After such a seemingly long absence from the wide world of blogging, I'd figure I would wait until my return to salt lake to write.

But I have NOTHING TO DO.

NOTHING.

If I watch another movie I'll kill myself, I've finished the books I brought with me and bought over here, I've memorized the latest articles on vogue.com, and I've caught myself eating literal pounds and pounds of fatty, bachelor food out of sheer boredom. Hence the reason I've gained 5 FREAKING POUNDS over here. Oh my!

The problem is not that daddy doesn't entertain us. Today, after completing some school work, we treated ourselves to a rather lengthy but wonderful day back home. The museum was great, and the library was fun to walk through. I love this city, but it hasn't really spoken to me like I, for some un-explained reason, thought a city would. I don't know if I'd want to live here. Well, of course I would, I've fallen in love with the city, but more in the Carter sense, seeing as I'm absolutely swept away by the city within the first 18 minutes and love and adore it until I go to another city. One day I'm bound to journey to such a spectacular city that my destiny to live within will hit me like a rather pleasant punch in the face (if there is such a thing, upon looking back I suppose there really isn't). But that's just the tiny bit of idealism in me talking, don't worry; I shall kill it momentarily.

Yes. I have fallen in love with the following music-producing people:

• zero 7- oh my. oh my. Where have you been, my sweet? Zero 7 strikes me as I imagine the depressed love child of LTJ Bukem and a more mellow Nikka Costa would. Kind of.
• Sia Furler- another musician I stumbled upon while obsessing over zero 7. Distractions is a wonderful song that makes me happy (although it's definitely not a happy song). I love her voice! Absolutely Fetching.
• The Smiths- awww.
  
• The Cult- at least one of their songs (see Painted on my heart)

I have developed an intense hatred for the following:

• English. Oh language, my diety, my beauty! Why did you go off and screw me when I decided to graduate early, eh? Was that completely necessary? This online english crap is no fun.
  
• This whole eat-too-much-and-you-get-fat concept. I'm not liking this either.
• Cable TV is corrupting the nation. The only redeeming characteristic of this putrid filth was The Real World. For some reason it went away, and left me with days upon days of Road Rules. I hate it so much...

Ah, the beautiful, beautiful lure of this city! As if I'm going to sit here and write, you scum! There is simply too much beauty to explore. I leave you now for the justified flights of fancy that stand before me. Farewell!

There I was, happily watching Sex and the City until I accidentally sat on the fated remote and stumbled upon an Alanis Morissette concert that daddy absolutely had to watch. Curses upon that woman and her homeland! Dirty Canadians...

Oh well, such is life. I can't get too attached to that show anyway, cable TV has never flowed through the house of my mother and I doubt it ever will.

You know, I've never understood the appeal many find in a concert. Yes, there is a certain degree of excitement that can't be achieved at home like it can in a noisy, dirty stadium where you sit 2 and a half miles away from the performance, but watching one on the TV makes no sense whatsoever. What deranged individual chooses to watch an angry Canadian hop around on a small stage belting song after song after song? What pointless charade has invaded my evening and prevented my entertainment? What poppycock!

We went to the Kenton County fair today and I'm afraid that I'm still a wee bit nauseous. The rides were fun, but the whole up-and-down and side-to-side feeling was only fun at the fare, and any enjoyment of the motion fled after I realized it wouldn't go away when I was standing or driving in the car back home. Not too much fun, to be sure. And then, of course, I come home to realize that Dixie the Jack Russell has consumed half of my Jamba Juice chapstic and completely shredded the cap.

I'm mad at Dixie and I'm mad at stupid Alanis Morissette. I'm also mad at the stupid petting zoo employee who wouldn't let me hold a duck. What kind of petting zoo doesn't let you touch the freaking animals? How exasperating!

Daddy and I while I'm wearing the shoes (hence the reason I'm almost taller than him in this picture) 

Aren't they beautiful? I removed the strap from one to demostrate just how versatile these beauties from Aldo really are. 

