Yes, this is actually receiving a grade.

The Internet Says So!

            Zombies really exist [see title].  In the Caribbean.  This Harvard ethnobotonist guy Wade Davis found some sort of magical formula that, when in contact with an open wound, would place a living individual into an entranced state.  A state where the individual believed himself to be dead.  There’s also something about a Pufferfish that I’m fairly certain renders the entire case study mildly improbable.  But.  There are real life zombies. 

            This is not good news for me.  Probably not good news for any of us, really.  A zombie is not like Hogwarts, where its existence makes the world more lovely and bright and even delicious.  All of the zombies I’ve encountered smell like my brother Scott’s bedroom did when he was in high school.  They’re the only shade of grey that is hideous.  Sometimes they look like the scorned lover Billy from Hocus Pocus and sometimes they look like a vampire-zombie hybrid, all covered in slimy green and red goo (assumedly human goo), and tattered clothing with really perfect oval holes.  I’m on the run at least once a month in my sleep, so I’ve become pretty well acquainted with their dull fashion choices.

            Did you know that there’s a book called The Zombie Survival Guide?  And did you know that it was a New York Times bestseller?  Because zombies are real.  I haven’t read it yet (sorry Max Brooks), but I probably should – just in case God decides that the whole flood thing is too predictable and chooses to let some neurotoxin turn us all into decaying man-eaters (not to be confused with real life man-eaters; those exist, too, primarily on BYU campus).  There are probably some helpful hints, like how to run from the zombie, and how to figure out if it’s the Danny Boyle kind or if it’s the George Romero kind.  The chapter about hiding is the most appealing to me because I tend to get shin splints and I’d rather not have to run for my life.  I think it’d be easier if I could set up shop in preparation, seal myself within the walls, and wait for everyone on the outside to starve while I feast on Dr. Pepper, Skittles, and Twinkies.   

            A good hideout requires a few things, just based on the various movies I’ve seen: a toilet, a hidden or sealed entrance, water, and snacks.  I Am Legend, 30 Days of Night, 28 Days Later, and Dawn of the Dead give us such necessary items.  However, those people clearly weren’t prepared (except Will Smith, but he had a better outlook after Men in Black).  They were not good boy scouts.  This not-boy scout would include a really good mattress, Settlers of Catan, and the complete works of Ernest Hemingway, because if you’re going to be in solitude, you might as well have a really great internal voice to listen to.  Music and computers and the Internet and some way to keep my Dr. Pepper nicely chilled would all be appreciated, but I’m not going to push my luck. 

            There’s a place I have in mind.  The toilet isn’t in the sealed portion, but it is right outside, so maybe I could find a loophole.  It’s a nice space to hide away in and you’d never know it was there, which years of zombie dreams have taught me is imperative.  I’d tell you the location but if you turn into a zombie, I don’t want you to be able to find me.  This raises the question of how well zombies think, and if you maintain your intelligence after exposed to whatever it is that makes you walk either abnormally slow or abnormally fast (does this have something to do with how politically polarized we are as living humans?).  Zombies are enough to worry about, but a zombie who can navigate my computer files to infiltrate my hiding spot is a bit of a downer.

            Being a zombie must be frustrating.  Of all of the mythical, supernatural creatures you could be, I think zombie is at the bottom of the pile.  They’re not very attractive, sort of stupid, and don’t seem to have very good motor skills.  Can they even communicate beyond the dull roar?  I’d jump to be a vampire if it meant an eternity of snarky exchanges with Damon from The Vampire Diaries, and aliens definitely strike me as Apple users.  Even werewolves have that walking space heater thing going for them, chilling with Kris Kringle in shorts, shirts always optional.  Vampires fulfill our lustful fantasies and zombies remind us that we’ve all become so dependent on technology we’re going to crumble the day the Internet kill-button is pushed.  Who wants to watch a love story between two ugly monsters?  Isn’t that how the CW network justifies all of their casting choices?

