It's important that I wander about barefoot, that the soles of my feet, soft and supple after a winter indoors, press upon the raw earth and feel its intensity as they become dirty and carelessly calloused again. It's vital that I stay true to my nature, which is not one of manufactured, sweet scents and scrubbed skin, but rather is filled with my own scent, the smell of my hair and my eternal insistence on lying on the ground, sitting on the floor, sprawling on the asphalt driveway, blissfully sprinkling the sun upon my skin and drinking the sounds of the twittering birds as if they were wine. I'm always dirty in the summer and my skin is always smudged in one place or another. Those who love me and know me best are familiar with my seasonal antics, and they adore me for it. They love the smell of the earth on my body, my crumpled, wild, thrown-together hair, my feet that glisten with indifference and the freckles that splatter upon my nose, my cheeks, my shoulders, and randomly about my bodice, marking me as fair, familiar, erratic and forever distinct.

Update:


-yesterday I talked to the professor in charge of DAAP admissions. He didn't really say anything, but I don't think I'm going to get in. Initially I burst into tears, but then realized that this might be my golden opportunity to go into a field in which there is more money. I was immediately consoled.

-I have two massive exams coming next week, both of which I've kind of already studied for. Kind of.

-This weekend I embark on a 3 day long road trip. Wish me luck.

-I have yet to finish catch-22.

-I think I'm developing a nervous disorder. I'm not particularly happy about this, but it would make a lot of sense if that is, indeed, the direction I'm heading. Who am I to resist fate?

-I am wonderfully broke at the moment. After the road trip and Bryan's birthday, I'll be riding that little line between red and black pretty damn hard. Huzzah.

-I want to write, I really do. I'm simply too busy, too worried, too unhappy with everything I do manage to write. Forgive me, my darlings, and take pity.


That is all.

The trick, dearest friend, is to spend one's time wisely. It sounds simple, and I suppose it might be, but if it truly sounds simple then I don't think I'm getting my point across. The trick is to spend your time in the most wisest of all ways possible, to conspire against the clock as if it were your worshiped, important yet neglected, sparkling little enemy, and brilliantly weigh in effort-to-return ratios with skill and slight doses of panache. Sometimes sacrifices must be made.

For example: popcorn.

I find nothing more laborious in the world than standing next to the microwave with my eyebrows pulled together, my head resting in clenched hands as I desperately struggle to decipher the pops and crackles coming from the contraption. I can never decide when it's done. The task is not as simple as the bright package claims it to be; the pops are never clear, the buzzing of the appliance muddles the vital translation, and right when you think one second has elapsed between pops a muffled fizzle rings through the air and leaves you completely confused.

The solution is a simple one: undercook the popcorn. Yes, the package states four minutes, but you risk scorching the delicious little morsels by following the vague directions. If one settles on a nice, round, three minutes, however, the task is accomplished! Half the bag goes uncooked, I realize, but I clearly stated that sacrifices must be made a couple paragraphs ago and now is the time to sacrifice, and popcorn kernels are the burnt offerings to be placed on the alter and offered. Don't be fooled by the popcorn button; the fate of any bag of popcorn subjected to the roughish popcorn button is too horrific to be mentioned here. Resist, my stallions! Do what must be done and under cook the damn popcorn.

Not that I know anything about cooking popcorn, mind you; I just tried said challenge and managed nothing more than a shriveled, smoldering burnt bag in which no corn was popped. I'm pretty sure I'm onto something with this three-minute thing, though, pretty damn sure....

“If you approach the problem and say, “We know what is right and we would like to use the atomic bomb to persuade you to agree with us,” then you are in a very weak position and you will not succeed, because under those conditions you will not succeed in delegating responsibility for the survival of men. It is a purely unilateral statement; you will find yourselves attempting by force of arms to prevent a disaster.”

-J. Robert Oppenheimer, head of the Manhattan Project and key creator of the atomic bomb.

*Sigh*. How incredibly profound. If only President Bush had taken a history class or two...

Oh irony, you heathen, you cur! You blasphemous, bitter little thing! How unexpected you always are...