Charles Henri sat on the bench and lightly slid his tongue across the black raspberry ice cream. Black raspberry ice cream in an original cone with two extra napkins: the order he had placed at Schneider's Sweet Shoppe since it opened in 39', a little bit after he had turned 8. The old bench had been repainted since then, of course, but always the same glossy white, and Charles Henri had always remembered it chipped and peeling, as if the bench attempted to welcome and entice potential customers with its imperfections. He had sat on this bench with his father and mother until mother died in 1943, at which time he continue to sit on the bench with his father until he met Isabella. He sat with Isabella and father until pappy passed away in 1952, then it was just Isabella and his three children. Those golden days flickered in the old man's eyes; he remembered the evenings spent by the street, slurping up the home made delight of Schneider's.

His weekly ritual was different now, although he bought the same flavor and sat in the same spot. The smell of the road and the city no longer rose up gently to his nostrils, the atmosphere seemed hostile and foreign although the benches and the street that encompassed Schneider's had been altered so little. The sun shone differently now, and the heat it radiated was harsh and dangerous and refused to twinkle like it used to. His visit to Schneider's was more painful that enjoyable, yet he returned dutifully, week after week, never disappointing his old spot on the left of the second bench by the window. He knew exactly why he did it. Isabella's death wasn't going to shatter his life, though he loved her and loved her dearly. The kid's move away from the town and their distance that was unabridged by phone calls or letters wasn't going to morph him into a dysfunctional human being, unable to enjoy a nice cone of black raspberry ice cream from the best sweet shoppe in the state. He would mourn what is meant to be mourned, but he wasn't going to stop the custom he once held so close to his heart. He wouldn't stop just because it was empty and hollow and simply echoed the sweet voice of the sparkling sands of time.

So here he sat, licking his black raspberry ice cream in an original cone with two extra napkins flexed smoothly around the treat like rumpled wrapping paper. He had done this for many years, he was very good at it. It shouldn't have been hard to sit and to eat the dripping, sticky mess of a dairy product that had once brightened up his whole week. Heavens, he didn't even like this black raspberry flavor; it had gone sour after Olivia finally took that editing job in Chicago and crossed the bridge and soured over the river. But he would sit, and he would eat, because that's what he enjoyed and that's who he was: he was a man who like ice cream and a man who supported Schneider's Sweet Shoppe.

The appeal of the visit to Schneider's had dwindled and reformed. It was interesting to watch the people who came to the shoppe and the different flavors that different people got. Today two teenage girls sat on his bench, a blonde who was eating the peach and a redhead who was biting into the moose tracks. They wore jeans that they slung low on their hips, and colored, sleeveless summer blouses. They chatted about different friends and boys, but Charles Henri focused on staring at the asphalt the blurred in front of him with trucks and vans and sedans.

He had made it down to the cone and had just taken his first bite of it when the blonde girl next to him asked:

“What's your name?”

Charles Henri looked at his cone and took a second bite, wondering who the youth was talking to.

“ Hey. What's your name?” She repeated, looking straight at the old man.

“Charles Henri.” He replied.

“Cooooool. Sounds French or somethin'.”

“Yes, it is French.” He said, somewhat bashfully.

“Why are you eating ice cream all by yourself.”

He looked down at the dirty sidewalk in front of him. Why not welcome sincerity into his life? He sighed.

“Because I have no one to eat ice cream with.”

“Here,” she cheerfully said, completely unafraid. “I'll sit with you.”

She scooted up next to him and peered at the remnants of his ice cream.

“What flavor did you get?” She asked, squinting at his cone.

“ Black raspberry. I always get black raspberry.”

“You must really dig that ice cream then, huh?”

He rotated the cone in his hand and licked a small drop of deep purple liquid that had fallen onto his wrinkled hand.

“No, not really, not anymore.” The girl looked at him inquisitively, inquiring with her eyes as to why on earth did he buy the stupid ice cream if he didn't like it and there were 13 other flavors.

