I think my neighbors are having a party upstairs.

Apartment living is awesome.

Also, I can't sleep until I do my laundry and take out my contacts.

But blah, I'd prefer not to do either of those things.

So in lieu of getting 8 hours, I give you my first ever TEXTS OUT OF CONTEXT!

Please hold your applause.

Because it wasn't even my idea.

It was Jessica's idea.

We're not on a first name basis or anything. I'd just prefer not to type out her, as my British friend at work calls it, surname. It seems a little stalkerish. Or something.

Jessica seems cool. I'm sure she wouldn't mind too terribly that I have assumed first name basis. I'm sure she also won't mind that I've stolen her idea.

After all, she told me to steal it.

Okay, fine--she didn't tell me, specifically, to steal it. She just told the blog world to steal it. And sometimes I feel like the Pioneer Woman and I are the only people in the blog world left.

Well actually, it's just the Pioneer Woman left. I'm just an occasional weird relative visitor.

Anyway... about those out-of-context texts.

TA DA!



1. The car in front of me has a foot out its window. Do you think they're trying to flip me off?


2. Dang, if I knew you wanted to treasure it I would have brought two--one for drinking, one for treasuring. Next time. In Eloy.

3. I drove all the way home!

4. You don't often think of eye candy and Walmart going together.

5. I'm just here to make sure your rap career takes off. I guess you could say I'm a logician.

6. I feel like I should warn you, since we're approaching 10pm I could fall asleep at any moment without notice.

7a. You can't wear them in France. But you can wear them to nurse mystery parties.

7b. Nurse mystery parties? I've never been to one of those!

8. Dumbledore. He has a beard.

9. That's great news. I can finally stop hiding Sally in the bathtub.

10. Boomshakalaka.



Good night everyone!

Oh hey there

I might make this blog private.

For like a week. Or two.

I don't intend to write anything during this week(s).

I'm just being weird and vague and maybe I'll explain it someday, but probably not.

I'm sorry, this is the type of thing that people write on their blogs that drives me crazy.

For a minute. But then I go back to living my life and I forget that I'm dying to know why suddenly they must make their blog private right this second.

Anyway...

Once I start writing posts I'll be all public and what not again.

Sorry again for being all, 'I'm writing, I'm not writing, I'm moving, I'm not moving, I'm private, I'm public.'

Someday I will make up my mind.

Probably.

You Know? You know!

Guys, Word Press hates me. So what if I want to put an extra equal sign in my html code? You don’t have to go blow up on me. Geesh.

It’s alright though because I haven’t had much to say lately.  Because I love my internship, and loving things makes me feel all braggy. You know, like: GUESS WHAT I DID TODAY? I WENT SCUBA DIVING IN A SPRING. AND THERE WAS A CAVERN AT THE BOTTOM!

No one wants to hear that.

So instead of saying that, I’ll pose to you a question--

Have you ever had one of those days at work where you’re sitting in front of the computer screen, trying to focus on the words, but all you see is the blinding light of the monitor, telling you, “Close your eyes, go to sleep, la la la lullaby”?

You know…

 You went to bed the night before praying that you’d feel renewed and inspired come morning, but instead you wake up feeling like you haven’t slept at all, because you had a dream that your mom sent you to a doctor’s office where you have to pay for parking, and ‘what kind of doctor can’t afford their own parking lot?!’ you wonder, and then you have to come home from work at lunch time and load up on caffeine, but you don’t have a bottle opener, so you try to use a spoon, a knife and your hand, but that doesn’t work, so you check again, and it turns out the corkscrew in the drawer is actually a bottle opener, too, so you pop that Mexican Coca Cola open and chug, and then you eat two pickles on a piece of bread.

It’s a two pickles on a piece of bread kind of day.

Which doesn’t quite compare to a, I literally have nothing in my cupboard except kidney beans, kind of day, but still. It’s no veggie burger and milkshake either.

YOU KNOW?

But it’s OK, because sometimes a pickle sandwich can bring you back to your roots and help you remember who you are.

And even though the who you are stuff is a little wishy washy still, you’re working on it--one weirdy food analogy at a time.

That’s right. I said weirdy. 

Hi

For reasons I can't explain coherently, I am writing here now.

 If you would like to follow me as I trapeze gracefully (haha) across the country, you may do so. If you don't want to, you don't have to.

 You can stay here and stare at my blog reel hoping that someone else updates their blog. Most days, that's what I do, too.

I think I'm out of things to say. At least for a while.

Thanks for playing along.

Paris

Life is weird.

Despite all your best planning, figuring and dreaming, you never know what you're going to get.


On one very normal day in November, my family was pulling out of the parking lot of a Courtyard hotel in Page, Arizona. We were coming home from two Thanksgivings, one in Logan and one in St. George.

In the hotel lobby, my mom and I ran into people speaking French.

I was thirty minutes into French-teaching podcasts, and I listened intently to the french speakers' conversation. I was pretty sure if I just focused hard enough, I would be able to understand what they were saying. After all, I did have 30 minutes worth of French instruction.

I didn't understand a single word. Well maybe one. Oui.

My sisters and I got into our rental call named Bertha, and we pulled out of the parking lot.

Then my mom said to my dad, "So are you going to tell them?"

"No, you go ahead," my dad said.

If I remember correctly, this conversation was not light. And so I immediately assumed someone was dying. Because that's what I do. I assume someone is dying.

"What?" cries that backseat. "What are you going to tell us?"

My sister's sound excited, and I'm just scared. And while we try to figure out what's going on, my parents sit in the front debating over who should tell us what's going on.

"It was your idea," my mom says. "You tell them."

My dad ho's and hums and then says, "Do you guys want to go to Paris?"

My sisters and give each other sideways glances with half smiles. Because what kind of question is that? Did we hear right? Is this real life?

I can't remember exactly what came next, but basically we asked a series of questions verifying the validity of his statement.

"Is this a rhetorical question?"

"Are you talking about the eiffel tower in Vegas?"

"Is this a trick question?"

"Why are you asking this?"

And most importantly,

"Are you serious?"


After a half hour or so, we had nailed down that this was in fact a real question about the real Paris, and our half smiles turned to full ones.

We decided on spring.

Because summers are busy.

And I committed to learning more than a half-hour worth of French.



Three and a half months later, I am home from Paris.

In a way, the trip was everything I thought it would be.

I expected to be inspired.

And I was.

I expected to eat incredible food.

And I did.

I expected to be amazed.

And I was.

I expected to fall in love.

And I did.


Paris was magic.

And that's exactly what I expected.

London Calling

Today, I met the Queen of England.

And by met, I mean I saw her driving into Westminster Abby.

And by saw her, I mean I saw the big, red, double-decker bus intentionally blocking her as she arrived to Westminster Abby.

I will have to show you a picture of her sometime.

The red bus, that is.