The best friends I have are the ones that really get me.

I thought this would be a fun little conversation to share. Recently I put up a post on Facebook that read: "Tonight's one of those nights where I need a large space to flail about both embarrassingly and whole-heartedly in an attempt to dance.

And then I'm sad because I have a small room."

The following conversation ensued in the comments:

Damon: "I get that too. But I don't care.

Then when that apathy gets its way I trip on everything and kick every piece of furniture.

The lesson here is that dance apathy is bad and space ducks can't fly over Australia."

Myself: "Damon, you're pretty much my favorite person ever.

Also, what about space geese?"

Damon: "They can, but they're really not supposed to because of the Plutonian Pact of Hermes, but since Pluto stopped being considered a planet, no one really follows it's regulations anymore.

They get neat laser light show parties though."

Myself: "Wait, wasn't the Plutonian Pact of Hermes negated before that anyways because of the Jupitarian Proclamations?

Or was that just certain clauses and not the whole thing?

Because I know for sure that sea cucumbers can't marry their own stomachs anymore."

Damon: "It's complicated. The Plutionian Pact of Hermes and Jupitarian Proclamations did clash and negate parts of themselves, some to the point where it nulled their own negations, and others that nulled the nullment of their negations. So while space geese could technically still due to both Plutonian and Jupitarian laws, they shouldn't but no one will actually go to stop them.

The sea cucumber thing, though, came from the Mercurianite Thrice Treaty. But it was really more of some small clause added in that really didn't have much to do with the treaty itself."

Myself: "Ah, I see. I never go too far into politics unless it has some direct correlation with my life. When my friend mentioned the new sea cucumber clause, I was a bit surprised and looked that up myself. Apparently not too extensively. 

I've noticed the Mercurianites seem to be extensive on bickering over things that don't matter too much. You know, like how octopi can't dance the Tarantella in public restaurants. I'm not even sure they were able to do that in the first place, unless they were solely discussing the octopi native to Neptune. They have, what, six legs? They could probably do it fairly interestingly.

As for the other pacts and treaties, I never could make much sense of them, which is probably why I lost interest. Maybe I should just have you translate for me from now on, as I hardly speak the language."

Damon: "Mercurianites do seem to do that don't they? In fact, I think that the octopi doing the Tarantella was just a way to try to one-up the Venucian thing against squid attacking cities with interpretive dance.

And I could try to translate for you, but roughly for about another month or so. You know, because of that Saturian charter stating that the language used for intergalactic new and law must be in a completely new, made from the ground up language every seven years. Normally I'd be all about it, but I don't think I can keep up with it. From what they've released so far, the new language has roughly 9,656,200,347 symbols in it, and the conversion to English is supposed to be extensively time consuming."

Myself: "Oh, I forgot about the seven year thing. You know, when I was a child I grew up with the 72nd version of Zimibachian, but it was changed the year I turned 12. Gave up on it since then, but I picked up on a few things here and there.

Since they're about to change it again, I could always give it another go. Rebellious teen-years earned me nothing but an apparent lack in knowledge about goings on in our prospective solar system. I really don't see the point in the Saturian charter, or why those guys seem to be the big guns in communications. I mean heck, they have a life span of what, the equivalent of 3 months here on Earth? That's only about 72 days on Saturn.

You'd think with such a short life span they'd worry less about the changing of languages and more about their own retirement."

Damon: "Yeah, but Saturians are big on the whole "Change is good and refreshing" thing. Most cities aren't even near completion because the plans keep changing, so I really don't know who decided they'd be good for making the language call.

Then again, since they have shorter lifespans, I guess it seems like a long time goes by for them. Maybe that's why they feel the language change every seven years is justified."

Myself: "I thought about that, and that could make sense. The only problem is that whenever you need to get into a debate with one of them, you have to do it over satellite due to the fact that if you travelled there, the ones you wished to speak with would already be deceased and whatever the important topic of conversation was has probably been pushed aside and/or changed around by their future generations. 