“ But I always get Black Raspberry.” Charles Henri looked at his cone once more and allowed his eyes to wander about the street. He noticed a young woman sitting on the bench on the other side of the door whose presence had slipped by the observant man because of the conversation he had fallen into with the peach-consuming girl. She wore black high heels with rolled up jeans and a purple shirt, and she had long brown hair that flowed down her shoulders. She didn't take her gaze off of Charles Henri; she had been observing the interaction between the girl and the old man. Her eyes held the look of stone, with just the tiniest crack in the steel facade. She was curious. This brief conversation struck her, she did not scoff at it or roll her eyes as she so often did upon examining her fellow citizens. She did originally, as was her wont, but then she peered a bit harder at the two. A faint and muted smile flashed upon her lips occasionally, as if she were trying to be rid of it. Something about the colloquy warmed her immensely and lifted her. Finally her teeth burst through the pursed lips and fell naturally into a beautiful grin. She stood up and threw her napkin away but paused before disposing of the ice cream. Another faint smile came to her face, it was the first to truly reach her eyes. She walked down the sidewalk to the bench that housed the old man and the two girls.

“If you don't like Black Raspberry it's awfully rediculous to buy it. Here, try the cookies and cream,” she muttered, handing her cone over to the old man. “I get a new flavor every time I come and this one's absolutely delicious. I might just be sticking to it for a while.” She smiled breezily and turned to go.

“ What's your name?” Asked the blonde.

The young woman opened her mouth to answer, but closed it immediately . A delicate frigidity washed over her and left her once again intensely arctic in her stare. She smugly tilted her head up and glanced at the girl. The smile didn't succeed this time, that odd moment of disorder had passed. She smirked and turned around briskly, clapping down the sidewalk in her black heels.

Charles Henri stared after the strange woman for an instant, laughed with the girl next to him and took a bite out of the cookies and cream.

“Pretty darn good.”

A red car rolled past, in the passenger's seat was the young woman. Charles Henri tipped his hat in thanks for the ice cream. The woman became still as another smile rose to her face. It failed, however, leaving the plane of her features as nippy as ever. She sighed, and turned her head, focusing her dark eyes on the mail box across the street.

I went shopping today with Cindy and inadvertently stumbled upon the perfect pair of classic pumps for which I have been searching a good solid 3 months. I asked Cindy to inform Daddy about this, so that he doesn’t miss out on the perfect birthday present opportunity (which will be needed in about 3 weeks or so), for him to miss out would be ever so sad. Cindy’s a wonderful gal, very level-headed, open minded, and just an incredibly nice person with the ability to make even the most demure feel welcome and loved. I had a great shopping trip with Cindy.

Good news: Mum thinks that Doug, our landlord, will sell to us. I am ever so happy about this; we would get it for 220 so we would have 40 or so to fix it up and make it look perfect, and then we would have a little money left over for a new car for mum (do I hear the word "Jag" caressing the breeze about me?). I am very happy about the situation, and I’m exciting by the fact that I might have that home in my mother’s name to come home to. How fetching.

We’re due at a picnic at 6 PM at the Swainheart’s, absolute dears that we’ve known forever. I think I’m going to go take a nap, it’s a shame I didn’t bring my book!

I sit before you, with Dixie the Jack Russell swirling around my feet and incredibly little to say. So far my stay here in Cincinnati has been utter bliss, yet almost completely uneventful. One must wonder why an interesting sequence of events is necessary for happiness and a sense of excitement in one's life when staying at home, yet not while traveling abroad. The change of scenery is inflammation enough; stimuli dwells within the foreign environment. Therefore I have yet to feel bored or disenchanted with my stay, but rather I am still in a frenzy about my being here. It will be very hard indeed for me to return to the drudgery of Salt Lake, and to the monotony that has buzzed inside me for the past four years. I understand that this will prevail anywhere if I let it, that Cincinnati would soon fatigue and irritate me if I stayed long enough while harboring such a mentality, but I don't think I like the idea of expending effort toward not letting myself get bored in Salt Lake. I'd rather move here and labor not to let myself get bored. All and all I think the latter idea would prove much more rewarding.

