The Day I Wore Brand New Leather Pants

Was also the day our car became solidly and horrifically stuck on the ice bank at our house.

There is no driveway in the Heber home. (Horses didn't need driveways. Horses wouldn't have gotten stuck in the ice. Pioneers were so clever.) Instead there's a very wide road and dirt patch on the side of the road that extends about five feet before turning into *lawn. This is where we usually park, backing in to the dirt patch on a slight slant. Normally this wouldn't be a problem. However, in the winter months it becomes a problem.

Years ago someone on our street must have offended the snowplow driver by insulting his mother, dishonoring his sister, leaching his Netflix without permission or something equally deplorable because snowplows do not come on our street. If I could see a map of Heber routes in the snowplow office I'm certain I would see a first an x, then a scribble, then blacked out area where our street is supposed to be, possibly with the label "DO NOT PLOW IN THIS LAND OF EVIL DWELLERS." Consequently, this dirt-turned-driveway becomes a nightmarish pile of shoveled and tramped down snow.

In the past, we've been careful to park with part of the front wheels remaining on the road. Somehow, SOMEHOW (I'm not going to place blame here) someone neglected to do this on Tuesday night. Wednesday morning we walked out innocently and naively believing we'd simply get in our car and drive to school. Au contraire.

I got in the car. Riley got in the car. The gas pedal was pushed. The wheels spun. Eyes were rolled.

However, this had happened once or twice (or three times) before so I resignedly got out of the car, ready to push. I expected after 3 or 4 tries, 9 or 10 minutes, the car would start rolling again, as it always had. This was not the case. So Riley got out of the car, I got in, and we tried again. And again. Every attempt met the same fruitless outcome. But we kept trying! Because, determination! I am capable and independent!

Yeah right. That capability and independence lasted about 30 minutes. By then, all we'd managed to accomplish was to roll the car further back down the slope and closer to a 4 foot snowbank. I decided that we needed help and went through the list of approximately 3 families that we know that I'd be comfortable enough calling for a tow at 8:00 am. At this point I was spitting mad and because my emotions make sense, near the brink of hysterical sobbing. Making phone calls in that state is not ideal. But I managed to sound like I wasn't having a mental breakdown and found someone possessing a truck who hadn't left for work yet.

Long story short, after a few pulls, the car was back on the street, and all was well. Late, yes. Wrenched backs and frozen hands, yes. But you know, hashtagblessed.








*It's not lawn. It's the long patchy grass cover that survives years of excessive shade and of neglect.


Also, hi. I started blogging again. I went on a mission, came back, started school again, got married, moved and a whole bunch of other things. I'll spare you the painful catch-up. Pardon my 3 year absence.

Thoughts on a Tuesday Eveing

I haven't written for awhile, not necessarily because I don't have anything to say.  Of course I have things to say.  Don't you know me?  I always have things to say, long involved stories often about nothing.  The problem is right now I have too much to say.  I can't even get a handle on my emotions.

I want to write about my thoughts on serving a mission (29 days.  Twenty. Nine. Days.)  but being aware of the depth and vast range of those emotions, I can't even begin to delve into them.  It's much much easier to recognize that I'm leaving, and stop there.

I'm excited mind you.  I don't want that to be a question for a minute.  I don't doubt my choice.  But humans are hardwired to fear the unknown right?  I think I wrote an essay about it way back in my AP European History Class.  And I'm adventuring into the unknown, a weird kind of structured unknown where I kind of think I know what I'm doing?  The general logistics and overall goal and all that, yeah. But the details?  No clue.  What will my companions be like?  No clue.  What's going to happen to my family, friends, and certain relationships while I'm gone?  No clue.  I mean I have trust and faith and all that, so I'm not really to ulcer level anxiety or anything but if I'm being real then yeah, there's a little bit of fear there.  (Read: TERROR)  And I could go on and on about that.  But I don't want to.  I don't want to concentrate on that.

I want to tell you about visiting my family back east, the sights we've seen, the states we've visited, my lovely and interesting relatives.  And of course the stories of finals, heavily studded with Billy BYU moments.

You know I'm a nostalgic old man right?  Papa Jim style?  Well I'm brimming with nostalgia and sentimentality, and maybe even a few fond tears and I want to talk about that.

Mostly though I want to continue the tradition I started last year, cataloguing some of the people I found in these two semesters of school.  I need to tell you about my roommates, how I'm drastically happier than I've ever been since beginning college.  But two of the most important relationships I've experienced... well I don't think I have the words for those. Here's my conundrum.

