Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am!

Well, slap me on the table and put me in a blender. Frickedy frack and snappety Sue. Could I be a more confused, flattered, distraught, confused girl?

Probably not.

How could a boy, whom EVERYBODY assured me was HEAD OVER HEELS for me, be actually about to embark on a serious relationship with a girl he's known since, like, third grade?

How could a boy whom I hardly ever have a ONE-ON-ONE conversation with, decided to ask ME to Homecoming, without really saying whether or not it was because he LIKED me?

I'm mad. I'm sad. I'm delighted. I'm perplexed.

I'm hurt, and I don't want to hurt someone else.

When I was little, I used to wish that my name was Sarah. Let me tell you, that ship has sailed.

I feel kind of like, "Golly gee, Universe. You've just caved in on yourself." Except everyone keeps acting normally.

I mean, come on! My grandfather, my birthday, S.D., H!

And speaking of the confusions of H, awkward friends-with-his-sister much?

That's a true story.

Why can't men be STRAIGHT-FORWARD?

"Hi. I like you a lot. Would you like to go to Homecoming?"

"Hi. Ms. A has told me that I HAVE to have a date to Homecoming, so will you go with me so that I won't get yelled at?"

How simple is that?

I say this as a woman who has suppressed her feelings for someone for a little more than TWO MONTHS.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

I'm kind of a hot mess right now.

At least I have a cool costume.

Beaumont.

I hate open caskets
And rigor mortis
No one's hands look like that
Thumbs are wrong,
Thumbs, thumbs, thumbs
No different than apes
But gorillas buy satin boxes
for people who aren't alive
to appreciate them?
Don't think so
Don't think
Don't think about the fact
That I won't see you again.

Walk on.

Dear all,

In a event of ludicrous tragedy, my grandfather passed away on my 17th birthday. He was very ill, but we did not expect him to die so soon. Luckily, we were able to visit him last weekend in the hospice, but, again, we all thought he had at least a month left.

It is weird. It is horrible. It is incomprehensible.

I'm traveling to Beaumont for the funeral, so I will be gone Monday thru Wednesday. (Wednesday I intend to be at RenFest in Houston, as I'd planned before.) I've sent emails to all my teachers about getting make-up work, but if they don't get back to me, I'll send ya'll questions about what we've done in class.

Also: I haven't gotten my Halloween costume (Snow White) pulled together yet, and I'm going to be gone for most of the days leading up, so if anyone has a long-ish yellow skirt that A) would fit me and B) I could borrow, please let me know.

Thank you. I'm not gonna lie; this is a really tough time for me.

Lots of love,

Rosalind

Do I have to tell the story....

....of a thousand rainy days since we first met?

You know that song? The Police's "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic".

I am musing on love/like/crushing/etc. Because I feel a little overwhelmed right now. And I know it must seem like angst is all I talk about/write about right now, but I'm using this little slice of Internet to "explore" my feelings and whatnot, so I'm afraid you'll have to put up with me a little longer.

First. I am in a constant state of trying to be beautiful. I want everything little thing I do to be magic, and it's really quite stressful, trying to make sure my shorts aren't mussed in Dance Class, that I am not a complete slob (or if I am dressed casually, in a tasteful, cute manner), that I get at least one pass with a mascara wand before coming into the theatre.

Second. I don't even understand where I stand on the S.D. issue anymore. I'm experiencing the "maybe-I-just-want-him-in-order-to-have-someone-to-care-about-me" doubts. I'm irrationally irritated that he won't ask me out, even though everyone has made it abundantly clear that I wear the metaphorical pants in this "relationship". And no one is letting me have the slightest doubt that he doesn't like me. Which would seem like a good thing, except it (and the time this whole thing has taken) has raised the stakes astronomically.

Frankly, what if everyone is WRONG?

You're not, of course, but if you were? What if I ask him out, and he explains that he's after another girl, and suddenly I have a flashback and everything he said makes as much, more sense with him talking about the other girl that he actually likes?

Excuse my neuroses, but I have more.

I know, Dr. Seuss says the "what ifs" can get you. Well, they've got me.

Third. I have very little experience in the girlfriend business. Would we be couple-y? I've never been kissed, I'll screw it up, I don't know how to dance with a boy really, I'll screw that up. Would it be the same, but with....dates? On the weekends? Will we even have anything to say to each other without H and C to bounce off of? Hell, do we even really agree on anything, besides comic books? Even that's rough. (DC vs. Marvel.)

What would we listen to in the car?!

We agree on Moulin Rouge, I guess. We could listen to that, maybe. Would that be too cloying?

This is what I think about. I'm a little muddled. And self-absorbed.

"How can there be any sin in sincere? Where is the good in goodbye? Your apprehensions confuse me, dear, puzzle and mystify. Tell me what can be fair in farewell, dear, while one single star shines above? How can there be any sin in sincere? Aren't we sincerely in love? Oh, we're in love...."