I recently placed a bid on ebay for a Sony Ericsson phone. 2 days later I realized that phone numero uno had defied rhyme, reason, and the evil scheme of the cellular companies, and is now completely functional! I was told by every tmobile employee I visited that no, cell phones really aren't built to withstand a thorough hosing-down at the car wash. I believed them, set the little one to rest in one of my many purses, and proceeded to bid on a very pricey one.

So I now have one working phone, and one coming that I don't need (and can't really afford). And, you know, a $500 car insurance payment due on the 15th.

This will be fun.

I don't think I've ever been this happy with my body. Yes, an unforgiving arrogance has always dominated the personality I project, yet I've always had numerous qualms with the reflection the mirror gives me.

Now, however, the mirror bows before me. I've come into my own; my stomach is not completely flabless, but is toned; my frame looks a little more lithe, yet my curves persist gallantly. Swimsuit season no longer stands on the horizon and haunts me, but rather teases me as I wait. Bring on the swimsuits! Bring on flirty summer dresses! Bring on lavish summer fashions!

I'll be waiting.

Oh, I don't think I told you.

Elisse and I are back on good terms again. I'm extremely happy with this, because she's my best friend and I adore her dearly, and I need her, quite frankly. It's nice calling her up. Though our lives and the lives of others will transform in the most magnificent ways, wheeling and turning as the sidewalk spins out of control beneath them, there are a select few individuals with whom an unyielding connection will always stand. No matter the years that pass, if we come back to contact with these certain people, deep in the heart of the conversation we will find the familiar intonations and thoughts and spirit that were there before.

Magnificent, that.

Anyway, Elisse is in the midst of a messy break-up with Carter, and I'm worried about her. They are no longer together, but she will always feel a connection with him. Things will work out, she'll be fine, and she might even be able to enjoy cheesecake again in the near future, if all goes well. Until then I can do nothing but worry about her.

There are certain parts of this depthless society that confuse me; among these being the crusade against a woman's curves, pubic hair, and natural state in general. Though the former is a serious issue, one which ravages the country with eating disorders and the theft of female confidence, the latter can be seen as trivial but annoying all the same; who the fuck decided that a woman's pubic hair is a bad thing?

Is there no grace to the womanly fuzz that naturally dons the area? Does it not soften the figure as the stomach gently slopes to soft, rich, protective curls? Is there a reason we wish to erase the calculating characteristics that separate grown women from underdeveloped girls? Tell me, Howard Stern, askmen.com, select individuals guiding the societal trends, tell me: what is wrong with pubic hair? I am a vain woman, a very vain woman; I gleefully endure the harsh rituals of eyebrow-plucking, leg/armpit shaving, and hours of primping that are commanded by society's perception of femininity, and I do them because I appreciate the end result just as much as the men around me. The vain formalities listed above make sense to me, though I never fail to gripe about them. The ritual of Brazilian wax, however, confounds me completely; how is a naked, hairless vagina remotely enticing? I understand that trimming certainly has its aesthetic benefits, but robbing a woman entirely of her cushioning tuft seems completely illogical.

I am glad Bryan respects and adores a woman's natural beauty, because if anyone expects me to go a-shavin' the nether regions then they're out of their mind. Any woman who has the money and time to spend $150 and 3 hours a month at the salon desperately needs a hobby. Like scrap booking, that ironically enough, despite all its useless puddles of uselessness, is 5 times as productive as waxing.

Anyone who thinks that fashion is just about the clothes is an idiot.

I can think of a time, sometime in late summer of a past year, that I lied sprawled in the grass of Eden Park. The day wasn't particularly stunning; the grass was patchy in places of the park and dull from the merciless sun, the sky was a pretty blue but wasn't extraordinary, and the day shone with a rather harsh glare- if I were making a movie I think I would have told the cinematographer to change the lens of the camera- but overall the day was pleasant and the air light. I sat on the ground and the grass cradled my body and felt comfortable beneath me, and as I rested my eyes on the blue of the sky I felt a sense of belonging; perhaps this world wasn't created for me, but I certainly belong in it, right here beneath the sky, above the grass, and between the paved pathways that scurvily frame the park. I am meant to be happy, I am meant to find my own way to that happiness, and I am meant to respect the ways of others to the best of my ability. I was built to adore the curves of Columbia Parkway, I was built to make myself laugh in the stupidest ways, I was built to foster morbid displeasure with Sylvia Plath's writing. Though these things may seem trivial, they are the things I observe most often, and are therefore the concentration of my reality. I am not one for the jagged confines of organized religion; I have faith in my intuition. I accept that I am fated to change, that I change daily, and that I am bound to contradict everything I've ever said at least once. If everyone is required have a religion, then that is mine.