Today we lounged about until 11:00, at which time we took it upon ourselves to journey down to Covington for a nice lunch at the cock and bull pub, which was very excellent indeed. I had the chicken penne, which was delicious, but to be quite frank, not as ambrosial as one would expect from a dish with as many fat grams as I'm sure was in that one. Not only did I face this calorie-breathing beast bravely, but I solicited it by asking for a side of melted butter and garlic so that I might further adorn the platter and double the fat content. This was probably a bad move on my part, but penne must be served in a sauce creamier than olive oil and chardonnay, what can I say? Surely any level-headed pasta connoisseur would agree with me and would take a similar course of action, regardless of the heart attack that's sure to follow after about three of these meals. Usually I'm able to shrug this off and not think about it, but this inordinately fattening meal left me with an immense feeling of guilt that has yet to leave me. Today we made a recording for Rob to send to him in Switzerland, and upon viewing this I have come to the paranoid conclusion that I am the most corpulent female ever to pound about the city on the thunder thighs that are hers. Some who know me might take it upon themselves to scoff at me, but I assure you that this observation is neither stupid nor fallacious, because I simply feel obese. Too much rich food can do this to you, I truly blame European cooking for my lack of contact with reality, I do. It's absolutely laughable to think that the Italians and the French were the ones who invented Creme Brulée and Tiramisu Cheesecake and yet America is the fattest nation in the world. Just because we can't restrain ourselves and resort to stuffing ourselves to bursting in face of all the emotional retardedness that we as Americans are exposed to day by day isn't reason enough to turn us into the upholstered buffoons of the modern day world. Is mother nature completely merciless or does she merely have a painfully fiendish sense of humor?

I think I should move to Calcutta and dwell in a severe state of destitution until my unfortunate financial condition forces me into a semi-emaciated physique. I then can work to kindle all the rest of my dear little complexes into raging bon fires that ravage my life and leave me another servant of the deleterious wreck of a system that is North American society. Is one not disconsolate to realize that I am not alone in this skewed worldview? But alas! Do not fear! For my arrogance and dominating pomposity restrain me from acting on my dislike of my healthy body, or even from allowing my mind to dwell on the issue for a moment too long. And yet my dislike of my relatively healthy body restrains me from letting my conceit overpower me and destroy my life. It is a beautiful cycle of flaws that gyrates and spins closer and closer to overall balance than many other seemingly "healthy" aspects of life.

I believe therein that cycle lies the key to the success of the American nation. We, the people of the babbling, conceited, completely oblivious and biased, are a major power in the world not because we're healthy and level-headed. Good heavens no! It's because we have so many complexes, phobias, obsessions, fixations, and neuroses that they all each individually make the others less daunting and therefore less threatening. This balance of infirmities leads to an arrogance that doesn't cripple because it doesn't exist to hide or cover the infirmities, but simply exists to coincide with the infirmities in a beautifully askant symbiotic relationship. This beautifully askant symbiotic relationship exists because it, in and of itself, makes no sense whatsoever, and therefore holds a secure place in the American psyche. We are a powerful people because we are completely and utterly insane. Absurdity is a necessary attribute of the well rounded individual; it builds character.  

Tomorrow I have to wake up at 7:45 for church, and right now it is 12:09. I have no idea why I'm wasting my time stating that Americans are insane, it's much like writing a dissertation about grass being green or mosquitoes being repulsive; it is a common fact that is well known and widely accepted. I leave you all on that note and beg that this has changed your view of us Americans. We're really not that bad, we're just unhinged, and quite content about the unhingement, if that is indeed a word. Farewell. 

