Posts Tagged ‘Awkwardness’

…. you spend the last forty-five minutes of a decidedly long and arguably boring six-hour nursing meeting passing notes with the most feared and formidable teacher in the nursing program.

Yeah—for those of you who know Mrs. Harris, pathophysiology and acute medical-surgical professor extraordinaire, that’s who I’m talking about. The whole time I was waiting either for my alarm to go off and wake me out of a very strange dream or for the earth to split open and half of us to fall into hell and the rest of us to drift up through the ceiling.

(Though that sounds kind of bad, like I’m implying something about the moral status of our nursing students. It’s just an illustration, guys.)

This morning I actually got up and exercised, if riding your bike for 40 minutes can be called exercise, which in my book definitely is. (As opposed to sleeping another hour, anyways, which is what I wanted to do.) I’m pretty pumped to have a bike, because in my mind’s eye it looks like losing the seven pesky pounds that have rather stubbornly attached themselves to my personage since I started college. We’ll see.

Also, as I was walking across campus today in a rather hungry, sleepy, dizzy daze of having just sat through too many hours of presentations and inductions and other nursing what-not, I spotted my friend Meagan walking towards me. No one else was around, which becomes important in the story. So I waved really big and said, “Heee-eeey!” in that extremely too-many-syllables Southern way. But instead of responding, she just stared at me. At which point, of course, I realized that the girl I’d accosted was, ah-hem, not Meagan at all, and I didn’t know her from Adam.

I’m pretty sure she was a freshman, too, because she had that totally freaked out, why-didn’t-I-just-go-to-the-state-school-with-all-of-my-high-school-friends look. Oops.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

“Against stupidity the very gods themselves contend in vain.”

—Friedrich Schiller

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Today at work, there was absolutely nothing to do. So my boss made me sort crayons by colors into Ziploc baggies.

Somehow, this is not exactly what I expected from the Children’s summer aide program.

Here’s the next installment of Snell. Let me know what you think! (And even if you’re getting to the end of these posts….)

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The next few days consisted mostly of contractors. They seemed pretty similar to movers, to me—men with weather-beaten faces and deep, permanent tans with eyes that had a tendency to wander a little bit too much, as far as I was concerned. I made their lemonade sour enough to etch copper after I caught one of them snapping a picture of Mom’s butt with his phone while she was bending over to check something under the kitchen sink.

Luckily, the head contractor, a man who didn’t seem to have a name and simply went by The Boss, struck up a friendship with Mom immediately. Apparently, he had read Hans the Great and thought it was absolutely the most brilliant thing since plaid work shirts. It also turned out that he fancied himself a writer as well, and he and Mom struck up a deal that if she would give him writing lessons once a week, then he would provide the labor to fix up the house for half the normal price.

“He doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into!” Mom laughed when she told me about their agreement. “Me being a teacher! Ha! It’s like… like… Bill Clinton being a virgin!”

Bill Clinton similes were one of my Mom’s favorite things in the universe.

At some point, the house stopped being just the house and became The House. I can’t remember when exactly that was, but it might have been when I discovered that there were three faucets in the sink in the downstairs bathroom, or that you could only access the tiny room at the top of the turret staircase through a trapdoor, or that the heavy beams crossing the peaked living room ceiling were carved to look like Oriental dragons.

However, my favorite part of the entire house was my room. I insisted that the first thing the contractors did, after making Mom’s room down the hall livable, was clean out the massive bird nest in the wide window seat and replace the panes in the window itself and get rid of the rather terrifying spider webs that clogged every corner. I put my sleeping bag in the window seat once the room no longer had anything living in it besides me and slept there every night where I could see the moon setting over the time-old hills.

Apart from the window seat, there was a niche next to the closet for a desk where another small window opened up onto the tangled remains of a garden in the backyard. The ceiling was so steeply peaked that on either side of the room, it sloped down to less than a foot above the floor. Beyond the window seat, the window opened up onto the balcony I had spotted the very first night, which was rather strange to me, considering you had to clamber up onto the seat before you could get out. But I loved it, and that room alone made Mom’s insane decision worth it—mostly.

Having spent most of my life either in self-imposed solitary confinement or with Mom, which I suppose was somewhat like having a creative and usually cheerful roommate in a mental ward, suddenly having the contractors in our house from around eight til five was something of a… shock, you might say. I could never decide who was more embarrassed, me or the one Latino worker, when I forgot to close the bathroom door while I was showering (with the clear curtain pulled across the tub, of course). He only worked on the roof after that, which I suppose I would have done, too, if the rest of the house was booby-trapped with naked underage girls.