            When they appear (and my dreams have sort of convinced me that they just might), I hope I don’t have to resort to drinking Coca-Cola because I’ve run out of Dr. Pepper.  And I hope they are drawn to Twilight fans first.    

problem.

I'm a nocturnal writer.  This is bad.

justification.

Theory classes in the Humanities are generally presented so as to find justification for why we bother postulating over dead philosophers, and to find justification for why we should receive money for doing such a thing.  It's not always easy to justify, and as much as I love philosophy and the Humanities, I don't always love all of the theory because... ummm.... IT'S HARD.  And not fun to read.  And translations into English strain out the witticisms that might have made it more fun to read.

At the risk of being late to my own party, I'm going to suggest that the sort of writing I love to read and do and be surrounded by and immersed in fills that gap.  Creative [literary] nonfiction seeks to answer the same questions: why am I here, why do we care, why do some mammals mate for life, why don't animals get divorced, why do we love contradictions and paradoxes (paradoxi?), why is Party in the USA so freaking catchy.

All can be explained and viewed and analyzed through the various lenses of Marx, Freud, Levinas, and Foucault.   But the fun of nonfiction done in this way isn't that they're trying to impress you with French terminology and arbitrary arguments for human sexuality.  Essays - the good ones, at least - are unassuming and straight-forward and possess just enough pretense to hook the intellectuals and just enough fluff to entertain the casual reader.  And even the fluff is witty and wonderful, a mark of even greater intellect.

I hope to be at that point someday.  The point where I can talk about something important and make it seem utterly useless, and where I can talk about something utterly useless and make it completely important.

well duh.

My good friend Liz (who is funny and witty and a fantastic writer, amongst other things) posted this on her facebook page, and I think it's completely true.

Broken hearts physically HURT.

goodbye.

I believe in the power of beautiful lyrics and beautiful melodies and beautiful chord progressions.

I believe in the power of raw silk.

I believe in the power of good friends.

I believe in the power of fabulous nail polish.

I believe in the power of a really wonderful answer to a heartfelt prayer.

I believe that organza fabric is ugly.

about face!

Tonight I received a creepy text asking where I was and if I was safe.  Don't worry.  I lied.

But it prompted me to go to the Deseret News site to see if someone was running crazy around Provo with explosive devices, and while I didn't see any of that, I did see some of this.

We all know how much I love kids, and I can promise you that I want to protect their innocence, innocence that is so fleeting thanks to the technology we're blessed and sometimes cursed to have.  But let me ask you this: why in the world are you letting your 5-year-old watch television you haven't pre-approved when it's past seven in the evening?  Once 8 o'clock hits, parents need to have better control of their TV's, because that's when primetime rules for sex, language, and violence come into effect.

Was the show she saw total trash?  I'm sure it was.  I never saw it.  I tend to avoid those low budget shows that are syndicated because no one company wants to claim them.  Obviously I don't want children exposed to indecent material, but it blows my mind that a TV exec would pretend that the fault was with indecency laws rather than his own inability to parent in his home.  He should know better... better than most because he's surrounded by it.

Finally, this article cites statistics of children who experience violence, harsh language, and sexually explicit content because of a television in the home.  What about those kids who experience all of that because their parents are inept and incapable?  Are there some individuals who don't care who they corrupt?  Yeah, probably.  But is the mass media all-consumed with ruining every kid's innocence?  I may be cynical, but I'm not that cynical.

Besides.

Go turn on a news channel.

Tell them to start regulating what they show 24/7.

Yeah, good luck with that.

you may say that I'm a dreamer

Love and marriage are pretty wonderful, and it's even more fun seeing it begin, evolve, and come to fruition, particularly when it involves amazing people.

Meet Ryan and Emily.