1.  These two experiences were crucial to my development and I want to do them justice.
2. I don't want to gloss over them like they didn't exist, though they turned (or may turn) out not so happily in the end.
3.  And I hate people who give mysterious allusions to an event without actually giving details.  Usually I tend to think those people just need validation from others begging to know what happened.
4. I don't want to be like that, because that's not what this is for me.  I write pretty much for me.
5.  BUT this online any joe shmoe can read.
6.  And because it's online and involves other people and is very personal, I can't really say everything I need to anyway.

So I can't NOT write about them, I can't KIND OFF write about them, and I can't COMPLETELY write about them.  I don't know.  I'm pretty sure this can be categorized as a quintessential Catch-22*

All this leads to being a little overwhelmed.  I'm tired already.  Too much to say, too little time.  But I'm going to try.  Beginning tomorrow I'll peg away at the ice block of my brain, hopefully fast enough before it melts into a mess.

Let me put it this way.

"i have come to believe that writer’s block is not so much an absence of ideas as it is a tremendously strong desire to take a nap, all. the. time.

when the desire to sleep is greater than the desire to write–to say something–that’s writer’s block.

perhaps it is that the act of writing or thinking or forming words is the very thing that overwhelms and exhausts. sometimes it’s just harder. sometimes it just costs more.

All this thinking and pondering and remembering crap has worn me right out.  So in light of that, I'm going to bed.  Sweet dreams.  I'll see ya tomorrow.

* I hated that book.  Call me an uncultured unappreciative neanderthal**.  I don't care.  Really, go ahead, do it.

**Irony: needing to look up how to spell "neanderthal"

Anyone else feel like an idiot trying to flirt-text?  Anyone?

I have an idea.  How 'bout you just call me up and we go on a date instead and talk like... I don't know what like.  LIKE TWO PEOPLE WHO CAN HOLD A CONVERSATION.

Good comparison eh?

Or better yet?  Why don't I call you up?  Oh right, because I'm a wuss.  Yeesh.

I feel like it should be easier flirt-text.  Flixt?  Tirt?  Flex?  I have all this time to craft the perfect response, but that only results in over-thinking every word.  Talking in person fosters more genuine reactions I think.  If I'm awkward now (after 21 years) I can only imagine the results after I've spent 18 months completely restricted from all flirtatious interactions.

Did you hear that?  It was the sound of minds blowing.  Mind-blowingly awkward.

Dear Lizzie

Dear Lizzie,

I just wanted to thank you for those green workout shorts you gave to me.  Ok, you didn't actually give them to me. I took them out of the trash bag you'd designated for give-away clothes.  But you said I could.  So basically it's the same thing.

Now that's it's finally warm enough to wear them, I was pretty excited to put on those shorts.  I went to the gym and biked (the kind of bike that you recline on, you know that kind I'm talking about?  Not an upright bike) and they were so comfortable and man I felt GREAT!

You'll also be pleased to know that I didn't notice the huge hole in the crotch until I returned home.  An hour later.

Can't wait to see you!

Love,

Sierra

Intervention.

I think I have a problem you guys.  I'm staging my own intervention.  With myself.  Thanks Self.  You're the best.  And your hair is growing out so nicely!  Psych.  You look like a fetching mullet gone wrong.  But that is not the point of this post.

The point is, you have an unhealthy obsession with wearing men's outdated clothes, and thriving on compliments about them.  Someone said they liked your jean jacket?  Do NOT triumphantly declare (in your head or otherwise) "THANKS!  It was my DAD'S!  TWENTY YEARS AGO!  People do not care.  They do not care and likely they think you're a freak for 1) happily admitting such a thing and 2) for wearing that outfit in the first place.  The same goes for his socks, his shoes, and multiple items purchased from the DI.  Did I mention people don't care?  Oh I did?  Good.  Because not only do they not care, but there's a very good chance they don't actually mean any of the compliment.