You open the front door to see a charming wrought-iron fence sitting beside a cobblestone street. Grass pokes up between the brick sidewalk which groans beneath the thousands walking upon it. The bricks actually dip in the center of the walkway, curving down the well-trodden path. I find it interesting that the relatively busy street neither threatens or intimidates me, but charms me with the roar of the varied cars as they rush on by. Grass that is long but just barely short enough to please the eyes nestles around the trees that relax complacently by the streets and the houses. This, the town of  stamped bricks and exquisite Queen Anns that sweep up to the sky, their widow walks and turrets grasping gracefully the blue above them. This, the town of the 32-room Book Loft, covered wall to wall and floor to ceiling with a voluminous assortment of every type of book, with hundreds of small, worn arrows stuck to the thread-bare carpet, directing the attentive shopper to the nooks and quoins holding the sought-after treasure of the shop. This, the town of the prince in his 150-year-old mansion and the pauper in his small yet charming loft in the back alleys. This, the town of the old. This, the town of the new. This, the town of German Village in Columbus, Ohio. 

How I adore this place. How happily the houses wink back at me and how gentle the sun falls upon me. The climate here is moderate. Oh blessed moderation!

I'm enjoying myself thoroughly. Yesterday we drove to Columbus and stayed the night at Cindy's house, my dad's lady friend. She forgot the bag that she needed for work in the morning at my dad's house, so we drove to German Village for a bite at the local starbucks and a nap in her cute apartment. Basically, it's Seattle, but you don't have to pay to breathe.

A couple times I've encountered a few things here and there that have reminded me of Carter, but on the whole I don't think I get attached like mum does. She keeps telling me: “Give yourself 3 weeks, it always takes a while for the change to settle in. Of course you're not crying now, but you just broke up with him. It'll come soon enough.” Well, I'm still waiting for the water works, just for the record. I always knew mum and I had our differences emotionally, but I really don't think I get attached. Or I don't let myself. Or I do and am pretending so well that I've actually convinced myself otherwise. Either way I'm not crying. There will be first loves, second loves, third loves, and fourth loves. My love life has just begun, I'm not going to mourn it for what it is: a compilation of many acquaintances (not necessarily many, but more than one for that matter.)

Elisse and I switched phones so that I don't have to writhe under the burden of evil, evil roaming rates. You know that commercial where the man drops his phone in the bear pit at the zoo ( I think it's a bear) and he jumps in because he's afraid the bear will make a roaming phone call? Yeah. They're not over exaggerating. Anything smaller than a great white is going to have to fight me to make a roaming call on my celly, it's like 70 freaking cents a minute. I'm not down with that. Not down with that at all.

I also did end up going to that cocktail party on Wednesday, and I had an absolute ball. Fish (or phish, however the obscure nickname is spelled) throws delightful parties. Everyone was dressed up, or at least you would know they tried if you knew the person. Glen Miller strummed gently in the background (at least for the last part of the party; earlier on they were playing some dreadful violation against good taste that I have completely blocked out of remembrance) and we sat on a pleasant evening, talking about everything from Ella to dyeing underage girls green in, what appeared to me to be an insensitive one, myself being underage and all, an attempt to avoid the whole statutory rape issue (All in all I was against the idea, for obvious reasons). I've decided I approve of Fish on some levels, which is crucial, because he wants to date Elisse. I haven't given her final approval yet, though, something of this nature must be thought out.

I believe it is 12:26 Cinci time, so I must leave you now and slumber in my daddy's semi-musty basement. Adieu! 
 

I am no longer held captive by the snarling beast that is the Old Spaghetti Factory. Tomorrow is, indeed, my last day and I’m getting it picked up. Yay! I have escaped with both my sanity and all four limbs. I have managed the impossible.

Right now it’s too dreadfully hot to do anything that requires thought process or excessive movement of the body, unless it is between 10 am to 6pm, during which it is too hot to do anything at all. I’m going to go run errands with Elisse, which is okay because her air conditioning works (I hope).

She invited me to an old-fashioned cocktail party tonight, and my attendance is still uncertain. I don’t know if I want to go. Dressing up would be fun, but these things tend to be boring. I’m going rock climbing at 7 with the ward, though, and that I am excited about. Jon might be there, I really hope he comes. I’m still head-over-heels in love with that boy, he is ever so adorable.