Ryan and I have been friends for a long time, and have shared many crazy adventures with our crazy friends involving mountains and camping and late night trips to grocery stores and quality movie nights.  Ryan met Emily, and Emily is crazy cool.  Not cool in the typical sort of way - cool in the "wow, I didn't realize how awesome it is to be friends with Ryan until I met you!" sort of way.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

No, really.  Ryan was there for me at a tough time in my life, and I'll be forever grateful to him for it.

Enter Emily.

Emily is further physical proof (to me) that God cares.  The more angsty I become, the more I realize how incredible my friends are.  They each possess unique gifts and abilities, gifts and abilities that they have nourished and developed in a way that it positively affects all those they interact with.  How lucky am I to receive that in my life?  She's the sort of person you can eat good food with, and go to the temple with, and study with, and cry with, and watch 3D movies with, and laugh with, and psychoanalyze yourself with (no really - she's getting her PhD).  It isn't hard to be happy for someone like her - in fact, it's downright inspirational to be on the periphery.

The best part of all of this is that they're getting married today.  I love life, and I love love, and I love that they're going to be living life together, loving each other.

whoopsie

spoke too soon.

Partnership has apparently fallen through.

But the other freaking awesome option is still available.

Stay tuned.

I ain't no hollaback girl.

Hanging with Mayo all weekend put my sleep schedule all off-kilter.  Totally worth it.

Some people like to wail at God every once in a while.  In LDS vernacular, we tend to refer to them as murmurers: Sariah, Laman, Lemuel, virtually anyone who wasn't Nephi or Isaiah. Yes, I murmur.  And  I whine.  And I shake my fist a little bit at the heavens when there are low points.

BUT.

I also acknowledge that God is awesome and takes care of me.   Does that cancel it out?  Do I need to stop wailing?  The Jews have an entire wall devoted to it - can't I just use this as my perennial wailing wall?  And can't I use it as my little blessing board?  [I used a literary device in the last two sentences - did you catch it?  I hope so, because it was accidental and I'm quite proud of my accidental alliteration (whoa there is it again)]

For example:

Life is super cool right now.  I could brag about all of these fun feelings I'm feeling, but I'm fairly certain that would only be further proof for those of you who think I'm bi-polar.  I guess I could put it in these terms: I will be dancing next year and he is AMAZING; it only took me like 27 times at a local to finally win one; all of my friends are finding eternal love and it's awesome; I'm not and I'm really okay with it (SERIOUS!  This is not a lie to try and trick God into sending Chase Crawford my way); my car is a beast and I love her for it; I have equally super cool friends who make my currently super cool life exponentially more super cool; my family is the bomb dot com; GOSSIP GIRL AND VAMPIRE DIARIES ARE COMING BACK.

Yes, I love two very juvenile shows, but the fashion on Gossip Girl has inspired the evening gown I want to make and the NY Times called Vampire Diaries one of the best shows of 2009.

The only downer on all of this happy-time is that it coincides with the start of spring.  I hate being that predictable.

the sky could be blue; could be grey. I don't mind.

Perspective is pretty awesome.  I'm not always good at having it, and I whine a lot, and I get caught up with natural disasters and tragedies and drama and my self-imposed pain (which reads like I cut myself - don't worry, I don't...).  Where was I?  Oh yeah.  Perspective.  Tonight was lovely.  Dinner with my second family was hysterical.  Talking with my best friend was perfect.  Spending time with another who is often far away was wonderful.

They remind me of how grand my life is, not because of winning or losing or anything that can be placed on a resume or bragged about to future employers, but because God is good and God has given me some remarkable individuals to learn from.

Nostalgia is good and nostalgia is bad.  I feel like I need to make a few apologies here.  I'm sorry that I have a difficult time being okay with things that are sad.  I'm sorry that I let them make me sad.  Thank you for bearing with me, for letting me cry, for helping me recover.

The greatest reminder I had tonight came from someone who I not only love, but someone who I also truly admire and respect.  He is one of the best persons I've been privileged to meet, and through some interesting circumstances, I am grateful to call him someone that I can always count on. 