But I mostly got used to it. Mostly got used to it, that is, until the day before I started work.

I was making my way down the spiral staircase in the turret down to the kitchen table to rustle up some cereal for breakfast. Let me preface this by saying that I looked rough. Not the kind of rough that girls think they look like when missed a few hairs with the straightener or didn’t coat every single eyelash with perfectly even mascara. I mean rough like what is that Thing? When I was younger, my mom used to call me her little changeling, which I assume now is because I looked like a troll when I got out of bed. I’ll let you do the imagining, but if you think you looked bad after that night you got so trashed you just prayed that dancing naked on the bar table was the worst of what you did, think again.

He was helping The Boss fill in some molding around the window that was over the kitchen sink, his back to me. I didn’t pay much attention—one man’s body in a plaid work shirt was the same as the next. But as I was getting the cereal down from atop the tallest shelf, he turned around.

And I promptly dropped the cereal box. The open cereal box, which obliged me by spilling its whole grain guts across the floor like it had been hit with a nuclear warhead, the traitor.

We looked at each other, both wearing the blank expression that one gets when a large mess has suddenly been created and no one wants to clean it up. You know what I’m talking about.

“Oh, crap,” he said, looking at the carnage on the floor. “Let me… I’ll get that for you.”

At this point, had I gone to public school or lived in a town where the company of other home-schoolers could be tolerated for longer than the time it took to say Homos Go to Hell, I would have protested. No, it was my fault, let me clean it up. I’m a total klutz, don’t mind me. Oh yes, thanks for handing me the broom. Your eyes are really pretty, by the way.

But, alas, I just stood there like a skewered pig and watched as he tried to sweep up the cereal with a moth-eaten broom that scattered more of the flakes than it gathered. An entire civilization probably rose and fell while I watched him chase the traitorous flakes around the kitchen floor, not moving or speaking or doing anything that was even a second cousin twice removed to normal.

“Do you have a dustpan?” he asked when he finished.

Thank God for whichever of my parents was black, because my skin was dark enough that it didn’t register a blush.

“Um,” I said. “Um. Yes. Somewhere. Under the sink.”

This time we both moved, and bumped into each other. Remember that I looked like the queen of the aesthetically damned at this point. He probably thought it was catching, because he backed up a little too fast and let me go ahead.

After rooting around under the sink for a painfully long moment, during which I had plenty of time to remember that yes, these were the pajama bottoms with the giant yellow stain across the butt, I finally found the dust pan. I held it while he awkwardly swept most of the flakes into it except for the few that refused to go over the lip of the pan. I hated dustpans for that very reason.

At this point, we shared a sheepish glance that somehow communicated what both of us were thinking. Then I pulled the pan back and he swished the last few remaining flakes underneath the newly acquired refrigerator, where they probably still are now, and where they will undoubtedly remain until the Doomsday preachers finally get it right.

I stood up.

“I’m Dimitri,” he said, sticking out a hand.

I took his hand. It was callused and warm and only a little sweaty.

“Snell,” I said, somehow managing to remember this most rudimentary part of interpersonal communications.

“Nice to meet you.” The way he said it, I felt like he actually meant it. It lacked the hollow quality of a rehearsed phrase the way it sounded coming from most people. “I mean,” he continued, “nice to fight cereal with you. I’m glad we put it under the refrigerator. My mom hates it when I do that with things.”

I laughed. “My mom doesn’t even let me sweep after what she found under our old refrigerator when it went out. I used it as a science fair project.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No you didn’t. People always just say that.”

I blinked. “Okay,” I said slowly, “so I didn’t. But I could have,” I added. “And I would have won, too. I bet you were the person who made volcanoes for science projects.”

“Hmph,” he said. “At least my volcanoes were real.”

We laughed, and it was only later that I realized that I had suddenly gone from an Oscars nomination for Most Awkward Human to Ever Disgrace the Surface of the Planet to having a Relatively Normal Conversation.

The Boss was now watching us with a rather annoyed expression on his face, and Dimitri smiled at me—he had big, shining white teeth—and got back to work. I walked dazedly out of the kitchen, breakfast as forgotten as my few stabs at learning French back when I was eleven.