All I'm saying is that any civilization who is unable to take the time to attend a simple trip to a conference in the solar system without dying shouldn't be in charge of negations like language. Maybe that's racist, but if there's a race that should be in charge of that kind of thing it's the Uranians. They live for like 700 years aboard their ships.Then again, they don't do much of anything, do they? They're all uppity due to their "supreme technology." Can't argue with that statement, but they don't have to have their head up their anus all the time...well, maybe they do."

Damon: "Yeah. They stink like that. We'd probably have more stable systems and more solid (and less derpy) intergalactic laws. Or at the least take some time to help the other civilizations get on the same page.

Or maybe try expanding the Saturian's lifespan, but that might be a stretch."

Myself: "Pfft, like the Uranians would ever share. No one in the reachable parts of the galaxy have that sort of technology, well, at least no one we would want to contact.

I think the Yanarians might, but the last time we tried to make contact with them, we ended up with a bunch of damaged corn in fields across the planet. Still not sure whether the signs were their cruel idea of a joke or whether or not they can actually speak some sort of verbal communication."

Damon: "Maybe the Uranians don't share because of some crazy treaty they have with the Yanarians, which would explain why I haven't heard of them fighting yet. Or get crazy signs.

I sure hope that wasn't a cruel joke. Yanarians are rumored to have a thing for taking jokes a little too far. The punch-line is normally a fourth of the planet missing."

Myself: "Honestly I feel like they manufacture their reputation as galactic pranksters just to get out of full repercussions when they're brought in for trial.

Somehow their plea of "C'mon, where's your sense of humor?" has repeatedly got them out of life-sentences for mining in the Asteriod Belt of Metramuun and the Juaviltic Death Penalty by freezing due to instances like "accidentally" shutting down life-support for several space stations and "losing" the one-of-a-kind Venucian Seven-Point Diamond during a "scavenger hunt" they were setting up for the Venucian government. 

Pretty sure they still got fined."

Damon: "They did actually. I was very surprised, and the Uranians didn't seem to pleased about it.

I predict shenanigans."

Myself: "Well, as long as they don't bring them to Earth again.
Or mess up our solar system in any way that could jeopardize the colonies and populations.

Heck, Yanarians aren't even from around here, can't we just deport them? Doesn't the solar system have a border of any kind?"

Damon: "Kind of yes, kind of no. The Galactic Border Gate is kind of a fluid concept.

Martians are in charge of GBG boarder control and deportation, but the head of that is the Martian G.E.M.I.N.I. force, and despite being the best at what they do, they aren't well funded.?"

Myself: "Oh, yeah. Martians have had it pretty rough since their "Polar Cap Project' fell through. Remember? When that ancient bacteria infected and killed off most of the native populace, as well as anyone who purchased their 'fresh water.'

That was nasty. They're a population of warfare, also, so they haven't had much time for repopulation; not that they could handle a baby boom after that economic disaster. You gotta feel for those guys."

Damon: "Oh man, I know. The only reason they're still surviving is a storage of clones they had from war stocks. I hope they're planning for that since they only have a finite amount of clones to work with."

Myself: "Most of them were male, too. I feel bad for those females. 

I think a significant number of them put themselves in stasis for safekeeping for the time being. I would, too, honestly. I'd feel a little pressure at that point."

Damon: "You'd think that since they have technology to clone for military purposes, that they could implement that here, but maybe this is something that just slipped their minds or something. 

Yet another thing Uranians could solve if they weren't so far up their own bums."

Myself: "I'll bet the Uranians didn't name their own planet. Someone was probably trying to tell them something.

They'll probably start the test-tube offspring once their economy is back in order. Hopefully. With that kind of a crash, they're going to need support from other colonies to get back on their feet, but in return all they have to offer is their militia which is spread thin as it is, and no one wants an empty trade.

Normally, the potential loss of a race would merit some sort of charitable motions, but the potential of them being a booming race of well-armed soldiers in the galaxy is looming as well. No wonder assistance is taking so long."

Damon: "There was at one point a Saturian bill being made in order to proceed with assisting the Martian population, but I think that was like, around Christmas last year. And every other planet is more wrapped up in their own trivial matters to actually attend to Martian needs. 