Am I rambling?  It is almost three a.m.  Sorry about that, too.

This is another one of those all-encompassing essays where I postulate in generalities, but I do mean it sincerely.

Life is so hard.  So hard.  So so so so so hard.  People leave you.  They let you down.  They abandon you.  They fail you.  They are hurtful or ignorant or incapable of loving the way all humans deserve to be loved.  They make promises and break promises and avoid promises, forcing you to abandon ship and save yourself. 

But they also leave an impression and a mark that directs you elsewhere, either to a new destination or to new individuals.  I'm not going to pretend that happiness is all around and is easy to obtain if you just go find it.  Satan would have a futile existence if that were true.  Especially when we are so dependent upon other fallible human beings for that happiness.  So when God allows bad things to happen and when the person you love becomes complacent and when good people suffer, I'm okay if you aren't necessarily happy.  You are no less in my mostly unimportant eyes.  And don't directly quote him on this, but I think God's okay with that, too.

Because at some point you're going to sit in a car at 1 a.m. eating Del Taco, talking about regrets and decisions with a friend, and your mind is going to connect all of the dots.  You're going to feel paradoxical about everything that has happened.  At some point, you're going to be reminded that even if friendships or relationships or circumstances end, you are always worthwhile and you will always matter.  You might even be a teensy bit grateful because of who you were led to as a result of Situation A or Situation B.

How wonderful it is to move forward with that in mind.

Perspective.

I actually think it's a lot cooler than generalized happiness is because happiness can be naive or ignorant, but perspective provides meaning. 

.

Here's the thing.  As much as I want to whine and cry at 2:30 in the morning because sometimes people are MEAN and life is MEAN and wah wah wah...

At least my street is still intact and hasn't been destroyed by copious amounts of salt water.

I'm going to get back to this whole living dangerously thing. 

aewpoiruhdfsglbjkdfsioewaioweajknafejkfohifae

Whine.  Wine.  Winey whine whine wine.

I can't imbibe.  No use thinking about getting sloshed to fix it all.

I can't even complain, because the second I do, it's misinterpreted and apparently I'm possessive and insane and ridiculous and all of those words that made me absolutely CRAZY back in those days.

So I'm just going to sit here and fester and hope that it all works out in a way where I can just magically lose all emotional attachment. I mean, I have controlled all of my options and choices.  My destiny has been mine.  Others have affected it, and affected my choices, but dammit, I'm the one who has removed herself from situations, so why even pretend that there's still a war going on?

I'm not dumb enough to try and compete in something I'm not even eligible for or interested in.

The world is just really not okay right now, and I'm allowing myself to get caught up in the heartbreak of everything around me.  Booooooo.

I do believe now is the time for another private blog entry.

remember that one time

I gave up soda?

It lasted...what... twenty minutes?

Who says I need a medical doctor to cuddle up next to?

I've got one that will never prefer blondes.

The Edible Qualifier

          There are certain defining features that signify my being a female member of the human race.  Anatomy aside (the aside being that I’m as flat as God made me), I fit into a few stereotypes for being womanly: I love babies, I love Gilmore Girls, and I love wearing five-inch heels in various patent hues.  There are other things that clarify one’s femininity, such as the ability to cook or the ability to host parties or the ability to decorate well.  True to Gulbrandsen form, I was born into a family of all men, and a mother who didn’t possess any of these feminine traits, thereby creating a situational paradigm in which balloons and cheese make a sweet shindig.

            My best friend Whitney?  She gets it.  She knows which blogs are chic to follow and which will just sway with the trends.  She has impeccable taste in color combinations and textures and shapes and decorative odds-and-ends [hey, look at that, I made a rhyme – must be all of that poetry].  I have really great taste in shoes (in my veiled humility, of course), but I have a tendency to have bare walls – and while her book-adorned shelves are supplemented by beautiful, artistic knick-knacks, mine house dusty books jammed into whatever space I can find.  So when our friend Emily needed a bridal shower, it made sense that Whitney would plan, cook, decorate, and generally do all of the things that are noticed and congratulated on by the guests, and I would… well… clean.  Oh.  And drag lots of songs into an iTunes playlist entitled Emily’s Shower.  At least I’m aware of what goods I bring to the table.