There's two kinds of compliments you see.  There's the sincere compliment (rarely given) and the stuff people say trying to make their words sound like a compliment when in reality, what you're doing/saying/wearing is so completely embarrassing that they feel awkward for you and all the stares you're getting.  Thus, they try to diffuse the pathetic situation by addressing the elephant in the room (YOU) and making it seem admirable somehow.  You know this.  You've watched this happen between OTHER people.  But when it comes to you, well then, all bets are off.  Because you tend to not be able to read any social cues when it comes to yourself.  Your sad sad naive self tends to think that every word people say, every gem that falls from their mouths is completely sincere and honest.  We call this Papa Jim syndrome.  You walk away from every interaction thinking, "MAN.  That person is SO NICE."  Unless they just killed your dog and tripped you.  Then you think, "Well they probably had a hard day, maybe someone forced them to commit murder.  And as for the trip, well that was pretty funny wasn't it?  What a great sense of humor."

While this innocence may be endearing to some, it's really messing up your sense of reality.  As in, you have none.

GET A GRIP

Why do you get such a perverse pleasure from it anyway?  Are you trying to flaunt some societal norm?  Listen, I'm not asking you to wear a sock bun or black leggings with tall brown boots or anything else worn by seemingly every.  fetching.  female. at BYU.  Go ahead, flaunt some style or whatever you call it.  But ENOUGH with the bragging about outdated mens clothes.

Grace please come back into my life.

Trust me, your future self (there's quite a lot of these "selfs" aren't there?  have you checked your meds lately?) will thank you.

I'm glad we had this little talk.

Thought Processes

The Testing Center intimidates the fetch out of me.  Why you might ask?  Well let me go all therapist/patient on you.  IT'S MY PARENTS FAULT.

Before I came to BYU, my parents had a favorite story to tell me.  Actually they have lots of these favorite stories.  Always warning stories, "you know who else didn't clean her room?  Jenna.  Do you know where she is now?  DEAD."  Like every time I drive through the intersection of 27th and Highland Papa Jim MUST tell me about the time our neighbor got T-boned there.  "Now Sierra, you know this is the intersec... YES DAD.  I KNOW"  And then I speed up and pretend to ignore oncoming traffic.  I love our conversations.

Luckily for me they also have a story revolving around the testing center, so I could be sufficiently cowed and terrified before I walked in.  Apparently a cute charming charismatic boy from our ward didn't just get IN TROUBLE (enough to scare me right there) but got KICKED OUT and got A ZERO on a test for goofing off.  And by that point I'm curled in a fetal position on the floor because an embarrassing spectacle, disapproval, and bad grades?  Sweet lanta just kill me already.

Now I've already made it through a semester and taken more than a few tests, in fact, I even got away with wearing leggings during one test; so when I walked in on Monday, the trepidation levels were minimal.  Which means of course it's time to wreak havoc with my irrational fears.  Hello brain.  It's been awhile.

I'd lost my calculator a few days before but that was no problem right?  Really.  It would be fine because I could rent a calculator.  Everyone says so.  (But what if they're out of calculators?  What if they really don't have calculators?  What if they laugh at me and I have to walk of shame home past everyone in line?) NO.  It will be Oooooohhh Kaaaayyyy.  Breathebreathebreathe.

Luckily they really did have calculators for a mere 50 cents, so I took one, found an open desk, and sat down.  Halfway through taking my test I realized that my calculator, you know, that piece of plastic I'd sweated over getting actually didn't. work.  Whenever I tried to multiply or divide the calculator added a few zeros.  5 divided by 10 became 5 divided by a thousand.

Crap.  Crap crap crap.

(Am I allowed to stand up if I'm not done with my test?  What if they think I'm going to look at notes and cheat when I'm really only going to exchange a calculator?  Do I take stuff with me?  Do I raise my hand?  I DON'T WANT PEOPLE TO LOOK AT ME)

I kept the calculator.

I know, I know.  Pathetic.  Just wait.

Because, I rationalized, I can just move over the decimal points by two places.  No problem.  I can handle this.  Crisis averted.

Then I left the center, studied for an hour, and returned to take another test.  This time they gave me a working calculator and didn't even charge me for it because it came with the test.  I sat down under a large poster that read "KEEP YOUR BACKPACKS COMPLETELY UNDER YOUR DESK AND DON'T OPEN THEM AT ANY TIME" Normal.  

Things were going my way.  Until I opened the pocket of my backpack where I always keep my pencil.  The pencil I'd had less than two hours ago to take my other test.  It wasn't in there.

Crap.  Crap crap crap crap.

(I know it's got to be in my backpack somewhere! If I just keep looking through it... But what about that poster?  They're going to kick me out for peaking at a cheat sheet!  Why is the sound of looking for a pencil so dang loud in this deathly silent hall??  Why am I freaking out about this?  It HAS to be there!  ...  It's really not there.  Should I stand up?  Should I raise my hand?  Do they rent pencils too?  And then there's the whole issue of OH MY GOSH PEOPLE ARE STARTING TO LOOK AT ME)


I took the test with a spare piece of lead.