Although, Martians could maybe devote their C.A.N.C.E.R. and L.I.B.R.A. departments towards a Yanarian protection force for other planets since those divisions don't really much purpose other than historical namesake. I mean, yeah it isn't really much since each has roughly only 343 units which isn't really much on a galactic scale, but it could be a start to get others involved to their restoration."


Myself: "True, but as you said, it isn't much. At best, what they're offering is the equivalent of a small band of galactic mercenaries, which probably won't be enough to sway the larger, wealthier breadwinners of the galaxies. 

To get their support, they'll need much more than that, however, maybe if they traded their departments towards smaller planets for a few precious resources, with enough time they could cultivate enough resources for a trade route with the other colonies. The inhabitants of P4x-639 in the Asteriod Belt of Haanas would be a good place to start."

I'll stop there, mostly because last time I checked, that's where it stopped. Happens all the time and I love it. Little, nonsensical creativity bursts that make my day. How it got to this, I have no idea, but I'm good with it. So thanks, Damon, for being awesome. c:

Okay, I'm honestly done Whovianing after this one.

Doctor who GIF game. Every third.

GIF IT TO ME. :D 

Let us begin.

You hear the TARDIS materialize:

Ha! Pretty much.
Good start.

You meet the Doctor:

He asks you to come along:

I think I just peed a little from laughing. "You're naked." "OH YES!"

That's exactly what it would be like.

The first thing you see on your first adventure is:

 Oh, Daleks. I would definitely panic. No lies.

Your approach as a companion is:

Well, aren't I somethin' special, then.
"Oh, baby! I'm beating out a samba!"

You meet Captain Jack Harkness:

You run into the evil villain:

Oh, The Master. Yes, please. 

He's my favorite, even though I'd totally die in some horrible way. 

Also, why are The Master and The Doctor so great together?

You’re captured by the evil villain:

"Now then."

The Doctor finds you:

"How are you feeling?" "Oh, not so bad! Just a little bit, you know..."

Good episode. 

You defeat the evil villain:

NO. NONONO. ;A;

You return to the TARDIS:

The TARDIS has a built in dryer, now? Nice. 

Not so hard to believe. He did say there was a library and a pool. 

"Watch out for the disinfectant!" "The what?" "The disin-oh. She'll find out."

You return to Earth:

Well, that was fun. 

The Doctor asks you to continue traveling with him:

"You like it."

Yes. Yes, I do.

I hope that's exactly what he says and just how he says it.

I feel like that whole thing ended up being awesome and therefore worth posting. However, I'll post just one more GIF because it makes me laugh. It shouldn't but it does. 

Because I know what they said but all I can see is: 

"Where's your wife?" "Wasted."

Bad lip reading 101.

Whovian Blues

Here's something a little out of the ordinary. Could it be? A serious post?

"No. Well...yeah." <- I don't think I'll ever be able to hear that kind of stuff in anything but Tennant's voice, now. Same goes for "Brilliant."

Prepare yourself, I'm about to talk about feelings, and if you want funny, skip to any other post in the selection. This one doesn't have it.

Recently I've gotten involved with the Dr. Who series. I started from the beginning here in Oxford and just finished season four. Why is this relevant, you ask?

Feelings. 

If you've watched the show, you might know what I mean.

But they're so addicting. I mean apart from the episodes, the clever humor, the (let's face it) attractive menfolk. It's the feelings of anger, happiness, and deep rooted sorrow. It's like air.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm no robot. Cyberman, or otherwise. I do feel things. Lots of things. Thrill of success at the latest prank, humor in sarcastic conversation, relief and relaxation when I finally hit the pillow on a Friday night after a week of very little sleep.

But those feelings. The raw ones. Those are wonderful. Only one I've felt in a while is frustration. Not all the time, of course, but it'll breach through on occasion if under the right circumstances. Stress reigns it in. Seals it up so even that's a shell of a real emotion.

I feel, but oh, does it feel good to feel. Especially sadness. Gut-wrenching sorrow. I don't get that too often, I'm too exhausted or busy. It's healthy, it must be, because I always feel a little lighter afterwards, like some amount of stress has been lifted from my shoulders that I didn't even know existed.