            Being a woman is frightening, not because I have to grow a zygote in my body and then push said zygote-turned-fetus-turned-alienesque-baby out of my body, but because everyone expects women to be born with this gene that automatically allows for great hostess skills.  When you’re in my home, you can be guaranteed to always have your cup filled with whichever beverage I purchased from the grocery store, and your plate filled with take-out pizza.  But I consistently feel less feminine and womanly because I can’t concoct tasty homemade Root Beer, served alongside delicious baked-chicken-whatever.  Even in adolescence I felt my inadequacy.  Everyone knows that the best way to stalk boys who have no idea you exist is to bake them cookies.  I did this.  I left them cookies.  I’m assuming that they ignored me not because of my shiny braces or bad, platinum blonde hair, but because the cookies probably tasted like salty dirt.

            LDS and Utah culture have an extra-fine standard to live up to, so imagine my horror when Whitney reminded me that she would be on top of a mountain in South America during the shower preparations and event.  Enter: the crock-pot.

            I have a religious belief and testimony of the power of a crock-pot.  It made a massive lump of pork taste like Café Rio pork (kind of).  Add some ingredients for a dressing made in a blender (which I originally tried to create in a mixer – so not the same effect).  Throw lots of rice and water in a cooker with about seven fistfuls of cilantro and some squirts of fresh lime juice.  Place all of this over a tortilla you pretended you made (when really you just bought some uncooked ones at Costco).

            Voila!

            A meal.  Seriously.  Everyone loved it (or they’re especially good at lying to my face).  And Emily kept my secret in not knowing what it meant to “mince” garlic.

            I’m going to choose to ignore the fact that Emily took care of all of the decorations and brought all of the tasty treats and made the delicious, non-alcoholic Mint Mojitos.  We can pretend that it wasn’t Whitney’s mom who made the Good Water (pineapple juice, lemons, limes, and a lot of pebble ice).  Let’s forget that I made about ten extra cups of rice that no one will ever eat.

            My transition to being a woman has begun.  Next stop: China Painting.

Busy like a very tall bee.

DanceSport, Miss LV, weddings, school, life, sleep, auditions, blech.

I'll be back, but I don't have a whole lot of time right now and all of my writing time must go to my creative writing class.

See you soon.

BOOM.

What a crazy week of crazy emotions this has been.  Sure, some of you are making me utterly INSANE (but I still love you, anyway).  I don't really know why my tears and sadness = inability to let go, but luckily there are other people who I don't even need to explain it to in the slightest.  It's wonderful.  And sure I'm scared for today.  Do I really want to be in the lion's den?  And on a day that is so incredibly important to me?  HELLS NO.

Then I hear the right piece of music and I see an image in my head and I remember that I have the best fortress of friends in the entire world.

Pretty sure those lions are under my control.

And then reality comes in, and I'm insanely grateful for safety and happiness and love amongst the chaos of the natural and unnatural elements of this world.  

Then Starry Eyed Surprise comes on in my shuffle in iTunes.

Once upon a time I loved a boy and I got into the ballroom world.  It was scary and fun and wonderful and not unlike pageants at all.  I danced in ugly rented dresses with bad hair and bad makeup and bad dancing - sometimes we made a few cuts of Novice, maybe a cut or two of Pre-Champ.  But something magical happened: I found Smooth.  And Andrew and I came together under quite fortuitous circumstances, and it has developed into such a rewarding partnership that I have loved and I will miss.

Life happens and people change and realities evolve, and while my relationship status has surprised, and often discouraged, me over the last few years, dance has been the light in the uncertainty of my self-awareness.