I was exhausted and frustrated when I wrote this post. I don't feel like rereading it or checking the spelling, much less the content, so if you are either my elder brother or my mother, and you don't feel like being offended, don't read the post. Quite simple, you have to admit. It might be rash to publish this, but I have discovered that is important to address our frustrations, and it is important to state them aloud. So, without any further delay, I present to you my collection o' bitching....


Today, in a sense, Bryan gently criticized the vanity from which I felt a need to post a picture of myself. His comment has necessitated a disclaimer, which follows as such:

Firstly: I write primarily for myself and myself alone. Though yes, my blog does serve as means of connection and general description of my state of being to those interested, I ultimately write because I believe in journals; I believe in documentation. My current appearance is, after all, a general description of my state of being. A blog is an extremely effective and easily accessible way to sort and store said information, which, on occasion, includes pictures, and many of the pictures I posted months and months ago now exist solely on my blog; the initial origin of these images have been sucked into infinite cyberspace and the inevitable omnipotence of my messiness. The wisdom of my posting them has therefore been proved, and I will continue to post.

Secondly: I realize that Bryan's criticism stem not from my desire to document but rather from the vain nature of the picture, and I understand why; much of our culture is obsessed with illusions of humility. I, however, am not; I choose to dwell in illusions of absolute and total supremacy instead. Why deny my vanity when I could swim in it? Not only am I the coolest thing since sliced bread, but I am, dare I say it, even cooler than sliced bread. The sun may not revolve around me, but my existence most certainly does. I'm hot and I want y'all to know it.

While I'm arrogantly ranting on about my inescapable coolness, here's another issue for you: my darling elder brother fears that I am making religious mistakes, and also, on a less important note, that I know not the meaning of the words I use. I recently discovered this via the very private letters he sends to mom, that she, in turn, quite tactfully publishes on his blog (are we all detecting the bounteous sarcasm? Good.) I am officially pissed off and will now write an equally insulting and public opinion in retort:

“To whom it may concern,

It has come to my knowledge than quite a few individuals in the golden city of Salt Lake (plus one in Zürich) are worried about the spiritual condition of my eternal soul, and have begun to ponder the possible cause of my total and tragic fall from the straight and narrow path of mormonism. At this time I would like to issue a status quo report regarding my eternal soul and the spiritual condition thereof: I no longer practice mormonism or affiliate myself with the religion because I recently discovered that mormon doctrine is entirely self-refuting. The pity extended by these individuals is insulting because I am, for the first time in my young adult life, happy. I wouldn't dream of having the audacity to ask said individuals to forsake their needless concern and accept my decisions, however, because that would imply that they would have to stop gossiping about me. This would prove to be quite the travesty because if they stop gossiping, after all, they will have nothing left to do but think, which is not an activity condoned by the mormon church or its members. I do not wish discord to completely ravage the livelihood of my mother and my brother, so I have no choice but to smile and nod as they salaciously discuss my downfall. Luckily, I don't give a flying fuck. :)

P.S- If one doubts the capability with which I choose my words, I would advise them to discover the handy concept of a dictionary, and then to use it. You might be pleasantly/unpleasantly surprised- the emotional quality of your discovery is entirely dependent on however you wish to react- and you might even learn a word or two in the process.

Sincerely Yours,
The Prodigal Daughter. “

I WILL CLEAN NO MORE FOREVER.

As it currently stands, my enthusiastic bout of intense cleaning turned out to be completely counterproductive. I left my cell phone at the car wash and the precious mechanism is now completely destroyed; apparently cell phones don't mingle to well with copious amounts of soap and water. The travesty has birthed the following conclusion: I should have yielded to my natural inclinations by sitting on my ass all day long as opposed to launching GYMPASB crusades (Glorious Yet Mysteriously Pathetic Attempts to Stay Busy). I will certainly remember that come my next day off.