For the rest of the day, I spent as little time in The House as possible until the last Ford pickup rolled out of the driveway and Mom and I were left alone.

My behavior was utterly psychotic, and I knew it. Once I woke out of the spell that had wafted me out of the kitchen, I pelted upstairs and did my hair and the little makeup I ever wore as impeccably as I perhaps ever had and then proceeded to spend forty-five whole minutes deciding what to wear. Then I spent the rest of the day buried in the jungle of the backyard.

I didn’t even like gardening, or at least I thought I didn’t, but as soon as I had gotten ready, I hacked my way to the very back of the yard where a broken old stone fence marked the edge of our property. The rest of the day went to trying to decipher with my nonexistent botanical knowledge which plants should go and which should stay. From the shed hidden behind an overgrown begonia bush (or at least, that’s what I thought it was), I managed to unearth a pair of rusty clippers without giving myself a brain aneurysm from all the spiders, and I set at butchering every overgrown shrub I could find.

To Aunt Fiona, who was a Master Gardener, I probably would have looked like Jack the Ripper.

Mom found me trying to uproot what turned out to be a wild rose, which she at least had the presence of mind to recognize. After patting the soil around its base back down, she stood up, hands on her hips, gazing at me curiously.

“So, hon, why exactly have you suddenly decided to take up gardening?” she asked. “Aunt Fiona would be so proud of you.”

“Aunt Fiona is a cow.”

Mom surveyed the path of destruction that I had carved through the backyard. “True. And I don’t think she would really like what you’ve done with the place that much anyways. Which suits me just fine, of course.”

Then she looked back at me, obviously expecting some sort of explanation.

So I told her about Dimitri. She nodded sympathetically.

“Was he that gangly-looking kid with the ears?”

“His ears aren’t that bad,” I said, sounding about half a teaspoon more defensive than I’d meant to. Maybe they did stick out a little more than normal. I hadn’t really paid much attention to them. His eyes were what I kept coming back to whenever the weeds or priceless rare shrub—it was all the same to me—failed to distract me adequately. Dark blue eyes, clear as springtime rainwater, and kind. I could not forget the kindness.

Mom mistook my tone for pity. Like I’ve mentioned before, my mom has the experience of a spayed gopher in these sorts of situations.

“Well, at least after today you’ll be working whenever he’s here and you won’t have to worry about him. He did tell me to let you know that he’s having a party at his house tomorrow night, and that I should tell you to come since he couldn’t find you. I promised I’d tell you or otherwise I would have just let it go, but don’t worry hon, we’ll find something to do tomorrow night and you won’t have to even think about it.”

A party? I thought about the quick impression I’d gotten of Dimitri and tried to decide if Smirnoff and scantily clad drunken females and beer pong and eardrum-annihilating music really fit into that picture. He had seemed much more like a Scrabble and Clue sort of guy to me, but I wasn’t always the best at first impressions.

“Nah,” I said. “I—I think I’ll go. Yeah. I will.”

Mom looked startled, and then suddenly a flash of understanding came to her eyes. To my relief, she didn’t say anything, just smiled knowingly and then walked back into the house.

Again I blessed my genetic heritage for my inability to show a blush. I even considered building a shrine to my ancestors in the room above the staircase and sacrificing one of the fat squirrels in our trees to them.

So last night I was stupid and stayed up way too late finishing the second book of the summer, Dragonhaven. Yes, it was awesome. Yes, I’m a nerd. Yes, I absolutely regretted it when I had to get up in the morning.

I had orientation for my new job at the Children’s Adoption Clinic, and they told us all about how we would get to wear scrubs that weren’t white, and that my job probably wouldn’t involve mountains of paperwork so I could wait until my next job to reconsider slitting my wrists, and that HIPAA would still continue ruining interesting blog posts. Just like a viral STD, it never goes away.