Sometimes things end.  And sometimes we still feel the bitterness and the pain from those endings.  It doesn't mean we're stuck.  I think it means that we're human, and that we really loved, and that we really lived those experiences - bitter and beautiful.

So today I am reconciling my past, because without it, I would not have been led to the circumstances I find myself in today.  They're not perfect, and they're a little messy, and there comes all of this pressure with actually being a really competitive Amateur couple - but I never imagined that it would be me.  What an experience it has been.  Maybe it will continue, maybe it won't.

But thank you, Past, for what you have been.

Come see Andrew and Jen kick serious you-know-what at the Marriott Center at 5:45 today.  I'll be the one looking like a disco ball.  

Because I can.

I never made promises lightly.

This box is massive and empty, and I don't even know how to fill it.  I think I've managed to give myself so many boxes, so many compartments to stow every little thing in - I don't know if I can synthesize it all anymore.

Over here on the right, we have the bin marked "school".  I look in that one the most: classes and assignments and papers and tests and such.  It's a lot to deal with, and it's best handled if I'm in it often.  I try to carry it everywhere I go, partially because I want to always be engaging my mind and partially because I'm a procrastinator, and if it's always sitting on the seat or in my backpack or in my computer screen where a blog screen is, then I'm more apt to really focus on the contents.

Next to that one is a box where all of my "dance" things go.  The pressure and the stress and the hopes are intermingled with the leotards and the smooth shoes and the E6000.  My partner is in there sometimes, but he's pretty wonderful, and it's been a great partnership -  but even still, I have to be mindful of him and how the other things affect him.  Who knows how much longer I'll be using this box.  Maybe I'll put it away for good on Friday?  Maybe I'll pull it back out?  I wanted to close it up and lock it away with my pointe shoes and my figure skates. Just let it be.  But I don't know if I'm ready for that.  Regardless, I have a lot of emotions left to organize and a lot of work to finish in the next few days, so while school is important, I think this box is going to be carted around the most this week.

There's a container I keep in the living room for "family".  It's sort of massive and it has the most random things you'll ever see, but isn't that just the way family goes?  I feel bad; I've been neglecting the things inside on purpose for the last few weeks.  It's not that I don't love what it has to offer or that I am fine with the current state everything is in, but a person only has so much arm capacity to carry things, you know?

On my window sill is a neat little tin bucket for work - this may be the most fun of them all.  It's pretty radical and out there, and all sorts of crazy things get tossed into it: arguments, mean names, quotes, zingers, jokes, callers, sometimes even Casey.  News articles and videos and blog posts are in there, too.  They get looked at daily because it's a daunting thing, voicing your opinion for 20,000 to hear, but sometimes it's nice to place the bucket back next to the window where the cool air from the glass can calm down some of the heated emotions.

In my bathroom, I have a basket where I can sort through "friends".  Bathroom may seem like an odd location, but as a girl who loves makeup, I spend a lot of time in there.  And as a girl who spends a lot of time getting ready, much of my friend time is associated with my primping-bathroom time.  Also, a bathroom is a necessary location several times a day, and my friends help me sort through the rest of my boxes and bins and buckets and containers, so it makes sense that they'd be in the most frequently accessed location.  I only need a basket, rather than some heavy duty bin, because while there is the occasional time when something heavy gets placed in there, most of what's found in that basket actually lightens my load.

And then there's this little container next to my bed, hidden between the nightstand and the box spring.  It changes, depending upon the day and my status.  Sometimes it's a small glass container, with a long neck, and a nice full base where things are easily accessed and visible, but definitely kept safe for a good reason.  Sometimes it's square and steel, and the sides can expand to make room for everything that has to be left in there while the other boxes are tended to.  I've had these containers for a few years now.  The glass one has gotten the most use, because the contents placed inside it, while not always perfect, have been pretty wonderful to have around me.  Even the things that are a little oblong and off have something wonderful to offer in this little room of mine, in this little home that I am blessed to live in. 