Four

3 down.  Dos mas.

My arms aren't actually long enough to click the photo button AND get my sweater in AND my face.  Also did you know that opening the camera folder comes with instructions?
1. Tilt the camera down
2. Gaze up into the lens
I followed them exactly.  That's clearly why I look so good.  It's all about the right angle.

 Shout out to Papa Jim from whence this sweater came.

Just Another Day at the University of the BY

A conversation between me and a complete stranger.

(I'm walking out of the building behind her)

Her: *Pushing the door from the wrong side* "Oh shoot that's embarrassing!" *sideways glance at me*

Me: "Don't worry, it happens to the best of us"

(We continue to walk, coincidentally going in the same direction.  Which I guess means to some people that the tactful thing to do is carry on a conversation.)

Her: "So the review helped don't you think?  I was actually surprised at how much I remembered."

Me: "Well yeah I guess the integration of material helps because now instead of just memorizing random words there's some meaning behind them to make it easier to understand."

Her: "Yeah.  You know I don't really feel like throwing pots at your husband is a good idea though."

Me: "Wait what?"

Her: "You know, how they were saying in Cohash* culture it's like a sign of endearment to throw a pan at your husband?"

Me:  "I'm sorry, what review did you just get out of?"

Her: "Oh.... probably not the same one as you."

Me (delightedly trying not to bust up): "Yeah, I just came from Anatomy."

Her: "Oh mine was something something cultural science heritage something global crap."

Fine that last quote wasn't exact.  I don't remember what she said.  Mercifully at that point I was turning right and she was headed to the left.  So I could laugh all I wanted.  

Bless people.

*Also I have no idea what she said.  I was thinking about CoASH which is acetyl CoA from chemistry.  Probably that's not what she was talking about either.  Unless those enzymes have a violent domestic life we just haven't covered yet.

An Open Letter to the Guy from Accounting Lab

Dear Sir.

This is not a post about how attractive* you are.  (You are.  But probably so is your wife.)  This is also not a post about how great your style is.  (It's great.  But probably so is your wife's.)  What this is, is a chance for me to say thank you.  And to explain to you the depth of my gratitude, something I couldn't have adequately expressed at the moment.  Because if I'd tried to, I might have actually started to cry right there in the lab which would've been real awkward for everyone and not at all helpful in articulating how I felt.

You see, I walked into the lab that morning feeling like I was completely and utterly drowning, trying to keep track of T-Accounts, debiting, crediting, bad debt, and I didn't understand any of it.  I couldn't even memorize things because just looking at the words, so foreign and unintelligible, overwhelmed me and then they blurred and disappeared.

And then you took the time to write down the formulas on the board and explain them clearly (even though you'd just finished doing the same thing for some others) and finally I understood.  It clicked.  The problems made perfect sense and I could work them all out.  You went back to studying in your corner and I went back to studying in mine and that was that.  I said thank you, but really how can you sincerely thank someone from the bottom of your heart in such a casual setting like that?  Unless you noticed the desperation leaving my eyes, there just wasn't a way.

So thank you.  Thank you thank you thank you.



*Sorry Dalt.  You're way cuter of course.

All Things Pumpkin

You know what I love?  Pumpkin.  Everything pumpkin.  I started craving it at about 12:01 am October 1st and still haven't recovered.  I even planned an entire day around the purchase of a pumpkin cheesecake shake.  Which was well worth the time because it was quite possibly the most perfect shake I’ve ever had.  I’m serious.  I’m thinking back right now, reminiscing of my favorite moments of the semester and that’s the first thing that comes to mind.  And NOT because that was also trip that everyone took a bite a hamburger from the garbage can – although that moment holds a close second.  When I’m ninety years old and little snot nosed kids come to interview (and brighten the lonely lonely lives) of the elderly, I'm going to talk about that shake.  I’ll remember fondly until the drool floods out my dentures and there are a few more emotionally traumatized children in the world.

Clearly this set a high precedent for everything else pumpkin related, because while perfect in taste, it did nothing to satisfy my craving.  And this is where I’ll oh-so-kindly use years of experience and hard trials to bestow great wisdom upon you. 

A Guide to Surviving Pumpkin Related Foods

Sammy’s Pumpkin Cheesecake Shake?  Always good.

Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Bread, homemade?  Always.  Good.

Pumpkin Soup?  Pumpkin Bagel?  AWFUL.  DON'T DO IT.

This goes to show the depth of my craving.  Every food must now incorporate pumpkin.  Apparently my body wants to turn orange from all the beta-carotene I’m taking in.  Just in time for Halloween.  (What up Snooki costume?)  I don’t know what possessed me to make PUMPKIN SOUP, except that I had an extra can of pumpkin crap and a computer to research recipes and no time to grocery shop for real food.  Or maybe I had way too much time on my hands.  Either way, DON’T do it.  Even pinterest recipes might not be able to redeem that mess.

I may have deserved it, after all, the idea of it sounds kind of dumb from the start.  But don’t be seduced by the false wiles of the pumpkin bagel.  Sounds great in theory, right?  RIGHT.  At least, it did to me.  I’m telling you now it’s a letdown.  It’s a big fat piece-of-cardboard-disguised-by-smeared-chocolate-chips-and-orange-paint disappointment.

Life is so hard guys.

But now I’ve killed three posts with one:

-The gripe post

     -the food post (sorry there aren’t any picture of me posing adorably with delicious look eats)

      -The seasonal post?  Kinda?  Guys I love FALL! And the COLORS!  And my snuggly warm boots!

A good day’s work I’d say.  My clothes are right side out too.  Look out world!

When Things Get Busy

Sometimes, the only time I can make it to anatomy open lab is at seven.  And sometimes that means I get dressed in the dark because my roommate is still in bed - apparently grad students have the luxury of sleeping till noon?  Yeah I hate her.  And because turning on the light would probably zap my tired eyes into little raisins that get sucked back into my brain (Optic Nerve I), leaving me tragically blind and disgustingly eye-less.  Think the fates in Hercules.  So sometimes I don't realize my shirt is actually inside out until now.  Approximately 10 hours and 3 classes later.

Also.  This is not the first time.

Doggy Paddle

Oh hello there.

Blogging tendencies have been a little bit lax of late, mostly because my brain (AHEM.  my cerebral hemispheres, frontal lobe, insula lobe occipital lobe etc..) is crammed so full with other thoughts.  There is SO MUCH to learn.  I used to write posts in my head for days, first of all because I'm straight up weird.  Seriously there's a little voice in the back of my mind that often narrates my life.  Have I mentioned this before?  Probably.  That little voice is unfortunately not very reliable for remembering important things.  But ask me to share a storybook style tale about the two seconds on campus where you recognized someone?  I'm your woman.  I'll have you reeling with plot twists and married with babies before you even finish asking.*

Second of all because did you know sarcasm is a LUXURY?  Seriously.  All this cleverness that is my wit does not come as naturally as you think.  I had the time to compose my thoughts into hysterical sentences as I walked between classes, those moments before I fell asleep.  I had days to compose posts in my brain.  Now those moments are filled with thoughts about concepts I'm learning, trying to remember things for tests, worries, and often just the bliss of nothingness. I steal times for little bits of nothingness every chance I get, trying to concentrate only on the gorgeousness of the world.

Maybe it's not just BYU.  Maybe it's because I'm a junior now and finished with most of my gen eds.  And I don't mean to complain, but dang this is hard.  I don't just have midterms, my class schedule balanced out so the test are spread out pretty consistently to every week or two.  And consistency is really not my strong point.  I'm more of a "lay it all in one big pile and I'll make one massive hurdle over it and then be done for a few months."  I have a LOT to learn.  A lot of habits to change.

But you know what?  Thank goodness.  Because even though I'm not acing my classes, I'm being pushed.  Like really shoved in the pool sink or swim sort of pushed.  I prefer that over treading water for the rest of my life.  I'd rather be the crap of the cream than the cream of the crap I guess.

That's not to say the days aren't without stress and tension and the occasional bubbling of ulcer beginnings.  So before I get overwhelmed with it all, I try to remember what I love this place.

Which I think I'll write about later because I'm really sick of this post.  It's been in my drafts box forever and now I kind of hate it.  But I'm going to publish it because I want to remember this feeling.  This time of just barely keeping my head above water, but loving it.  Really really loving it.

ttfn

*Do I make sense to anyone?  Anyone?  I tend to ramble I know.  And SOMEtimes I re-read and edit my crazy thought process for you to follow.  But only sometimes.

I've Become One of THOSE People.

