekend in question in my dad's recliner watching TV. Granted, my best friend and my 3-month-old goddaughter are visiting. I feel rude that I've spent as much time on my computer as I have. They flew halfway across the country to see me. I should spend time with them instead of rambling on about who knows what inane nonsense, right? Or refreshing Facebook. Spending time with them is way better than refreshing Facebook for hours on end.

As they're out on a cake run, I'm stealing a few minutes to share why my feet are thrilled beyond belief. Behold!

That's right. This señorita is rocking some brand new TOMS. My reasons for investing the not insubstantial dinero in these sweet puppies are the following:

1. I hate shoes. Unfortunately, I live in a climate where both of my solutions to get around wearing them are impractical, uncomfortable, and dangerous. Ideally, I would never have to wear shoes. Since that's not usually practical, especially with health codes and such (though I hear I could get away with it in New Zealand), I generally settle for wearing ballet shoes, which feel like the next best thing to me. Those work just fine in Missouri. Here in Arizona, however, where in the summer the sidewalk climbs to egg-frying temperatures, the thin leather is inadequate to properly combat burns to the bottom of my feet. I asked a friend wearing TOMS whether they were comfortable, and she told me they were just like wearing socks. Could it be true? Shoes that don't feel like shoes yet have a protective rubber sole?

2. I love the idea of TOMS Shoes' One for One charity. For every pair of shoes they sell, they donate a pair to someone who needs them. They travel the world handing out shoes to kids who don't have any so they don't have to walk around barefoot contracting soil-born diseases and collecting cuts. Additionally, many schools in these impoverished areas require shoes as part of the dress code. No shoes means no education, but because of TOMS, these kids are getting a chance at life.

I know I sound like a spokesperson, but hey, why not? One of the reasons I'm a pack rat is because I feel guilty throwing stuff away. I always imagine it rotting in a landfill and ruining the earth. I'm all for life-improving charities.

The bottom line, though, is that my friend was right. These are some dang comfortable shoes. I'm taking it as a very good sign that this initial breaking-in stage feels an awful lot like breaking in a pair of ballet shoes.

Listening to: "Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats

Reading: Persuasion by Jane Austen

Warm, gooey insides.

Thursday evenings are set aside for just me and my dad to spend time together. Today we went to a new eatery that just opened up down the road. It's called Firehouse Subs, and I don't know where they get their meat, but it's amazing. All of their sandwiches are served hot and melty and yuuuuuum. They also have this house specialty cherry limeade that will make your tongue spasm. It's fabulous.

After that, we went to see Beastly. It's a modern-day retelling of Beauty and the Beast. This is what I texted to Laura after the movie:

Excuse me while I scoop up my heart in a paper cup. It's gone and melted all over the floor.


It was positively enchanting. It only took five minutes for my insides to get all gooey like straight-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies. Then, in a very un-cookie-like fashion, they stayed molten for the rest of the film. There was lots of excited hand waving a la Wallace & Gromit. Oh, how I love things that make me melt like brown sugar in warm oatmeal! There's even a secret list of songs that make me dissolve like that. Don't ask me for them, gents. Do you think Superman would just walk up and hand you a bucket full of kryptonite?

Listening to: Beastly
Reading: Persuasion by Jane Austen

Gold flakes.

Now that the lovely blogging challenge is over, I'm back to coming up with my own stuff to blog about. That isn't so bad. I just have to remember to do it. See, I challenged myself several months ago to find something beautiful and wonderful in every day and stick it up here in witty, elegant prose. Or something. I'm sure I had some terrific reason for making this pledge. Perhaps it had to do with my brother being in Iraq and my mom being in Missouri and neither of them having a better way to hear about my day-to-day life. (I'm notoriously taciturn on the phone.) Maybe, though, it was because everyone has that one friend who's so cheerful and at ease with the world that they inspire us to change, improve, and grow. We want to make them proud. We want to feel like we deserve their friendship, even though they're always the kind of people who don't realize that we don't think we measure up because they don't care how we are. They'll take us as is.

I used to be broody. Actually, back up. There was a time I was severely depressed. That does something to a person's world view, to their persona. It makes them snarky. And broody. It kicks holes in their self-esteem.

On the other hand, I have a friend who sees everything good in the world. Even when life is trying to get him down, he finds a way to step back and laugh at the absurdity of it all. He's not one of those perky, "the world is sunshine and rainbows" people, though. He's just quietly optimistic.

An outlook like that is infectious. He inspired me to really see the world again. Now every day has a modicum of adventure.