There were about thirty or forty other girls there, and one very cute boy named Maurice. All of them were nice—especially Maurice—and unfortunately, I will probably almost never see them again—including Maurice. That’s because I’m working off in the Timbuktu of the south campus of Children’s, which is cool but rather away from the rest of everything else. And gas. Let’s not even talk about gas. But the good news is that I will be having patient interaction! Hooray! With happy patients who are either getting adopted or doing the adopting! Whoopee! And I won’t be doing loads of paperwork! *BRAIN SHORT-CIRCUITS*

Also, two things that I thought you guys might find funny:

  • We had a drug screen today as part of the orientation process—surprise! Glad I didn’t eat that poppy seed chicken. But here’s the best part: they hand you that wonderful little clear cup, send you off to the bathroom, and then you come back. Holding your nice little clear cup in front of everyone. Full of your urine. So nice. And they don’t even let you wash your hands. The sinks were literally taped off. But the worst was just showing everyone your lovely amber peepee. A toast to the renal system, everyone! A toast!
  • Also… my zipper broke. In the down position, of course, just like the perpetually gaping crotch of this guy in my high school English class. Most fortunately I was wearing a long shirt but… jeez. And these pants were the retarded kind that weren’t very discreet about it either. I felt like a kindergartener who’d peed her pants and didn’t want anyone to see, keeping my jacket clutched in the essential position.

Additionally I performed splendidly in a nice episode of my favorite reality TV show, Awkward Interactions with People, in which I kept trying to get this girl’s attention to tell her something and she kept not hearing me/feeling me tapping her on the shoulder, so that by the time I had her attention it was no longer important and the rest of the group was staring at me instead. Every time I tried to tell her said increasingly unimportant thing I felt more and more ridiculous but felt unreasonably compelled to continue on my quest to impart my information. It was sort of retarded.

But despite this, Maurice still came up and talked to me afterwards, asking me What School Do You Go To and What Are You Majoring In. Since most of the time it’s me asking the questions to the males, and as they’re usually just male patients and I’m trying to find out things like How Has Your Condition Affected Your Sex Life, it was pretty exciting to have a Normal and Mostly Unretarded Interaction With A Boy.

Then I went to Walmart and this old man told me I was a beautiful spring flower. Go figure.

And here’s a Dalek made out of a pumpkin, just because.

Las heces fecales

Posted: October 30, 2009 in Uncategorized
Tags: ,

Day 987 from the land of unrelenting rain.

We have been stranded here for so long that we are on the verge of giving up hope of ever being rescued. Every day the flood rises higher, and still no contact from the outside world. We struggle to go about our daily lives but morale continues to fall with every raindrop and every raging river that must be forged to simply get to statistics class. There is no food and no… well, I would say water, since that’s how the phrase goes, but there is plenty of water. That is the one thing we have plenty of. But I fear that the small number of people we have already lost to the deluge will begin increasing exponentially if the rain does not stop soon, or if we are not rescued.

And… that is how I feel about the never-ending rain that has made campus one giant lake. What isn’t underwater is so soaked that you sink about a foot and a half into the ground if you make the sad mistake of stepping off the sidewalk. I don’t mind the rain if I am inside, warm, curled up in my bed, dozing as I think about how glad I am pledge week is over and how it’s actually nice to have homework done instead of looming over my head until the mad five-minutes-before-class rush—it’s just when you actually have to try to make it all the way to the Patagonia that is the Reynolds building without becoming completely soaked to the skin that it becomes less than fun. And I miss the sunshine.

But nevertheless, we will onward Christian soldiers, and all that sort of thing.

Today I got up and went to chapel, as usual. They announced the homecoming court, and there were many pretty dresses—they actually were pretty; those types of dresses are usually butt-ugly to me (there were a few) but for the most part they were nice—but unfortunately this absolutely insane girl is on it…. For those of you who do not go to Harding, this doesn’t really mean much, but to try to explain this girl…. Imagine a Yorkshire terrier cross-bred with a half miniature chihuahua, half Pomeranian, then turn it into a human. She has gained something of a cult following around campus simply because she is so completely crazy. Bless her heart.

Then it was class, which I actually went to, and for which I was actually prepared…. Still feeling a little sick about grades but you know, it’s whatever at this point, I can only do what I can. And it was raining. All day.

Then I took a nap. That was good.

Then Caleb and Lisa and I went to the skating rink, which was also good—it was at this point I realized a definite upturn in the day’s pattern. Dr. Garner, my Human Situation II teacher, told us today that certain beats in music cause your brain to release dopamine, and with that on top of the endorphins resulting from exercise, skating always makes things better. And the bass at the rink is absolutely incredible, making those guilty-pleasure songs like “Boom Boom Pow” even more fun than usual…. The only problem is, I always try to look cool during those songs, and go fast, and do fancy moves… so I wiped out tonight. It was epic. I looked like a Mini Cooper that got pwned by an 18-wheeler.