You've seen them in the library, slumped against chairs.  You've seen them in the hallways, tucked into corners.  You've seen them sprawled on the grass, limp on desks, and even collapsed on the floor.  They are...
THE SLEEPING PEOPLE.

During freshman year, whilst I was attending my favorite University in Cedar City, my good friend Katie F went to BYU (good friends in the way that we went to the same school, and talked at least once and I always thought she was like the coolest person in the world and even though we never actually "hung out" ... ok spoke... outside of sitting in the same classroom I always wanted to be her friend so I'm gonna claim it ok?  Give me this one).

There she found that sleeping in public is apparently a societal norm.  I looked at her pictures and lauuuuughed at those poor hopeless bums.  I also swore that when I went to BYU I'd never be caught in such a pathetic situation.

It took me three days.

I can't help it.  I fight it, really I do.  But it's just so conVENient.  There's all these little couches in little nooks of the library where all you have to do to be comfortable is lean your head back... like so... and
BAM.  out.  Out like Papa Jim when he tried to read me bedtime stories.  I don't think he ever made it past page four.  I always thought it was so dang weird.  Who could really be that tired?  Who could actually have so FEW inhibitions that you could truly Sleep in Public??

Ah the blessings of anonymity and sleep deprivation.

My inhibition have flown out the window.  Out the window, to the car and are currently road-tripping to Canada.  AYE????

Buenos noches from the comfy library chair in the most hidden corner.  (I do have some pride.)  And I know I'm basically a celebrity to you but please... no pictures.

The Adventures of Billy. Part One.

So we meet again fair boy.

Let's start with an introduction about my accounting 200 class.  This is an auditorium sized room, filled to the brim with students.  Three hundred at least, honestly.  This is the girl that occasionally hides in the corner of the library during the ten minutes between classes because there's just so. many. people. Too many people crowding the halls and looking at me.  Stop that.  STOP IT!  So MUCH EYE CONTACT.  So. Much. Overwhelming.

yeah.

Now this class starts at 8:00 every Tuesday and Thursday morning, which is, you know, probably doable for well-coordinated motivated people.  Read: not me.  And on this particular Thursday we were assigned seats for group work.  Which meant that there really was no way I could rationalize not washing my hair (especially since it'd been a day.. or so...) and putting on mascara AT LEAST.*  We were supposed to look up the seating chart the night before and memorize it.   Riiiiiiiiight.  My teacher also warned us that being late was not recommended because you'd have to walk in front of all five million people and find your seat and make people move and interrupt the teacher...

heh heh heh.  See where I'm going with this?

I really probably could have made it.  But I also have this running schedule which is supposedly going to get me ready for a half marathon.  And I printed it off the internet so it must be trustworthy. RIGHT? Right.  And it called for me to go on a long** run that day.  And here's the thing.  When it comes to things like this I'm not flexible at all.  I'm brick.  I'm the BYU honor code and I WILL NOT DEVIATE.  I must go running every day my omnipotent schedule mandates and I Must go the Corresponding Distance and I MUST go in the MORNING.  Because if I go at night in this big scary city probably I'll become a headline in the news.

So I figured that all I had to do was get up at six, because hey, run for a 45 minutes, then have 45 minutes+ to get ready = GOLDEN.  Six rolled around.  Then 6:05, then 6:15.... because I kept rationalizing, "no way.  I can totes run it faster than 45 minutes.  I fantasized this as I laid completely stationary in my very comfortable sleeping bag.*** That's also when I think I won't check facebook that day, or will talk to that one boy in my chem class.  I'm such a liar in the morning.

By the time I got up, ran, got ready, and left for class, I was doing that awkward jog every other step zombie gallop all the way to class (the furthest building away as it turns out).  And after running my legs into little stumps (ahem.  little-ER) that morning I still had to make it up the seven flights of stairs that stand in the way of my classes.

The point is: if you happened to be walking on campus and saw a really sweaty girl in yellow pants, cradling her thighs and wheezing/speed-walking with an especially pained looking grimace on her face, it was definitely Billy.

It was also Billy who arrived late to class, dripping lotion-sweat and walking from the 38th row to the correct seat in the 7th row.  And then when that person had to get back up two minutes later to pick up the handout back on the 38th row?  Still Billy.  Poor thing.


*you're proud right mom?  the EFFORT i GO to.
**long for ME ooookay?  As in, more than three miles.  Shut up.
***Normal.  More about that later probably.