It's funny in a way. Probably because it's after 3:30am and I'm sleep deprived. Heck, I'll probably get up tomorrow and wipe this post from existence. Feelings truly are something, aren't they?

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

Monticello.

So, this last week I took a class trip to Monticello and toured the elegant home of Thomas Jefferson, or TJ, as I like to call him. I didn't know I liked to call him TJ until I casually referred to him as TJ in a conversation I had with Roommate about twenty minutes ago. Even I was confused.

Maybe I knew him in the preexistence or something.

Anyways, back to the tour. I took the tour with a bunch of fellow classmates, but spent the majority of my time standing with my friend Sarah. Usually cracking jokes because I'm disrespectful. In all honesty, I found the place amazing, but my ADHD meds had worn off so I was noticing random things and struggling against the urge to secretly bump my hand against everything with a "DO NOT TOUCH" sign. I failed more than once.

In the study as we continued the tour I noticed various portraits. One included a naked girl who appeared to be trying to cover herself up, but clearly missed a spot. I remember wondering how funny it would be if she actually didn't know and the artist just didn't tell her that he could clearly see some nipplage.

"Oh, my. Am I decent enough?"

"Oh, yeah. You're good."

/lies/

Anyways, I was interrupted from my reverie by Sarah's sudden gasp.

"That's sacrilegious!"

Curious, I looked up to where she was staring and saw this painting:

Me: "What?"

Sarah: "That painting!"

Me: "That's John the Baptist. Salome has his head on a plate as ordered; it's a story from the Bible. A lot of people have paintings of it."

Sarah: "Oh. I thought that was Jesus."

It took every ounce of strength I had to try and keep from giggling the rest of the tour. I failed that, too.

Some people have no shame.

Which, in some cases, can be a very good thing. Like my lack of shame about running around like a dinosaur in public places, or rolling around on floors.

However, getting hot and heavy in a car parked outside at three in the morning, and in clear view of two people that you probably know...well. There should be a little shame there.

Roommate and I were getting revenge on a few friends for their vicious toilet-papering of my Tahoe a few weeks ago by filling the cab of their car with balloons. This meant a 2:00am stakeout, awkward moments of stargazing, and circling the premises multiple times while waiting for the coast to be clear. Kind of hard when people stay in their car for a ridiculous amount of time. It's not like we were trying to be sneaky, we were just trying to stay unsuspicious. Good thing we have Fall as an excuse for wearing hoods. They had to have known.

Once, we even decided to sneak up on the car with the intent of scaring them. At the time, we thought  it was just two girls talking.

Wrong.

We got so close to the car, too, haha. I don't know how they didn't notice. Well...I suppose I know how, but gross. Anyways, we ended up pulling our prank anyways, filling up a truck cab with balloons  until we couldn't blow up anymore due to lack of space and a slight onset of claustrophobia.

This took well over an hour. Those windows were not tinted and now I feel tainted.

Ever been sexually harassed by a clown?

I have.

Happened a few years ago.

Wouldn't have thought about it, but, after spending time at a local park with a "pay to have people try to scare you and then feel like you mortally offended them by not even jumping or reacting to their efforts" haunted trail, I did.

Seriously. I just don't get scared or startled at these events, but please don't get me wrong. I am a coward. Maybe that's a little bit of an overstatement. Plenty of things don't scare me, but still. Have me watch something silly like a Slenderman video and/or put me out in the woods in the dark and I will wet my pants everywhere.

Anyways, that strange fact ties in here somewhere...

Anyways, back home in Kentucky, we had this really sweet, haunted corn maze named "The Field of Screams." First time there I was maybe eight or nine, and a wolf man scared me so badly I fell down and peed a little. My dad, of course, found this hilarious. Not that I blame him; I only hope I'll have the ability to watch my future child share in such a traumatic experience.

In his defense, my dad did kick a mummy really hard in the barn section later that night trying to prove to me that it was only a dummy. Kudos to that guy for not reacting. He was kicked in the shin. Hard. Kudos also for being the second guy there to make me fall down in fear and pee my pants.

Anyways, that was the first time. I guess the psychological trauma allowed the growth of a fearless exoskeleton. Now I walk through those cornfields and tunnels like a boss.