I am single again. Oh, the sweet, sweet ring of words symbolizing freedom. How fabulous!

Mystique of Sunlight
By R.S. Ivory

I remember, rather fervently, lying awake in bed one morning when all of a sudden I was seized by the deepest, darkest despair ever to touch my soul. The snow fell lightly outside my window, lazily drifting down to join the sea of white that had covered our city the previous night. Upon the wings of coldest purity had Change soared into view, the bitter wind and the blade-sharp cold trumpeting its grandiose arrival. The sky above remained blank, as if not wishing to detract from the glory of the first snow of the season. All around me it fell, not stopping, not pausing; just diving towards the ground. It seemed strange to me that change would be so monotonous, but it was, at least for that day.

I didn’t want to leave my bed that morning. The stark opposite of anything pleasant smirked at me through my window, encouraging me to stay in my warm, friendly bed. My bed was a miracle to me; wherever I dared to move or stretch or extend within its confinement I was greeted with the gentlest caress of the sheets on my bare legs. Outside you may be as free as a bird, but you’ll rarely find the comfort or the love that can be found in one’s bed.

Once again I turned my gaze to the window. Two single-hung casements, positioned side by side, with charming oak trim painted an ancient white stared back at me. I adored my window. There was something about the compilation of glass panes and wood that meant an incredible amount to me. I found this strange, my inability to identify exactly what it was troubled me. What was so endearing about this thing, this aspect of my somewhat featureless room, what characteristic bound this white-encased portal to me?

It was early, and the darkness of the morn continued to envelop me. I continued to ponder about the conundrum the stood before me. My eyes trailed along the wood, searching for the component that engendered the veneration that billowed and swelled inside me. This was a puzzle, and the answer was next to me, silently waiting to be discovered, breathing slowly and evenly like a child lost deep in a reverie. Could it be the morphed reflections of my face in the hand-blown glass, or the image of the fresh greenery that danced through the window?

It was at this moment that the sun rose. The rise of the sun is steady; evenly the star creeps up the sky till it blazingly reaches the climax of its cycle. The sunlight burst through my window. It poured into the room, filling every portion, every crevasse, every inch of the room. It was complete, yet gentle. The change the room experienced was phenomenal, yet not startling or disturbing. I remained in my bed, curiously observing the light as it rapidly climbed up the walls and crept farther along the floors. It reached my bed, and swathed my body in brilliant light. The sunlight dripped onto my bodice, warming me and filling me. The room was transformed.

It was such a simple metamorphosis. The transmutation of the appearance of my room immediately spurred a change in my mentality. The unexplained gloom that had dwelt within me earlier that morning had melted at the sight of such luminous radiance, and yet the transformation was so simple and uncomplicated. The addition of natural light to my room had robbed the area of all seemingly infinite doubt. The landscape that dwelt on the other side of my window no longer smirked at me, but beckoned me.

I stood up and stretched. Fumbling around my closet, the ancient plaid scarf that I had acquired years ago was found and wrapped several times around my neck. I opened the door and exited the room.

Carter just texted me:

“Hi….”

He said he didn’t want to be friends. This is going to be difficult for me. If we’re to break this off, then I really don’t think any type of contact will be conducive to an effective break up.

I don’t know what to do…

Wow. I have seen so many bad movies in the past week and I’m still craving a semi-decent one. After seeing

• Le Divorce
• Something’s got to give
• Along came Polly

I’ve decided that this “movie industry” thingie has had a good run, but it’s time to put ‘er down. Really, the gal has her good days but really she’s going through so much pain. We need to put the poor thing out of her misery and move on. Really.

Speaking of moving on, I broke up with Carter. It’s sad, but necessary. It was just getting too serious, we were getting too close. He’s a sweet guy, he’s just not what I want right now. I don’t want attachment, I don’t want a serious relationship. And the whole commitment part just scared me stiff like a Frenchie swimming in the strait of Dover, what can I say?