When I first started this blog, I treated it like a journal. "Today I did this and this and this." That gets tedious rather quickly. Besides, bullet point narratives aren't what's important anyway. When my posterity looks back at my writing, I want them to see what mattered to me. That's why I decided many months ago to cut out all of the fluff and negativity and just record the magnificent. To me, that means the little things.

Take today, for example. Today my friends taught me how to play gin rummy. A different group of friends had taught me years ago, but it's not something that ever really stuck. After today, I hope to play it many more times in the future. Maybe this time I'll remember the rules.

Today I also learned that there is a disconnect between the way I see myself and the way I am seen by others. This morning in my Institute class, one of my most cheerful friends made a comment about how I always brighten her day because I'm always so happy and have such exciting stories. This was news to me. Aside from making me blush, it got me to thinking.

While I'm happy with who I am, and I'm thrilled with life, I still find that I am jealous of those people who are almost always in a fantastic mood. I realized today that while I'm not depressed anymore, I'm still seeing myself through a lens of depression. The feelings are gone, but the habit remains. I have no reason to be jealous of those happy people; I'm one of them. Somewhere along the way, somewhere between blowing bubbles and skipping around campus barefoot, I joined their ranks.

I'm becoming who I want to be. Because really, in the end, what's the point of life if you just spend it stagnating?

Listening to: Raising Helen
Reading: Persuasion by Jane Austen

In the name of rock and roll.

As I was scampering around this week telling anyone who would listen that I was going to get to go see Heart on Friday, I generally got one of two reactions. The first was a blank stare. The second was, "They're still touring?" Boy howdy, are they ever!

The concert last night was part of Arizona Bike Week, and it was held out at WestWorld in Scottsdale. Our group consisted of my dad, my uncle, and me (which is grammatically correct). I've only been on a motorcycle twice before (if you don't count using the ones in the garage as chairs), and I've never been above 45 MPH. Yestereve we were out on the highway and everything. It was exciting. I rode on the back of my uncle's La-Z-Boy. Okay, officially it's a 2003 Anniversary Edition Harley Davidson Electra Glide, but seriously, that thing is like a leather recliner with a plane engine and a stereo. It even has armrests.

The parking lot was bikes as far as the eye could see. Literally. It was actually a little overwhelming. While I'm sure it must be smaller than Sturgis, I've never been to the Sturgis bike rally (I did eat at Burger King there once) or any other big gathering of bikers, so this was new for me. I felt so cool riding in there. Bikers really know how to create a sense of community and general bad-to-the-boneness.

It was even cooler leaving than it was pulling in. We didn't leave in packs; we pulled out in droves. I've never been inside one of those columns of motorcycles before, though I've occasionally seen them on the open road. It was most decidedly rad. I can only imagine how all of the lonely looking cars who wound up in the middle of all of us must have felt. The word 'surrounded' comes to mind. Those poor cars, separated from each other by scores of bikes, looked like lost elk that had mistakenly wandered into a wolf convention.

Getting back to the important part of this story, I want you to imagine that little kid on the tricycle from The Incredibles. Can you see his face? His popped gum? Are you envisioning those wide eyes? Good. Now you're beginning to imagine my reaction to seeing my hands-down, absolute most favoritest band ever live in concert: That was totally wicked!

The other band members filed out first, and then Nancy Wilson crossed the stage and donned a gorgeous turquoise guitar. As she struck a few chords I recognized, Ann came out, raised her flute to the microphone, and joined in on the beginning of "Cook With Fire". As she lowered that metal pipe and started to rattle her vocal chords, I couldn't help thinking, Yeah, this is right. This is the only song to start with. I was probably influenced in this by that being the first song on their album Dog and Butterfly. It just feels like a beginning to me.

Throughout the night they played a bunch of my favorites, like "Kick It Out" and "Magic Man" and "Alone" and "What About Love" and "Heartless". The only songs they played that I didn't know were "Desire Walks On" and "Red Velvet Car". The latter is the title song from the album they released last year. That's right, last year. Ann Wilson is 60 years old. Nancy is 57. I hope I'm that hardcore when I'm their age. Nancy was jamming and jumping around like she was 25.

After the first three or four songs, Ann finally spoke to the audience. The first thing she said was something like, "Hey, I guess we should introduce ourselves. We're called Heart." She went on to talk about all of the "beautiful machines" she'd noticed on her way in. "As every good machine knows," she said, "you can't have rock without a little roll." Then they played that mellowest of mellow songs, the serenest of the serene, "Dog and Butterfly" itself. Later, for a different song, she quipped, "You can't roll without a little rock, right?"