Also, my philosophy professor has finally finished his lecturing about why women shouldn't be in the workforce/ hold college degrees. He has now started lecturing about aliens instead. I now have sufficient justification to ignore him completely and am therefore quite happy.

I am still sick and cough atrociously, despite the several metric tons of theraflu deliciousness that I have been enjoying daily. This illness is persistent but apparently has no interest in spreading past my sinuses to the rest of my body, so I have yet to suffer from the headaches, body aches, or fatigue that normally accompany a cold. I figure that in terms of colds and various illnesses, this one is actually somewhat lenient and merciful. She/He is invited to stay awhile in my sinuses as long as She/He behaves. I'll keep sipping my theraflu deliciousness and we'll all be happy.

In my semi-delirious yet contently ill state I've begun reading "Catch 22". I adore the first 19 pages that I've read so far, and look forward to finishing it. I will keep you updated.

That is all.

GPU (Glorious productivity update): I have cleaned Rufus. By “cleaned” I mean drove to the car cleaner, hosed him down, soaped him up, rinsed him off, came home, vacuumed him inside out, windexed the windows, fabreezed the hell out of the interior, and doted upon him generously for hours on end. Yes, my biscuits, the productivity continues. What? What was that? Well, yes, okay: I did fiddle about with my father's camera for two and a half hours with not a single picture to show for it, but that's really not the point. Why bother bringing that up, anyway? Must you always focus on the emptiness of my proverbial cup as opposed to the fullness? You won't get anywhere in life with a dark attitude like that, darlings, no place at all.

Anyway, now that I have recovered from that ever so pointless interruption of despondency and gloom, I can continue to the GPF (Glorious productivity forecast): I plan to run for about 30 minutes on the elliptical, and then do some toning exercises for 30 minutes. I will then make a cup of coffee and enjoy it with two squares of dark chocolate. I will then take the rest of the evening to relax. I've earned it, wouldn't you say? What? What do you mean 'no'? Stop gabbing on about the hours and hours of schoolwork I've neglected, damnit! Yes, I've an exam on Friday and Monday, and then a gargantuan research paper due the Friday after that, but that's simply not the point! I've been productive today, hear me? PRODUCTIVE!

You bastards....

I stand by the doorway and lean on the yellowed wall, clad in flannel pants, baggy socks and a gigantic sweater, nail file in hand, rocking slightly as I file my nails. It's not as if I prefer to stand when conducting such an activity, it is simply the best option, you see; I know better. I know what will happen if I sit on that couch.

It will eat me.

It will eat me and my precious day off. The hands of the clock will slide to one, two, three, and I will look up to see that my time has been robbed from me. I will not accomplish all that I badly need to do. The couch will eat me and I will be depressed.

I stand so as to keep going. My errands press up against me, irritated by neglect, and poke me in the leg. I've done this so many times before; I compile a neat list of tasks and endeavor to complete them, but my time always finds a way to trickle through my hands like water, and runs down my clothing and leaves me damp and uncomfortable. I hate that. Today I conquer the fluid of my continual failure. So, let us start appropriately:


“Tah Tah rha DAAAAAA!” Go the horns,
“Boom Boom Boom” Go the drums,
“ yay....” Go the enamored onlookers,


“ALL HAIL THE QUEEN OF PRODUCTIVITY WHO TOTALLY DID HER LAUNDRY TODAY!”

Yes, oh squablings of the under-kingdom: your monarch of hotness did do her laundry today. I also cleaned the entire house and wrote my mother a nice, long letter. Kindly note the early time of the day by which I accomplished said impossible tasks. All is well in the Rachaelian kingdom, dear groundlings, all is well, and the land smells sweetly of laundry detergent.

I know this all seems rather silly, but I've continually been disappointed with the spoils of my Tuesdays (the day in which I do not work nor do I attend school). It is now 1:00 PM, however, and I am happy with what I have done thus far. I thought you might like to know.

This past week I have read:

-Vile Bodies by Evelyn Waugh
-Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
-Talking It Over by Julian Barnes

"Talking It Over" depressed me, but "Vile Bodies" was spectacular. I'm happy just to be reading regularly again. It's exciting.