I've only used the steel one a few times.  And its purpose is really only connected to one event that occasionally comes into my calendar.  I first made it (yes, I am that crafty) when I was 21, almost 22.  It got a lot of use that summer.  It was nice to come home and put everything that I didn't want to look at inside of it for a little while.  The perspective of stepping away helped a lot.  It had to be capable of holding some extremely dense objects, and at one time I decided to stow it away until I was ready to sift through all of it.  I brought it out again last fall, and finally sorted what lives in there.  I was able to throw a few things away, and I was able to take one or two items out and incorporate them into my basket I have for friends; that was really hard, but I love the type of access it's created for them.

There are some things that might stay in there for a while, though.  I tried to leave it hidden by my bed, but it came along with me this afternoon.  The thing that sucks about this particular container is that it is insanely heavy.  It scratches and burns and pulls at your skin when you carry it, and it's shaped so awkwardly that you're constantly reminded that it's difficult to lug around.  Sometimes you carry it the wrong way - those are the worst times.  I don't mind making an issue of a heavy backpack, but this isn't something I want people to see.  I mean, I made it myself, and how dumb is it of me to be throwing it around and then complaining that sometimes it gets really large and painful?  Trust me, it wasn't fun to have it this afternoon.  I walked into the RB and there were a few things in that container that were screaming to come out by the Rumba music and the location.

The worst part is that EVERYONE knows I'm carrying it around.  I'm usually one to keep it for myself in my room, but it was sort of hard to maintain its hiding place.  Some people see it and probably think, "silly girl.  Why is she still returning to those things?  She hasn't needed them or used them or loved them for years."  Others might wonder why the contents need to be so heavy - after all, I'm the one who decided they weren't worth keeping around anymore.  Not for me, and not for anyone else.  I hope that some of those people can see that each item placed in that steel container has influenced or affected me intensely, and will continue to do so.  Yes, it will shrink after time and after new things become important to me, but I'm still a kid.  And I'm nostalgic.  And I'm a writer.

It's not as easy for some of us.

I also hope that people remember that it's nice to go back and read old journals or look at little knick-knacks from high school, not because you want them to be re-integrated into your life, but because they are a collective part of what makes you the person you are.

There used to be a little box in that container, and it was empty.  I've wanted it to have an inhabitant for a really long time, and there was one that I wanted desperately, but you can only wish and hope for so long.  I had to say goodbye to that box almost two years ago because seeing it devoid of some evolved carbon became toxic to everyone who had to look at it.  But I managed to keep it in the steel container all this while, not as hope or as a reminder, but just because it was a part of me.

It's gone.  I pulled the container out and while I tried to avoid looking in it, I couldn't help it.  That little box is gone.

Do I miss the box?  Do I miss what it represented?  Do I miss what wasn't ever in there?

I don't even know.

All I know for certain is that I now have one less box that I need to carry.

to the person searching for Jamie Gines on my blog:

email me at jen.gulbrandsen@gmail.com and I will get you her contact information.  It appears that you live in Midvale, and I'm assuming you want to know more about my friendship with her as you searched for her name on my blog.  Send me your questions and I'll help you out.

the cure.

Multipurpose in functionality. 

I've become total friends with my writing teacher, and I read her blog daily because she writes beautiful things that encourage me to always be a better person.  Her "tagline" is, "the cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea."

[Isak Dinesen]

I'll try sweating first in a little bit here.  See what that does.

te amo! that means "I love you!"

"I want your AIDS."

"Acid.  That's what she's doing.  It's acid."

"Whoaaaa those are cool shoes..."

"She looks like a green, jeweled lobster."

"Why does the guy have headgear?"

"Why do you think he has to pay to get his women?"

"I don't wanna be friends either."

".....I kinda wanna be her friend..."

From the vault.

Enjoy.

Whitney's not in the country to get mad at me....