I went positively wild when Ann said, "This is my sister, Nancy." I gasped, "She's going to sing 'These Dreams'!" Nancy stepped up and talked about the '80s for a minute. She described "this next song" as a love song from that era that they just couldn't seem to quit playing. Then, sure enough, those familiar opening bars came through and Nancy's soulful voice trickled into the microphone like nectar for our ears.

While I did scream wildly the entire night, I stopped singing along after a song or two because it felt like my uvula was being ripped away from my velum, which made me cough at the end of every line. I figured it was best to just let those gorgeous ladies up there on the stage take it away. I've never been able to keep up with Ann's vocals, anyway. Nancy, yes. Ann, no. And Ann rocks just as hard today as she did when they recorded Dreamboat Annie in '76.

I haven't been to that many concerts. I went to a few free ones on campus last year, and there was that weird situation where I somehow wound up at an Alanis Morissette/Matchbox 20 concert at the Sprint Center. This was nothing like that. Everyone there was on their feet, crowding toward the stage, dressed to the nines in their best biker leathers and chains. A lot of men had braided beards. Bikers certainly have their own culture. They rock like it's 1969, or so I imagine. Minus the weed, of course. I hope.

As I was saying, though, I haven't been to that many concerts. I've always heard people talk about how artists "are so much better live", but I've never had any reason either agree or disagree. It's always just sounded to me like something people say. Sure, I liked Barcelona slightly better live than recorded, but I've always assumed that was because I heard them live first, so the recordings sound off to me. I spent most of the concert last night trying to decide if I should use that famous verdict when I told people about it. I kept waffling. Those girls are positively incredible live, but they're equally incredible on their albums. Or so I thought.

What else could they end with but "Barracuda"? For 40 years that opening riff has been iconic. For four decades aspiring guitarists have eagerly memorized it, and for four or five years young folk who don't know anything about the song or the band have been trying to nail it on Guitar Hero. Not to demean it or anything, but it's crap (comparatively). You've never heard that song, that riff, until you've heard it live. Part of that song has to be Nancy standing front and center, leaning back into the frets and jiggling the whammy bar. That song rocks so much harder when you can feel it all the way down through your chest and into your navel. There was a certain quality to the riff that I've never heard before. While it was a very real, audible phenomenon, the only name I can give it is pure, undiluted awesomeness. Then Nancy stepped off to the side and Ann stepped back up to the microphone and did what she does best. Every time they got to the word 'barracuda', they would turn floodlights on over the crowd and we would all scream it. I've never experienced anything like it.

At the end of the song, the stage blacked out and the band trouped off. The only sound was that of the crowd screaming. And screaming. And screaming. A few people started worming their way out of the pavilion, but I didn't want to move. The crowd was exuding so much anticipation that I felt like moving would be like walking away from true love. Some of them even started chanting, "Heart! Heart! Heart!" but it was just a subtle undertone to the general furor. And then something happened that I've only heard of in legend: They did an encore. They did two songs, neither of which were theirs, and only one of which sounded even vaguely familiar. I probably wouldn't recognize the songs again if I heard them on the radio, but I don't care. They were part of the magic of that night and that moment.

I finally walked away in a state of utter disbelief. As I said to my dad about 20 minutes later, after the conversation had shifted back to motorcycles, "Dad, I just saw Heart." I'm sure I spent the entire concert wearing a huge, dopey grin on my face. About every third song, I couldn't help but think to myself, Is this really happening? I can't believe this is happening. This is happening! I still can't believe it happened. It's unreal. How many kids my age love a band from bygone era that they'll never get to see in person because they were born too late? I was amused last night by a guy about my age who was standing next to me, just bobbing his head the whole time with his hands in his pockets. He got excited for the newer songs I'd never heard, while I went outright nuts for stuff from the '70s. He was seeing a contemporary rock group. I was seeing rock legends.

Did that really happen?

My poor, sensitive ears are still kind of ringing, and I woke up this morning with a scratchy voice. I suppose that's proof this wasn't a dream. But it was such a beautiful dream. Unforgettable. Momentous. Epic.

Listening to: Tron
Reading: Persuasion by Jane Austen

Day 30: A Picture of Myself on This Day and Five Good Things That Have Happened Since I Started the Challenge

Here I am, today, two or three hours ago, pleasantly sandwiched between Celery and Bonster. We were practicing a musical number for church to hilarious results.

These 30-odd days have flashed by like sunlit ripples on a pond, though this quaint little metaphor wasn't entirely without its mossy, muddy rocks splooshing in. That's life, I suppose.