I am also toying with the idea of allowing comments on my blog due to Elisse's insistence. I don't know.... What think thee? I suppose the benefit of comments is that you'd actually be able to answer that.

I'll think about it.

“Darling, are you going to get out of bed?”

I struggled to locate the voice. I wake up devastatingly groggy and under the impression that I am in Wisconsin. Is it eight already?

“It's almost eight, dear.”

I squint through my half-closed eyes and peer about the loft.

“But it's dark outside. Is it really eight?”

“Do you want to stay in bed?”

“You know I don't like staying in bed after you leave. It depresses me.” I sit up and pout. Why was it so dark out? I felt as if I had been jolted out of bed in the middle of the night.

“You can stay in bed if you like.”

I moaned and pouted a bit more before heaving myself from the bed. I located my clothing, went downstairs and began to dress. On my way down the steps I couldn't help but realize that the clock wasn't next to the bed.

“Where's the clock?”

“I don't know, dear. Would you like some tea?”

I grunted an indecipherable 'yes' and disappeared into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Bryan was already dressed, and I didn't wish to make him late. I tried opening my eyes all the way in the bathroom in a pathetic attempt to wake up. It didn't work too well.

“It's so dark out. How bizarre.” I muttered as I walked to the kitchen.

“What type of tea would you like?”

“White, thank you.”

“It will be ready in a moment.”

“Darling...”

“Yes?”

“You said it was almost eight.”

“Yes...”

“The clock on the stove reads 7:10.”

“.......”

“.......”

A small whine sounds through the apartment. How dare he. How dare he fiddle with my sleeping habits.

I suppose it was lucky for both of us that I discovered the flowers at that moment. Had there not been flowers, dearest reader, arms would have been broken. Blood would have been shed. Livelihood as we know it would shatter into tiny bits of rubble. I would have been, to put it diplomatically, upset. Yesterday I had suffered through two tests, a thesis paper due date, a severe lack of sleep and a slowly developing cold. To wake someone up an hour early after such a day is nothing short of treason.

But there on the table sat a vase of Gerbera daisies, a large bowl of fresh fruit, a plate of cottage cheese and the tea. Gerbera daisies are my favorite (right after the saffron blossom, that is); I love the bright little creatures, with their perfectly proportioned stems and brilliantly colored petals. I've always viewed Valentines as the pinnacle of maudlin uselessness, but this small surprise was, well, nice beyond explanation.

“Oh Darling, how charming. I saw those just in time, you know; I was getting ready to disembowel you.”

“Happy Valentines Day, love.”

We sat down and ate breakfast. I smiled as he told me of the multitudes of gay florists who had aided the surprise. I felt somewhat embarrassed; we had been planning to celebrate Valentines on Thursday, and I had nothing for him. I doubt I'll have anything by Thursday, even; what do you get a man for Valentines? We both decided not to spend much money- we're marvelously poor, you know- so I'm still clueless as to what is expected for the man (although Bryan and I did discover that in return the chauvinists of the world have officially declared March 14th as “blow job” day). I'll figure something out in the next couple of days.

“Thank you for the surprise. I loved it.”

“You're very welcome. Should we get going?”

We left the apartment and I drove him to work. As I pulled out from the parking lot I drove past the front door of the building and saw him. I waved and blew him a kiss. The doorman standing outside waved back at me, looking somewhat confused.

The flowers sit on my desk next to me. I couldn't find a vase, so I placed them in a decanter I found sitting in the dusty bowels of the empty kitchen cabinets. They smell lovely.

The room is much more inviting with my little decanter full of flowers; the deep reds and soft whites and pinks of the pedals make me swell with contentment as I look around the room and think of how hopelessly in love I truly am.

Jeff and Ricky were flopping about, flailing their arms and puffing their faces up with gulps of air they playfully held in their mouths. The sign at the beginning of the subway trail stated that if we were to encounter any cougars while hiking, the best defense is to appear to look big. That's quite literally all the instruction they offered: look big. The sign boasted a picture of a stern hiker waving his hiking sticks in the air and holding his breath. The outdoors community clearly couldn't summon up an acceptable plan A, so they decided to jump directly to plan B and advise the fated travelers to annoy the cougars into retreat as opposed to frightening them. My step-father Jeff and my brother Ricky were practicing. In no time they had perfected the art of annoying all types of life within a five-mile radius into exasperated retreat.