It’s not that easy, though. I realize that I am in a jovial mood after watching the nonsensical poppycock that was “Along came Polly”, but I am sad about this. The fact remains that Carter made me happy. Being around him was the funniest, happiest thing I’ve experienced in a long time. I don’t want commitment and I don’t want the emotion of a relationship like the one him and I shared, however fun it was at times. I’m going to Cincinnati and then I’m starting college, and I would truly like to start completely over, with a clean slate. I think this break up was better sooner than later; what must be done must be done.

Tomorrow I pack for Cincinnati; I depart on Thursday at 10:00 in the morning. I am so excited to see Daddy and Cindy.

This writing is just terrible. Wretched stuff, it is, one can tell that I haven’t been writing as often as I should as of late. Oh well. At least I’m posting rubbish, as opposed to posting nothing at all.

Sylvia Plath - Mirror

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful --
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

I am such a fool. My beliefs are not meant to be molded and expressed by the frail, flawed language of mortals. True expression is not to be released, nor to be published, nor to be formed in any place other than in one’s own mind. Definition cannot be found in any place other than the hallowed depths of my being; purpose can only be discovered when a thorough search is conducted away from this world, and away from our silly, petty fears that are so important to us and can dominate so much of our lives. I hate being sincere. It is so futile while upon this world. To truly be frank with myself out loud is ridiculous.

I’ve decided I don’t ever want to publish. I’ve questioned the motives behind my doing so and I’ve discovered that they are completely aesthetic. Not for the fame or money or anything silly like that; I’m too lazy and worried to care about anything as completely stupid as that. I would publish to finally be able to hold, in my physical hand, the security of knowing and being able to articulate my beliefs. I have realized, however, that my beliefs should not be articulated. What folly that would be! Upon that day I would hold in my hand not what I believe, but the theory held by mankind for centuries that would bear strongest resemblance to my beliefs. This theory, or belief, or manmade conclusion, whatever it may be, is so dissimilar to what I truly live for. Why would I discuss this? What does this have to do with anyone but myself?

I will not find happiness in an audacious parade of events and details that have been circumspectly arranged by an ignorant hand that demands to know the things that are not meant to be known. It’s quite simple: all I have to do is live what I know. I have nothing else to do, so why would I do anything else? I need to stop dancing around this and attempting to find a middle ground in which I can have pleasure and serenity. One could say that these two things are synonyms, but no, my dearest, they are opposites indeed.

Argh. I leave for Cinci in 5 days. Oh blessed release!

Today I took mum out for an absolutely lovely dinner at L’Avenue. I had a splendid time, savoring the red snapper and Crème Brulée. The service was wretched, but the atmosphere was charming and the food was positively succulent. I then watched “Somethings got to give”, and have landed at the intelligent conclusion that Jack Nicholson is the perfect dirty old letch, while Diane Keaten is an idiot who, for some bizarre, unknown reason, comes off as witty to most.

This is, roughly, the hair I want. 

My brother and his friend, cabbage eater (I assume he has a real name, I'm not quite sure) are reading this over my shoulder, so I thought I'd drop by and say something nice about them.

Ricky has big ears.
And Cabbage Eater eats cabbage. Huzzah.

My other wall, with my dear stuffed dog Paul. Hi Paul! 

Muslin Curtains covering my "closet". 

Presenting my new room! We put a beautiful cool dip color on the walls with a linen texture. The floor is a dark cherry hardwood. 

“In the gospel of Jesus Christ you have help from both sides of the veil and you must never forget that. When disappointment and discouragement strike- and the will—you remember and never forget that if our eyes could be opened we would see horses and chariots of fire as far as the eye can see riding at reckless speed to come to our protection. (see 2 Kgs. 6:16-17) They will always be there, these armies of heaven, in defense of Abraham’s seed”

-Jeffrey R. Holland,
“For Times of Trouble,” New Era, Oct.1980, 15

Conversation around the breakfast table, Part II

Today mum, Ricky and I were talking in the dining room. We discussed new cars and my newly painted room, which, by the way, looks perfectly fetching. As we lounged, the bat walked past and opened the front door.