School kind of has the bleary effect of making the days and weeks run together until most days I can't remember what I had for lunch (or whether I even ate lunch), let alone what went on back at the end of February. It's all impressions and broad, overarching statements.

Prone to nostalgia as I am, I'm sort of sad to see this challenge end. If you've missed any posts and want to go back for them, they are all conveniently linked here.

And so, five good things that have happened since February 23rd:

1. I fell into violent like with a guy, then climbed right back out again with the help of several sympathetic friends, a marathon of What Not To Wear, and more Swedish Fish than I care to count (or weigh, for that matter). There are few things more pleasant in this life than feeling at peace with the universe. Sometimes I think it's necessary to lose that Zen for a while, so that you can remember why it's so wonderful.

2. I finished rereading the entire Harry Potter series, something I had started back in December. It had been many years since I had read the first few, and I'd only read six and seven once apiece before I undertook this particular feat. It was fun to prance through them all in succession, especially since the final movie will be coming out in a matter of months.

3. I made a new friend named Laura. As with all of the best friendships, we hit it off, as they say, instantly. I met a lot of other cool people this past month, and I daresay I socialized more than I ever have before, but she truly sparkles.

4. A cool guy asked me on a date, and the date was fun! Anyone familiar with my dating history will know that there were previously two classifications of males in my life: guys who asked me out and guys asked out by me. The previous scenario always ended in me having to crush the poor chap's heart, the latter in the chummer sprinting the other direction like I was poisonous, venomous, toxic, and radioactive. I'm confident that this fun trip to GameStop and to see Rango has effectively broken the cycle.

5. My brother came home from Iraq and visited Dad and me during his leave. That boy says the darnedest things.

Sometimes I joke that "my life is so hard." It's time for me to stop that. It's not funny. How can I feign melodrama when I am so content with my life? I think...oh, yes, I think it's true. I can't believe I get to say this! As one of my favorite people would say: I'm mellow. Yes, I'm mellow...

Listening to: "Hot Pockets" by Jim Gaffigan

Reading: Persuasion by Jane Austen

Day 29: Three Wishes

It just dawned on me how close I am to the end of this challenge. Where did the time go?

Well, it seems that the end of the challenge comes with a magic lamp, so what are my three wishes?

The first was going to be a letter from Sweden, but I got one in the mail today (which elicited a reaction akin to seeing a ferret), so I suppose I'll have to amend that desire.

Anyway, without further ado:

1. A letter from Sweden once a month for the next year and a half.

2. For it to be a summer evening in Missouri with my mom.

3. To see the world.

I thought about being a little more playful with this post, but the topic got me to thinking. What do I wish? When I close my eyes and still my mind, what do I long for? The answer seems to be things I miss: friends, family, and places. My heart just kind of aches with longing for them. They are my richest treasures.

Listening to: "Buddy Holly" by Wheezer

Reading: Persuasion by Jane Austen

Day 28: Something That Stresses Me Out

I'm easily overwhelmed. I have to be careful not to take on too large of a workload, or I will inevitable reach such a high level of stress that I fall into depression.

Right now I kind of feel like this is making me look like I'm an underachiever. I'm not in the honors college. I don't have a job. I'm not double majoring (anymore) or doing a minor.

I know that I'm mentally capable of doing this stuff, but I also know that I don't have the emotional fortitude for it.

I see some of my friends somehow managing to balance heavy classloads, part- to full-time jobs, and busy social lives. Color me flabbergasted. I don't know how they do it. Just thinking about it makes me want to go do something mindless.

Perhaps I'm just bad at time and stress management, but what do I do? The more activity life demands of me, the more I counter it with relaxation. For example, for the past three semesters I have spent finals week watching marathons of various TV shows. And I mean marathons. Fall 2009 may or may not have been the webshow Dorm Life. Spring 2010 was most of the first season of Lost. Fall 2010 was four seasons of Psych.

The past few weeks have been testing my limits in a new way. I don't think I've ever socialized as much. I'm used to having my weekends to just chill. This past Saturday I just had to sleep in and recover after being invited to activity after activity, meaning that I had to skip the Renaissance Festival yet again. This makes it more than two years since I've been to one. What a dismal thought. Don't misunderstand me. I love that I have friends and that they want to do things with me, but recent events have just confirmed to me what I have always thought: I'm a homebody. This out-and-aboutness tires me out fast. I can't sustain it over a long period of time. I marvel at people who can. I don't think that it will ever be for me, not really. I am a creature meant for quieter pursuits.

Listening to: "Burgess Kills/Captain & Ship" from Firefly (Original Television Soundtrack)
Reading: Persuasion by Jane Austen