-The Music Man

How do you call your lover-boy?

"Come here, lover-boy!"

I'm listening to '50s rock like there's no tomorrow. I'm flying by the seat of my pants and trying to put together a mix myself because I couldn't find/afford a good DJ for the partay, particularly one who had a lot of period tracks.

Speaking of, if ya'll have any CDs of people other than Elvis, Little Richard, Beatles, and the Beach Boys that you wanna shimmy to at said party, please get those CDs to me. 'Cuz that would be swell.

See, already talking that way. Golly gee.

Theatre-wise: got the part of Rostad (sp?) and Voices for "Farenheit 451", which I'm kind of psyched about. The Voice part, really, because there is a team of three (me, Reed, and Ailie) who will get to record all the special voice-over bits in the play. Which means I get to pull out all my awesome announcer voices! :D

"It's the....Mildred....Show!" 

Yeah, if you haven't read the script (aka, if you're not Amani), you won't get that, but someday you will, so don't worry.

Homecoming! I'm for it! I'm excited! Except apparently, he wants ME to ask HIM. Which is completely backwards, and I'm in the process of deciding how stubborn and prideful I am on this issue. More to come.

Blah, blah, blah.

"Hey, hey, baby. I wanna know if you'll be my girl."

A watched pot won't ever boil.

Is that the correct metaphor for where I am (or am not) with S.D.? He cut his hair, and I wish he hadn't, but he gave me the best face when I brought him the comics, so I didn't mind.

Sigh.

I went to U2! In Dallas! Out of 95,000 people, I was one of the lucky who got to be less than five feet away from the band (when they were on the runway). Basically, made of win. Best birthday present ever? I have been waiting to see U2 in concert since I understood what a concert was. 

Righteous.

But, frankly, it's a little lackluster when no one else gets how big a deal it was for me. Because ya'll don't really know a lot about U2 and/or don't really like them.

Sigh.

I love ya'll anyway.

I'll write more letters soon. If I remember. I have to remember to ask him for the CD, too- remind me. (Go up to me and say, "Imogen Heap." Then walk away. It'll be like a Bond film.)

Speaking of letters, real ones that you write on paper and give people are awesome, too. We should have a letter system at LASA. Instead of lockers, mail boxes. Mail is way more important than lockers, anyway. Speaking of lockers, Amani, can I still have yours? I've got a lock.

My brain is reeling and my fingers can hardly keep up.

I'm leaving you with a link: http://teenink.com/fiction/romance/article/86180/Improvising/

The long and short of it is that it is one of the best short stories describing what is like to love/crush on/like/whatever someone that I have ever read. Obviously, I'm particularly sensitive to the subject matter right now, but I honestly think it's fab. Plus-which, it's written by a Brit. So that pretty much makes it fancy.

Go read it.

<3

Cheerio.

Princess Fail and other Things.

Before I write anything else, I want to credit Amani for the idea I'm using in this post (i.e. unnamed letters to people in my life). What she wrote was beautiful, heartfelt, and -I felt like writing this in a comment box was too dorky- totally made me choke up. So... here's looking at you, kid. As she said before me, you may know what I'm writing about, you may not, and it just might be about you. Who knows?

To you:

I am always the one who gets to be mad. Why don't you- What makes you angry? I feel like I'm the one who gets to indulge in her selfishness, and then we can joke about this up to a certain point, but I want you to get angry for once. At me. Or at him. I want you to be happy so badly. Not pining for someone who will never again, in my eyes, be worth your while. I want to be your Italian mother who makes you eat a lot of spaghetti and wants you to marry that nice boy from across the street.

To you:

Everyday, I swear to God, I think about walking right over to you and kissing you. But then I think about it, and about that fact that in real life, not everybody claps when the people get together, and frankly, I don't have any experience with this kissing thing, so I probably suck at it, and what if you don't even want to kiss me? So instead I sit down next to you and play the "are we friends or something more" game, and I can't even tell if I'm the only one playing. I have come up with about a hundred different ways to ask you out and they would all be really terrific in movies. Because I think we'd be the couple that everyone would root for in a movie.

To you:

I am jealous every time he hugs you. You are so damn funny, so damn creepy when you want to be, and I am so glad we ended up in the same boat. Literally and figuratively. Your life, your real life is so different from mine, though. I don't know it except in bits and pieces, but I guess I don't talk about my home life much either. Do I have white girl guilt? Maybe. Shoot, I don't know. And it's not really important, either, because we're friends because we're both silly, and so screw the rest, right? He told me he knew (about the thing), and I thought she had told him. I'm glad it was you instead.