Anyways, back to the clown story.

I used to go to the Field of Screams every year, sometimes more than once, with my friends. It was usually amazing. Well decorated; the actors were fantastic; corn was healthy. This particular year, not so much. There had been droughts that left the corn dry and withered, and instead of the "jump scare" that usually works fairly well, these newbies decided to basically walk out and use loud profane language. I mean, seriously. I'm not one of those people that gets worked up about that stuff, but it really made the difference between, "Oh, scary!" and, "Wow, bro. Wow. Thanks for making that so dumb." Leaving all of us feeling needlessly chastised and severely disappointed.

However, the scenery was still decent, regardless of the dying corn, so that was enjoyable.

If I remember correctly, we had a pretty decent sized group. About eight or nine of us. Including D.

Normally, I was pushed to the front because I was the only one who didn't mind risking my neck for dead nurses and dolls with chainsaws, however, as we went through the barn section somehow I ended up in the back.

I was just wandering. Not really keeping up with the group. Enjoying the scenery, you know. D and I were just barely becoming friends at that point, and I noticed that whenever the group would disappear from my line of sight, he was the only one that would eventually pop his head back into whatever room I was in to see what I was doing. At first, I felt bad because I was probably annoying him, but what the heck. I was enjoying myself.

Eventually we were in a dark tunnel and my group left, closing the door and leaving me in complete darkness. I guess the point of that room was to feel around and find the door, which would've taken me a while had D not come back for me. It was at that point I decided I'd better pick up the pace and catch up with the group. So, here's the scene. You've got D standing in the light of the only open doorway and me half-running down a thin hallway to get to him and reconnect with the rest of the gang.

I was suddenly interrupted.

Now, before I go on, I want to explain the loophole that this character put in place as vaguely as possible. Main rule: "Do not touch the actors, and they will not touch you. If you touch the actors, all bets are off."

Now, moving on.

I was about ten feet from the door when some guy dressed as a clown jumped out in front of me, placed his hands on both walls, and effectively blocked my passage. Typical getup. Painted, grinning face, foam nose, flower, polkadot suit, probably covered in blood. That sort of stuff.

Didn't scare me, but I was a little impatient to move on. The voices of my group were disappearing.

Me: "Excuse me."
Clown: "Hey, pretty lady. Why don't you touch me? Honk my nose."
Me: "Yeah, no. Not going to happen. Just let me by."
Clown: "Only if you honk my nose. I want it."
Me: "Okay, no. For one, it's against the rules. Also, you're not scaring me. You're just being really annoying."
Clown: "Don't be so feisty. C'mon; just do it."

I'll erase the rest of the conversation for the sake of brevity, but I was getting pissed off and, dang it, he just wouldn't let me pass. Couldn't even force my way by him or duck under his arms. I tried. D was still standing in the doorway watching this argument unfold as the voices of the group faded into the rest of the barn. Eventually I got so frustrated I rolled my eyes and finally reached up to "honk" this stupid clown's nose.

Immediately, I was grabbed and dry humped and whooped and hollered at all simultaneously. I panicked, pushed the guy off as hard as I could, and ran for the door.

Haha, of course D would be the only one to see that. It was humiliating and awkward. Lucky me. His eyes were probably almost as big as mine.

I guess lucky could go two ways here, though. One the one hand, not so lucky. Just embarrassing. On the other hand, if it would've been anyone else in that group, I would've never lived it down. Ever. Don't get me wrong, I told my girlfriends later what happened, but not to the full extent, and D didn't share it, really, at all.

I used to live with a cruel crowd. So, I suppose I was very lucky.

Anyways, here it is in writing to the full extent. You're welcome.

Oh, and as a bonus: new random story. Same night.

There was a small shack in the middle of the cornfield that was decorated as a demented playroom. I was pushed through first with one of my girl friends huddled against my back. As I reached the door to the other side, I stuck an arm out, pointed, and said, "Someone is going to jump out right here." Not three seconds later, BAM. A girl jumps forward and begins a scream. Problem was that when she jumped forward, she jump in exactly the wrong spot causing my outstretched finger to go right down her throat.