Then we went to Zaxby’s.

Then I went to Midnight Oil and spent three hours there with Velvet and it was a great giant storm outside. It was like being in a matchbox during a lightning storm… which is kind of a terrible metaphor because there was a lightning storm and Midnight Oil is so close to a matchbox it might as well be a matchbox.

Then I came back to the room. And found, of all things, a random wadded-up, dirt-smudged list of Spanish medical terms in my underwear drawer.

I have no idea where this came from.

I do not take Spanish.

The only health-related class I’m taking is Nursing 100 and it’s all in English. Every word.

So… I don’t know. It kind of terrifies me a little bit.

This also explains the title of my blog. If you haven’t figured this out yet… it means “the feces.” In Spanish, of course.

Anyways… that was my day.

So I blogged again. Very strange. I hope you guys are happy 🙂

Mr. Blue Sky, please tell us why you had to hide away for so looooooooooong…..

Hehe. Hooray for fun new oldies music!

I had a thought today while we were playing frisbee, that everyone is born with a certain amount of general Skillz, either a large amount or a small amount or a medium amount or whatever, and then those Skillz are distributed through different specialized areas—academics, social intelligence, academia, ArTsInEsS, sports, etc. Here is a breakdown of my Skillz distribution:

Academia: 55%

ArTsInEsS: 30%

Social intelligence: 11%

Sports: 4%

For those of you who are acquainted with my social ineptitude—or if you read my blog with any regularity at all, considering how much of it is comprised of moments of said ineptitude—then that should give you a clue as to just how sportsly I am.

Luckily what I lack in Skillz I make up for in Sunshine and Enthusiasm (most of the time… when it drops into the lower twenties, S&E generally take a vacation to Cuba and leave me without cheerfulness or Skillz; this tends to be a pretty sad situation).

So, as for the debut of the promised Socially Awkward Moments with Kellum, Episode Winterfest… here goes! These start with the least awkward and moving up to the most:

  1. I discovered that one of the adults who went with us (if you can consider them adults; I like to think of them as people who look like adults but are still goofy and crazy enough to still be considered college students) dated one of my cousins-in-law. That conversation did not go over well at all. Just let me tell you.
  2. Five million people told me my hair was gorgeous. Honestly, this is okay—I love my hair, too, it’s my favorite part of my physical appearance, but when you’ve exhausted your replies to “I just adore your curls!” you start saying really weird stuff in response. I’m not going to elaborate… and least it wasn’t as bad as the Exposure-hotel incident…. I decided pretty firmly that I’m straightening my hair next time I go on anything of the sort, just to save myself the trouble.
  3. This one thankfully isn’t mine. One of the admissions counselors told us the story of his first kiss. He was in eighth grade and, determined not to enter high school having never kissed a girl, plays hide-and-seek at a party with his middle school girlfriend. Standing in the middle of the road, the moonlight filtering down through the trees, branches silhouetted like lovers’ arms across the star-spangled sky, they leaned in for the kiss, closing their eyes… and his jaw drops open and he fits his mouth over practically her entire face. Yep… he muzzled her. Then, to top it off, she pushes him back and says, “Oh… that was bad.” Almost as good as my own story.
  4. When moving through the massive herd of teenagers with five boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts in my arms, just barely able to see over the top of the boxes—it’s a wonder I didn’t run smack over a late-grower—I failed to notice a rather inconveniently placed railing right at waist level. I guess I should have noticed that people seemed to be avoiding that particular spot on the sidewalk… as it were I plowed right into it, just able to avoid sprawling on the ground, covered in about a hundred glazed Krisy Kremes. Really cute.
  5. I started talking about chapel to the fun, weird-in-a-cool-way guy who came with us from the president’s office about my narcolepsy problem, and basically said how I fall asleep in chapel almost every other time no matter how hard I try to stay awake. I realize that he is just watching me with this sort of ironic look on his face, and I stop, and he says, “I’m in charge of organizing chapel. Thank you for telling me that I’m terrible at my job.” I think he was kidding… mostly. That really doesn’t help.
  6. On Saturday, Morris called me over to meet this kid named Connor—tall, quite nice-looking, with an open, honest face that wasn’t trying to look suave and cool, unlike most of the other teenage males in the vicinity. Morris told me he was interested in writing and the Harding English department, and then goes off to talk to some other recruits. We proceed to have a long, articulate, easy-flowing conversation (emphasis on the easy-flowing… it was basically the first one all day) about writing and how awesome Harding’s English major is, all the while both of us flirting on a fairly low-key level. Then I ask him if he is planning on coming to Harding next year, assuming that he is a senior like a lot of the other people I had talked to during the weekend, and he says, “Oh, no, I’m in tenth grade.” It was all I could do to keep from sputtering. He was… my brother’s age. *wince*
  7. I was getting a small chocolate with two other kids, and I said, “Please just slap me if I try to get another chocolate.” One of the other kids goes, “No, I don’t do that.” “Oh,” I say, “you’re one of those really awesome guys that doesn’t hit girls! Rock on.” Then he says, completely deadpan, “No, it’s because my dad hit me when I was little.” Suddenly feeling a little ill, I said, “Wait… are you kidding?” To which he said no, continuing just to stare at me blankly. I stared back even more blankly for about eight seconds, then handed him my chocolate and exited the room. Bad news bears…. (In case you were wondering, I felt absolutely terrible, and looking back I’ve managed to think of about a hundred appropriate responses… too bad I can’t travel back in time.)
  8. And here’s the climax…. The last night, we had cleaned up most of our sweet little booth area (we had a flat-screen TV, couches, stuff hanging on the walls—a hundred time nicer than any of the dorm lobbies), and most people were bringing the last load out to the loading dock. I’d already carried my load, and was just standing around, waiting for people to get back, when this thirty-five to forty-year-old man walks up to me with his friend. He had creeper written on him from the tip-top of the smattering of hair left on his mostly-bald head down to the soles of his shoes, which should have been clue number one, but then again… it’s me. Grinning, he says, “I really like your hair!” No biggy, I’ve been through this all weekend—I say, “Oh, thanks so much!” Then he takes a step closer, still leering at me kind of creepily and says, “Can I touch it?” Well… I have this problem where I literally cannot say no to people (which makes it an even better thing that I’m at Harding rather than some drugged-out hippie school), so I said, “Um… sure.” He proceeds to run his fingers through my hair, saying, “Mmmmm, your hair feels just like ramen noodles, mmmm, ramen noodles are my favorite.” This is the point at which I all of the sudden remembered, um, I had left my purse in the bathroom, I’ll see you later! I wanted to cry.

