There's only one thing that could entice me to blog right now, and this is it.



Now I've spoiled the surprise. You all know what you're getting for Christmas.

glee

Does the guy that plays Finn act so awkward when he's dancing on purpose? Is that part of his character? Or is he really that awkward? Either way it's pretty impressive. It's deliciously awkward and I love watching him dance.

This clip was the best I could find on youtube.

I just watched our wedding video, and while I do not appreciate the videographic evidence that I am a horrible dancer, I do appreciate that I have the best family in the world.

what should I go back to school for?

Check one:

[ ] American Studies
[ ] English
[ ] English Language
[ ] Library and Information Science
[ ] Linguistics
[ ] MBA
[ ] Publishing
[ ] Other (please specify) __________________________________

Notes to consider: My dad will disown me if I don't become a professor.

*this isn't true

A familiar face from the past. A boy that helped me stitch up my wounded heart and then tore new holes—bigger holes—in the unbroken bits.

Five years later, happily married, seeing that face again pulls at the stitches carefully sewn by gentler hands. His hands saw but didn't understand the depth of those tears, and he diligently worked one stitch at a time, rebuilding my past.

And then I falter. I remember—one stitch torn—how could he do that to me? I gave him my heart. I showed him my heart and my weaknesses and my want, my need, for love. And he took it and retore my hurt. He made me not worth loving. Even now, when I am loved, I remember him and I remember that I am not worth any love. Two hundred carefully placed stitches fall away and the hole gapes wider, threatening to overcome all I've worked so hard for. Why did he make me this way? Why did I let him make me this way? What he said. His friends. His lies. His mouth. His love. My grief.

I see a familiar face and I begin to restitch my heart.

I seriously love punctuation.

Happy National Punctuation Day!


If the serial comma had a Facebook page, I would totally be a fan.

dear brother

I just received the last email I will receive from my little brother the missionary. Because he comes home on Saturday.

[√] eat dinner

do you ever put "eat dinner" on your to-do list, just so you'll have something to check off?

on a side note, how many chocolate chips is too many chocolate chips for a single person to consume in a day? if one eats enough, does it count as a healthy, balanced dinner? just curious.

driving

I'm not sure what it is about driving but it always gets me thinking about how weird it is that I am me.
I'm not that girl walking on the sidewalk with her friends. I'm not that old lady driving in the opposite direction talking to her husband. I'm not that man that just cut me off.
I wonder where they are going and what they are thinking. And I wonder if I should be glad that I am me or jealous that I'm not one of them. Or maybe neutral. Does it really matter if I am the one walking or the one driving? The one going north or the one going south? The one being cut off or the one doing the cutting off?

I don't like you.

I don't like you.

It's not you, really. It's just that on the scale of intelligence, or—maybe I won't call myself stupid—the scale of being able to talk coherently about important subjects, you're up there and I'm down here. (I'm gesturing with my hands now because even now I can't express it fully, can't write coherently about this not important subject.) And when I see you, you don't even have to say anything, I realize that you're there and I'm here and it reminds me. Reminds me that I'm down there on so many scales. The attractivity scale. The able to dress yourself well scale. The funny scale. The able to cut in a straight line scale. And your superiority on that one scale (which isn't to say that you aren't superior on those other scales. You are attractive and dress yourself well and you're funny and I'm sure you can cut in a straight line, though I don't know firsthand—but I would like to) reminds me of my inferiority on all scales.

And it makes me envy you. And it makes me not like you. And it's you. I admire you and I envy you and I hate you and I love you. Because you're there and I'm here and I don't want you to know that I'm here. But what can I do? I can't pretend that I'm up there with you (with you!) because I'm not and if I tried you would know it and I would know it. And I would have to admit it. To you. And to me, because even as I write this I deny it on some level. Where is the proof that I am here and you are there? I could just be me and not pretend. But then you'd know that you're there and I'm here: I can't fool you. So I say nothing. And I wonder if maybe you think, could you think that I am up there with you?

All I want is to be up there with you.

I don't like you. I admire you. I envy you. I hate you. I love you. You.