To you:

You are one of my lifelines. Can I use a lot of weird and cheesy metaphors? You are my sherpa. God knows who I would have ended up with if we hadn't had to interview each other. You led me to a safe haven and now you are my Jeeves! But sometimes it shocks me how little you are tied down. I don't understand the concept of not knowing what you want to study, not because you can't choose between your favorite subjects, but because you don't know what your favorites are. And I want so badly to see you fall in love, because I feel like that would help me understand you better, because it makes a person a special type of silly, and you get to see me like that all the time. 

To you:

I have no idea how you ended up among us sometimes. You're a superhero and I want to know your origin story, because right now, all I know is your weakness. You are the magnificent embodiment of reason and I can't thank you enough for not letting me be taken to a mental institute. Because, seriously, I'm pretty sure that's where I would end up if you weren't around to stop us from overdosing on musicals. I wish we talked more. You're an enigma and I want to figure you out.

To you:

Who are you? Are you the embodiment of Austin, minus Sixth Street? You're a flower child way out of your decade, even if you won't admit it. It seems like you're hopelessly in love with everything, and determined to protect that which you love. I know I'm not your confidante these days, and I don't see as much of you as I did last year. And that sucks. I see you in love all the time, and I haven't gotten to the point where I understand it yet. It makes me giggle and it makes me want so desperately to save you the pain of some of it. Because some guys are douches, and I want you to be able to recognize them.

To you:

Please stop doing your homework three times a day. I miss you so much. We're like passing trains in the night; all I have time to do is compliment you on your fabulous dress (which seriously, you need to wear more often) and we're off to our different classes. I'd like to think that we do each other a lot of good, because you're the most Type A person I've ever met, and I'm sure I must drive you crazy, but I think we balance out a little. I mean, I've started really using my day planner, and you seem a little less panicked by grades that don't start with 1, have a 0 in the middle, and end with another 0. We need to talk so badly, I need to catch you up with things, and I want to hear what you have to say. 

TO BE CON'T?

More later, if I think of them (which I most assuredly will).

Cookie Monster.

You know what's delicious?

Cookies.

They're freaking great.

I don't care if Sesame Street is concerned with childhood obesity; for me, there will always be one kind of Monster. The COOKIE Monster.

And I honored him today.

By some miracle, I have no homework due immediately AND no afterschool activities a-calling, so I did some exploring on my mom's favorite website, epicurious.com and dug up this little jewel:

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Deep-Dark-Chocolate-Cookies-242468

Yeah. These flour-less, butter-less chocks of cocoa are probably what Amy has nightmares about, but they are RIGHT up my alley, so, taking the advice left in the user reviews, I added in a little cinnamon and chili powder-

Okay, they just finished.

The lower rack had their bottoms burned (That's what she said?), but WHAM, BAM, THANK YOU, MA'AM!

They're freaking great.

Like the love child of a brownie of a chocolate chip cookie. 

AWESOME.

Dare I say, "Legendary"?

I dare. It's Monday, and that's How I Met Your Mother night.

Dear Jeeves.

The hero of the day is........ LAUREN VUNDERINK. (For her brave action in the line of duty investigating the Drag in search of bargains.)

The song of the day is........... "Brand New Day", from the Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along soundtrack. (It was the first thing that came up when I put my iPod on shuffle.)

The foreign word of the day is........l'embouteillage. (French for "traffic".)

The theme of the day is...............sock hop!

Ponder this, class. Ponder.......

Not Hideously Disfigured!

Well, my face got cut today, but I seem to be fine.

Let me revise.

Today, a pediatric plastic surgeon removed a small cyst from my right cheek. It was my first surgery.

It was really weird. (The laughing gas. There was loss of depth perception and hearing distortion involved.)

It was really easy. (Under thirty minutes for the entire procedure and thirty minutes in Recovery before being sent home.)

It meant I spent most of today watching stuff I've TiVoed. (Awesome! I am now totally caught up on "Castle", "Mad Men", "Project Runway", "Community", and the in-aptly named "Saturday Night Live Weekend Update: Thursday".)

Also, I watched "Slumdog Millionaire"! (Absolutely fantastic movie. Can't believe it took me this long to see it.)

Basically, I rotted my brain on drugs and television.

Awesome, right?

Yeah.

I'm still sore from the wicked deep tissue massage Kat gave me before the frustratingly anti-climactic football game on Thursday. (Note: It is very difficult to have real conversations between five people when said five people are sitting on one bench and the person heading the convo is at one of the ends.)

Blah-blah-blah.

At least I (kind of) learned to play dominos and got to be around S.D. Whatever. 

I WISH BOYS GAVE SIGNALS.

Though it's not like I can talk. Subtlety is my strong suit. I just do not come on strong.

No matter how much good it would do me.

Also: I think my mattress is infested with bed bugs? It's either that or the bean bags in theatre, because I am getting some ridiculous bites all over.

It's gross.

Rawr, rawr, rawr.

Dinosaurs.

I agree with MLIA. I think T-rexs were angry because their arms were too short to give hugs.