 

So there you have it! Even better than Silly Songs with Larry, I think, are Socially Awkward Moments with Kellum (Yoda, I am, apparently). 

But apart from being creeped on, it was a pretty swell weekend. Lots of relaxation, just time to sit back and think and write and read and sleep (and sleep and sleep and sleep and sleep and sleep, even if car-sleep isn’t the most comfortable, and our room smelled like the lungs of an emphysemiac). I think I did a fairly good job of recruiting—especially considering how far outside my comfort zone something like that is, teenagers + forced social interaction + the expectation that you the recruiter begin the interaction yourself—and I had fun, too, getting to know the other recruiter students better, especially Daggett, and just resetting my own personal time zone—a rather apt metaphor, I think, considering all the time zone confusion that occurred throughout the weekend. 

Though Gatlinburg-Pigeon-Forge-Sevierville is the used car salesman of of American resort areas, in case you were wondering. I felt like I needed to give my soul a bath after being there for twelve hours.

Although I don’t know if it’s possible to have pancakes better than the ones we had for breakfast Friday morning. Butterscotch chip pancakes with butter smooth as sin—they were so good I literally was on the verge of tears. Well, okay, I wasn’t on the verge of tears, but if I were given to crying, I probably would have bawled my eyes out. I’m not sure if I’ve ever tasted something that good.

Song of the day: “Eve, the Apple of My Eye” by Bell X1. It’s really bittersweet, but then again, most of my favorite songs are pretty bittersweet, so that makes sense. This is one of those songs that, for me, hits a nerve that travels all the way down to the inner parts of me and vibrates something that, if I were given to crying, if I could cry at all, would make me weep like a willow tree. Give it a listen, dear reader—or dear listener, as it were.

I really, really love music, in case you haven’t gathered this—I think if you stripped away all the extra fluff of the universe, you would eventually get down to the essence of everything and find a song, keening and thrilling and haunting and so beautiful that you couldn’t help dying just listening to it.

Well… Spring Sing calls. I’m pretty much terrified, considering I missed an entire new dance on Saturday… wish me luck! Much love and happiness and chocolate and summertime to you all!