That was a seriously awkward moment. Both of us probably had the same disgusted, horrified expression as she slowly backed away into the shadow she came from.

I still feel awful about that.

My Spanish textbook is related to Carmen Sandiego.

Because, dang. Where in the world is it?

I have a Spanish exam in less than an hour, so I'm celebrating my lack of effort to search for the book by blogging.

Maybe it'll get bored and come out because I stopped looking.

The thought that that's my current strategy for everything, including inanimate objects, probably also proves that I would make a really shoddy babysitter.

Mer blerg ferhls nerkkerd. Very naked.

So, here's a fancy picture of a roadway to fix it.

MONOCHROME. SO VINTAGE.

No one should ever feel this stressed about using the bathroom.

That probably sounded strange. Good. I meant it.

We've covered every other subject (not really) in this blog, and darn it, I'm going to talk about bathrooms. Restrooms. Washrooms.

The Loo.

But let's not get too ahead of ourselves, here.

Where to begin... Oh. I know. The mystery door.

-insert various ghoulish 'ooo' noises and possibly the theme for The Twilight Zone-

So, this year I've moved down from the freshman dorms on the hill into a little flat complete with kitchen, bathrooms, living room, and dining area. The bedrooms are minuscule when compared with my previous residence, but the trade off is more than substantial.

So, Roommate and I moved in. Different Roommate, though. Maybe I should give her a new tag.

...Nah.

Now our house has eight girls living in it, there used to be nine, but *Squatty decided to move out. (Pay attention to that because that comes into play later.) Our room was supposed to be at the end of the hall, but due to unforeseen circumstances (namely, Squatty deciding not to follow the rules and stealing it when she showed up a day early) we ended up in the room next door. Now, in our little branch of hallway there are three doors: ours, the end room, and one that looked like a type of supply closet. It was always locked so we didn't give it much thought.

Until, one day, there was a light under the door.

The door was still locked, so we assumed maybe our Residential Advisor had gone in and left the light on. However, we became curious. What was in that room? We wandered around outside, figuring that perhaps the room had a window we could peer into. Sadly, it wasn't the case. Periodically we would try the door when no one was watching. We held stake-outs. The door stayed locked. After a while, we noticed that the light under the door seemed to go on and off without us seeing anyone come in or out of the door. Now, we decided it was possible that we just weren't watching hard enough so we intensified our methods. Still, nothing came of it.

Roommate mentioned asking the RA, but at this point, that was just too easy.

Another few days went by, and still nothing. Then came the night of a bonfire/karaoke party for all the people who were living in the different modulars. Amanda and I went and enjoyed ourselves, and as the party wrapped up we quietly stole back into our house and went towards our room. The light under the door was back. Thinking quickly and realizing we had precious little time to waste, I asked Roommate if she had a small hand mirror we could use to peer under the doorway. Excitedly, she disappeared into our room only to reappear a few moments later clutching a some sort of clasp mirror she uses in the morning to do her make-up. I stood up and motioned for her to take a look under the doorway. She crouched and stuck the mirror partway under the door, angling it to give her a decent view of the room.

I didn't have to wait long.

Roommate: "There's a toilet in there!"
Me: "...Excuse me?"
Roommate: "Here! Look for yourself!"

Sure enough, it was a bathroom. A small, continually locked bathroom. I had always thought the bathroom that we had previously been forced to use was a sort of cruel and unusual punishment, or, at the very least, designed by a man.

Reason #1. It's out in the open.

The bathroom is placed against the dining room wall and there's always a crowd of guys and girls around because people in my house are social. Disappear into the bathroom, and the whole world knows you're pooping.

Reason #2. Cramped living space.

There is one wall mirror and three sinks. I know that sounds like a lot, but when you live with eight or nine girls who need to do make-up/brush their teeth/fix acne/etc, every morning, trust me, it's very crowded.

Reason #3. Dos baños.

There are two toilets in the bathroom. This is both very handy and very embarrassing. On the plus side, two people who urgently need to pee can go simultaneously. On the negative side, when you're bladder shy, it's torture. On top of that, it's the "public bathroom" so you could theoretically be in there using the restroom or showering and a random guy could walk in.