“I’m going outside with my orange to meditate about the eternal nature of the gospel. I’ll be back in 15 minutes”

She closes the door, leaving my mother and I quizzically looking at each other just to confirm what had been said. Mum’s lips break into a smile, as do I. 20 seconds later the front door opens to return the bat.

“I forgot my J. Crew catalog.”

Is there any hope for me? Is it physically possible that I will lead a relatively sane adult life or are the genetics too strong to allow this? I’m amazed I’m capable of coherent thought at the present…

Conversation around the breakfast table, Part I

Mom: “Mom, why do you have Rachael’s purse?”
Bat: “She let me borrow it because I’ve lost all my purses”. (They’re definitely NOT in my closet, believe you me…)
Mom: “Well, that explains a lot. I saw the purse in your room so I peaked inside and was confused when I saw all of your stuff inside. Where did you get that mascara? It works like a dream.”

Remind me as to why I ever felt privacy existed in this house….

I’ve just returned from an absolutely splendid night with Carter. Our evening commenced with a meal from Flemings, which was fabulous. I had the Australian Lamb and Carter had the rib eye, and the majority of the time we spent in the restaurant was spent in silence, Carter and I leaning back and gently salivating over the tasty meat. The atmosphere was exquisite, although the server was obsequious. I most definitely plan to return.

We then went to the mountainside to watch the fireworks. We dozed under the sky while lying under a blanket. He took me home, kissed me, told me I was beautiful, and invited me to a family party tomorrow. I like that boy.

Anyways- I received my ACT scores today. I scored a 28, which, though far from impressive, is good when remembering that I didn’t study a word and was running extremely low on sleep the day that I took it. I’m not excusing anything, though; I’m happy and proud of my 28.

I don’t think I’ll go to bed yet, but I’m certainly not going to write anymore. My keyboard is a piece of crap and keeps holding down the control key, which, as any semi-sane person can imagine, is annoying. Farewell.

It has seemed like the longest time since I've sat in front of this enticingly black screen. How I've missed you, my dearest, and how I've mourned your absence! This, my method, my child, I adore you and I've missed you dearly. It turns out my echo means more to me than I though it did.

I just got back from Spiderman II with Carter. The movie was good, or at least it was produced in the comic-like form that becomes our crime-fighting arachnid ever so well. I despise the actor who plays Spiderman almost as much as I loathe Kirsten Dunst (shudder), but overall it was good. Carter enjoyed the film much more than I did, bouncing around in his seat with glee upon witnessing the fulfillment of the comic book narrative. I think I'm in love with the boy. I found dependability in a 18 yr. old construction worker/romantic/prep school graduate and my discovery scares me quite a bit. I enjoy being with him ever so much! He makes me happy!!!!

Elisse is in Washington D.C. at debate camp. Apparently she passed up Stanford to go to this allegedly prestigious camp and found out it was crap upon arrival. Every time she calls I pick up the phone to hear disappointed whimpers and homesick groans from the other end. Poor baby. She has 11 days left till she arrives back in S.L.C and she can’t stand it there. At the same time it’s funny; she’s lodging in one of the most fascinating cities in the world and she can’t explore it because she has to attend a lecture explaining what a counter plan is. Poor girl.

My nonattendance, by the way, is not the fault of my laziness or my inability, I just want you to know. I’ve been traveling; last week it was Seattle (BEST CITY EVER!) and this week it was girls camp (WORST SLEEPING ACCOMODATIONS EVER!). This upcoming week I’m a.) painting my room the most adorable pastel-mint color and b.) working on Driver’s ed and the rest of my course classes. The week following will mark the beginning of my beautiful respite in Cincinnati which will last throughout the rest of July and the beginning of August. Exciting.

I’m tired, and I have to go brush my teeth. Tomorrow Carter is taking me to Flemings, and I pine with anticipation. Huzzah!!!