I don't wish to paint a deceitful picture, however; Jeff was hardly the family-man. In our family of 5, he was the largest child of the bunch. The only reason he was acting remotely playful and tolerable at the time was because Ricky is the type of kid anyone can play with. My perception is tainted, I realize, but I don't really wish to relieve the situation of my biases. Jeff and I never got along well, to say it nicely. Many different types of personalities dwell in this world: there are those that bend, adapt, that see the best in others, that are quick to forgive- Ricky fits this mold spectacularly, like a pleasant bit of silly putty that one can't help but adore- there are also those that don't always see accommodation as a priority, and this is the category that fits me the best. There are also the questionable, curious personalities that can only be explained by psychological disorders and the DSM, the ones riddled with loud, pro-Bush opinions, the ones clad in horrible plaid and Tiva sandals- worn, might I add, with equally horrific socks- the ones that never learned to clean up after themselves and think it a great idea to collect empty boxes and cement bricks. This is how I see Jeff. As I said, he and I never got along quite well.

One can imagine, therefore, how brilliantly asinine an idea a family vacation is for a family like mine. Passing each other in the hallways of the house proved to be a challenge for Jeff and me; he'd always manage to utter some stupid comment about the current domestic policy, I'd always end up screaming that he made me want to renounce my American citizenship. So, following traditional Stefanussen mentality, the family resolved that a 5 hour car trip was an apt solution to our cohabitation woes. I dramatically objected, stood strong, and vowed that such a thing would never happen even if the prevention of such meant bloodshed. Needless to say, this story begins in southern Utah, some 5 hours south of Salt Lake City.

I suppose one of the reasons my mother married Jeff was because he was “outdoorsy”, if I might be so bold as to use such an ugly-sounding expression. Jeff was fantastically active in all the wrong ways; he participated in the Iron Man competition- and no, you gullible easterners, it's not this awesome, ritualistic pastime of glory that everyone thinks it to be; if stupidness were to materialize into an overrated event, the end result would surely be an “iron man” competition- he owned all the expensive R.E.I gear that sat in the basement and collected dust, and he wore those beastly short shorts that doubtlessly revealed the most lurid unmentionables to innocent passersby when he went jogging. My mother must be the only individual in the entire world who appreciates “outdoorsy” people, these flamboyant creatures of immodesty, because she married Jeff. I'll never understand it; my mother also enjoyed being active in this way, but only to the extent of the normal individual; she appreciated it, admired it to some apathetic degree, and even considered buying a kayak until she became distracted by a shiny object lying on the ground and decided to go to lunch instead. Though the woman was always in great shape she never bothered to actually go jogging or anything. Why her admiration for the “outdoorsy” folk of the underworld would actually inspire her to marry one is completely past me. This tepid “outdoorsyness” of hers, however, is the reason I was forced to go to southern Utah to go hiking. Against my will, mind you.

It's not that I mind the hiking, truly I don't. Though I enjoy whining when outdoors, somewhere deep, deep inside of me is a sliver of appreciation for the experience. The one good thing about having pretentiously “outdoorsy” caretakers is that mandatory family activities tend to be intense. Jeff had submitted a bid to secure a permit to hike through the Subway slot canyon in Zion National Park (Yes, one must bid to hike here. Quite pretentious, as I have previously noted). The 9.5 mile hike slithers through the west side of Zion and requires its hikers to rappel, swim, and rock climb as they traverse the slot canyon. Though Jeff and I occasionally found our ways to squabble despite these obstacles, the rappelling, swimming and climbing kept the family busy enough to forsake the usual bickering. I'm not the type of person who talks as they hike. I'm not sure why, because it wasn't as if I was concentrating on the hike, or what surrounded me at that time, I simply slid into my thoughts and remained there for most of the seven hour hike. It took me three and a half hours to realize that no one quarreled when I was silent.