Reason #4. The showers. Ohmigawd.

In said bathroom there are two showers that face each other. They have speckled glass doors and no curtains. You can't even put curtains in there, really. Now, normally when you think speckled glass door, you're thinking of that fine grain stuff that you can't see through. Not the case. Not the case, at all. These doors may as well be Pella windows. You can see through them with absolutely no trouble. This was thoroughly tested by Roommate and I while being fully clothed. Duo showering will never be on the menu, I'm afraid.

Reason #5. No. Just, no.

There is nothing separating the shower area from the rest of the bathroom. I walked in to wash my hands and saw some poor girl trying to use the glass door as a cover so she could strip down for the shower. Apparently the picture gets clearer the farther you are away from the glass, because, oh my. So much naked.

Apparently, unbeknownst to us, there was a small one-person bathroom across from our room and out of the way the entire time. On top of that, it was connected to the room that should've been ours. Regardless, we still should've been able to use it, but they were keeping it locked. It even has a bathtub.

Mildly frustrating, no?

Feigning ignorance, I decided to bring up the subject of the "mystery door" at our next house meeting. Roommate filled everyone in on our attempts to divulge the secrets behind the door including the mirror and the stake-outs. Everyone laughed, and we joined in, because, hey, it was pretty funny. Squatty, who I mentioned earlier, had a roommate named Sarah, who seemed pretty confused by our story about us continually discovering the door locked every time we tried the knob, and stated that she often unlocked it to make sure we could get in, and only rarely would she forget. About a minute later, Squatty laughs and confesses that she had started locking the door to keep us out since we didn't seem to know what the room was at the time and she liked not having to share it. I already had a little disdain for Squatty's attitude, but wow. That's a bit selfish, there, little one.

Regardless of our Residential Advisor's warning for Squatty, the door stayed locked until the day she moved out. Continuing in the motion of things, once she did move out, I still didn't use it much.

However, we began having assigned bathrooms two days ago due to toilet paper shortages. Seems the RA, a girl names Kambyl and myself are the only ones stocking the bathrooms, and, being women, it runs out quickly. My assigned bathroom to use ended up being the one across the hall from our door, but after becoming accustomed to using the other bathroom, I feel that whenever I use Squatty's old restroom I'm invading Sarah's personal space, and when I use the public area one I feel like I'm trespassing.

The confusion between the two has ultimately led to hold-out discomfort. I swear if I were a man, I'd rather go in a bottle than deal with it.

Le sigh.

(*Note: The name "Squatty" isn't meant as an insult. I just used it to describe her to Roommate once since I hadn't figured out her name, and it stuck. I'm still not sure what her real name is.)

To reassure my parents.

Oh my.

Truth be told I had an irritable rage-post set about plagiarism and how I recently discovered the painful effects it can have on your peace of mind when you become the victim.

BUT.

I got bored.

So here's something a little different. I was going though some files on my computer, and I found a document with snippets of conversations D and I had while I was in college my first year. It's got some pretty great stuff in there. Kinda makes me wish I hadn't wiped all my computer files that saved my various messenger chats.

Anyone who has previously written me blackmail worthy material, it looks like you're off the hook. For now.

Anyways, I still found this gem. I had just gotten off the phone with my mom after yet another desperate plea for me to give her grandchildren someday soon. She's not getting any younger, I suppose. I believe I offered to be a short-term hooker to keep her happy, but she wasn't as interested in that option as I thought she might be.

A little while later D and I had our scripture study and watched a video about Captain Moroni cornering the army of Zerahemnah and trying to offer them a way out but ended up scalping the dude and yadda yadda. We all know the story. If you don't, you should check out the Book of Mormon, it's pretty schweet. Anyways, the video also starred this wicked baller hero-Grandpa with a ton of medals and an adoring grandson. D made this observation:

D: That could be your dad, someday.

Me: Pfft. As a hero? That's my dad now.

D: Well, yeah, but he's not a grandpa, yet...friggin' Paul.

Me: And Aaron. You know, they're looking at me now, and I'm only eighteen!

D: -pause of shocked silence- You're too young for babies!

Me: I know I'm too young for babies!

D: I don't plan on impregnating you for at least five years!

Me: -pause of shocked silence- I'm glad that is a definite goal of yours.

Apparent goals for D when he gets back from his mission:

1. Impregnate Jessica.

2. Marry her in a panic, because that was mentioned absolutely nowhere in the conversation.

3. ?????????

4. Profit!

Keep those cards in your back pocket, Jess.

Well, here I am. Back in the big world of tiny-town college. It doesn't seem like it's going to be quite as disastrous as last year summed up to be, so where are we?

D is gone. He left on his mission on May 9th, two days after his 20th birthday. We had a nice little celebration along with a going away party with him, and what do they say? No gathering is fully complete without a little family drama?

Oops.

Anyways, no worries. Everyone survived. I wasn't exactly the cause, but I didn't step into the world of irrationality to try to make it any better, either. Some weird things go on in that place, and I prefer to keep my two feet securely planted in the sane and sensible.

Moving on.

Let's see, what else... Ah. I had my nose broken the night before D left. Guess who broke it? Man, that poor guy. I thought he was going to have a heart attack. I had to yell at him to get him away from me for the two seconds I needed to scream. I wasn't even mad, that just friggin' hurt. When I snapped at him he went into a state of shock and jogged half-heartedly into the house  and gave me the few moments I needed before he came back outside, planted his feet, and said, "I'm not leaving or going anywhere." To which I responded, "Okay, well that's good. Give me a hug."

I think he thought I was going to put up a fight about his staying outside with me or something. Heck no. That sucked. Hug time.

I think the best part about it was later when I was sitting on the couch after all of D's shock had worn off, and my nose randomly started bleeding.

He felt so guilty; I had trouble not laughing.

Anyways, D has hit up the Provo MTC; Colby, KS; and Colorado Springs, CO in the last four months or so. I'm so proud of that kid and we write all the time, and it's going extremely well. I couldn't imagine loving him more than I already did but it grows every single day.

And before I turn this into anything goopy, gooey or otherwise grossly romantic and/or pathetic, I'm going to quit right here until this mood passes. I don't know what to do with all these feels.

So, yeah. Cool story bro.

Oh. Oh my.

Well, it's official. Everything is being packed up and shipped out. Well, I guess I'll be taking them home personally, but I just wanted to say 'packed up and shipped out' once in my lifetime.

Katy and I had a mini-party last night with pizza and soda and packing things. My walls are all naked, now. It's awkward. I almost feel like I should cover my eyes to keep them from getting embarrassed, however, they're only mine for a little longer, so I'll forcibly undress them and look all I want.

I have this pile of papers that I'm keeping. It looks messy. At first I was like, "Whoa, Jess. Too many keepsakes." Then I remembered that most of them are only in there because I have to study them for finals. In reality I have about five or six that I want.

Speaking of finals, since I spent my whole day yesterday packing, I didn't get a chance to study until about midnight. Or, I guess I should say I put it off until after midnight. So I panicked.

Then D called and distracted me again, which was okay. It was about 1:10am when I finally sat down with my stuff and actually looked at it. Most of my studying was staring at the words "Echinoderm" and telling myself, "You must remember this word." As I typed that I was listening to Ivan Vanko from Iron Man 2 saying, "No, I want my bird." Why, you ask? Because his statement gave the appropriate inflection to my statement. Perfect, even.

By about 1:20am my reaction to the study guide was this:

I figured a lack of sleep wouldn't help me, either. I'm good at Biology so I wasn't that worried. And boy, did my lack of work pay off.

Easiest test ever. I'm sure I got 99.89% of those questions correct. Plus, all of the bonus questions. So, hello super grade. Which is good because I'm not doing as hot in Biology as my other classes. Silly since it's one of my best subjects.

It's the online stuff. Gets me every time.

If the assignment is not put into my hands, yeah, no. Probably not going to remembered. If I see it on my desk, then I'll be like, "Oh, yeah. I should get on that." E-mail don't seem to work, either. Haha.

Oh, dear.