The canyon was, I'll admit, extraordinary. The sandstone met the ground in the most peculiar places, and soared up sixty feet on either side of you and cradled you, and the air between the two walls was heavy yet comfortable. It wasn't a cheerful place; it was damp and aggressive; the pools of water sat like glass between the walls of the canyon, and though they were a bright emerald green, there was something menacing about the water. The shapes were bizarre; the stone curved round the stream and grasped the mouths of caves that loomed grandly to the side. At times I felt as if I had fallen into an obnoxiously gaudy science-fiction novel from 1953.

We came upon a log twenty feet in length that rested on the side of the canyon and slopped down into a pool of water.

“Ah, the famous log,” I mused. Of the thousands of Subway pictures Jeff had insisted on showing us previous to our departure, ninety percent of them boasted this slender log, which, might I add, holds no significance whatsoever, other than the fact that it struck some 900 hikers as original and worthy of a picture. We all stopped to take our pictures under the log o' fame, and for a brief moment I wished I had been wearing a hawaiian shirt and burmuda shorts. I said this out loud, and everyone looked somewhat offended that I would so irreverently mock the log. Ricky didn't mind, though, he rarely does; nothing bothers him, and he's always ready to sport a smile and laugh at whatever stupid thing you have to say. That's who he is, at least that's who he used to be; he takes a little after my older brother Rob and me now, and he's grown a little cynical, a little stubborn, a little callous. In a sense I think it's good for him, because now he's more honest about what he wants as opposed to agreeing to what everyone else has to say. On the other hand, though, it's a bit sad; every once in a while I see a bit of my belligerence flash in him, like a sharp reflection on the glass of a car as it speeds through the night, and it simply doesn't suite him. He's so good at being kind. I suppose I shouldn't feel guilty. In Salt Lake, where everyone masterfully pretends that they care with great big smiles and twinkling eyes, with voices so fake that their words drip out of their mouths and down their white shirts, I pride my cynical self on my well-placed indelicacy. Each vigorous scowl is simply another satirical victory for me, you see, in this battle against needless pretension. I am the only counterbalance, and each scowl and hearty witticism is for the good of the general populace, I tell myself. There are times, however, when I look at Rick and I wonder if I've fallen off the edge of the other extreme.

We probably sat down and had a name-brand overpriced granola bar at this time. I don't remember. We continued our hike, and the scenery grew more elaborate. The puddles of green grew deeper, and the bends in the stream became more vast as we crept out of the mouth of the canyon. I'm sure that Jeff sputtered some complex yet utterly useless (and probably misquoted) statistics about the rock formations at one time or the other. I have no idea; that man is so full of useless statistics that I stopped listening three days after I met him. My mother once told me that I stopped listening to Jeff before I met him, and I replied by informing her that her statement wasn't half as profound as it sounded. I remember that she smiled after I said this, and laughed. Though she doesn't enjoy the fact that I so stubbornly oppose optimism, my mother laughs at the dry humor in my opinions. When she laughs she smiles, and I always feel as though she understands me when she does this. We slowly exited the slot canyon and began the steep 400-foot climb straight up the loose talus hill to the canyon rim. The sun shone- it must have- in that piercing way that bathes you so deeply in yellow light that it's difficult to see. The dust of the desert rose up, embraced us, and clung to our damp bodies that were moist with the perspiration of the hike. The subway was visible yet distant, and without the pressing weight of the internal décor of the canyon it felt as if I wasn't looking at the same expanse of land I had just explored. I placed my hands on my hips and asked for a drink of water.

I'm not sure how long we walked before we reached Jeff's Chevrolet blazer. Jeff's car bore manifest to the fact that his all-encompassing “outdoorsyness” was of apocryphal proportions; Chevrolet blazers, in all their versatility and ability to be simultaneously sporty yet semi-ego-friendly, are only appointed to the supremely “outdoorsy” of all the “outdoorsy” folk. I smirked at the rarely-used bike rack that was perched on top as I tossed my gear in the back and climbed in the car. I threw myself on the seat and let my legs fall limp. I stretched my arms behind me, crossed them, and rested them on my forehead. I exhaled and yawned, searched the ceiling of the car with my eyes, ignored the sounds of the others as they clamored in. Jeff had just begun talking about the vegetation of Mt. Kilimanjaro when I fell asleep. I was exhausted in every which way, wholly and completely, inside and out.