Sorry I was so dramatic this morning. I blame the inner psychological need to prove myself to the world through inconsequential competition and the removal of essential parts of my face.

Happy Halloween! I hope your costume was as great as mine.

(All different shades of green clothing with a bottle of Italian Dressing tucked into my belt. I went as Mixed Greens with Dressing on the Side. It was as painful as it sounds.)
I love you guys.

I have a question for you. I'm being dead serious, and this is a begging plea for response from each and every one of you, regardless of whether you follow openly or vaguely or creepily.


In case you don't have an answer at the ready, allow me to elaborate.

Our ward has been engaged in a Pumpkin Heist competition, and my apartment is heavily involved.

Exhibit A:

Protection: Raccoon traps and rat traps. We ain't never lost a pumpkin.

Exhibit B:

Ya, that was for the sake of pumpkins. Spontaneous guitar song + chomping down an onion = distraction for everyone while someone else escapes out the back door with a stolen pumpkin.

The pumpkins will be counted and the winner announced tomorrow night at a ward Halloween party. We are 2 behind an apartment full of guys who we despise, but only because they are currently winning. 

We've tried negotiating. They say one of us must shave our head or our eyebrows. Dottie and I think we're ready for this. Is this just a crazy late night fascination?

Pros: There aren't any men in my life right now and I only do college once. It's hat season and I could chop down my bangs--the timing is ideal for both. After extensive research (2 uncited google-search pages), it looks as though the hair will grow back normally and within two months. Celebrity status. Glory.

Cons: The obvious.

Comment up! Not a one of you is exempt. I value your logic.
Remain anonymous, if that will make you feel better.
I beg your loyalty. Beg.

Eyebrows, eyebrows, eyebrows. I just can't get them off my mind, or my face. 
Calling all readers: I NEED YOU NOW!!

Sometimes people think it's fun to make fun of me, mostly because I subconsciously stash things under my pillow and don't realize until I'm getting ready for bed that night and reach underneath to find a surprise. Mostly this was a freshman year problem, but I have a feeling it will continue to provide meaner individuals sniggers for years to come.

Remember this one? 

Kind notes are also common:

As are . . . articles of clothing. This one was probably my own doing:

Bill Nye is practically my fiance. 
He actually wallpapers our front door, as a gift from my roommates to me a month ago.
It's not weird.

And my personal favorite:

Who knew Satan likes his eggs Benedict?

The truth, uncovered

12:19 A.M.

"It is not on my bucket list to meet Justin Bieber.
It is not on my bucket list to meet Justin Bieber.
He's  like three years younger than me.
That would be weird.
Ya, it is not on my bucket to meet Justin Bieber."

-Roommate in Denial

Bieber's a touchy subject amongst college girls. If you speak his name, you will either gain mounds of respect from nearby peers, or else lose it all. There is no in-between. Thus the denial.

I have no opinion on the matter. Playing it safe.

Tomorrow I will blog about a good note I found under my pillow.

I don't know if tomorrow is after I go to sleep and then wake up, or the next technical date on the calendar from right now, which would be Saturday. 

Playing it safe.

I just registered for classes. That was fun.

Here, have a picture of something I did that is totally irrelevant and happened like three months ago.

Natural waterslide. Alpine. Go to it.  But not right now.

Quote of the mornin' to ya

What a golden place to find jokes.

ELang is my major because word plays are my life. Exaggeration much? Er.....

Remember Punday Monday? Ya. Puns bring me unjustified amounts of joy.

The point.

"Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana."

You see what happened there? One interpretation involves the -es as a plural suffix on a noun while the other involves interpreting the -es as the third person singular form of a verb.

But you can just ignore that last part and laugh at the funny joke if you want. I'd rather do that as well.

ELang HW is BOMB

When I go home, I take nice long showers and eat all the food. Sometimes I do laundry.


Sometimes my mom does my laundry. Don't be like me.

When I go home, I find my baby brother watching NOVA on the couch. The space version.
My baby brother knows how to have a good time. But really.

I've got to run (And/or sit on my couch and watch a movie. I can't tell you what it is. Not because it's rated R, but because it's the Bieber movie. Who am I?), but here's a picture of a corsage I made last month for some kid going to Homecoming. Y

Cop-out post

My roommate Dottie set herself a strict 9:00 bedtime for every night this week.

(I think the earliest she's made it so far has been 10:45. We're all about goal-setting here, but focusing on follow-through is really too much to ask. You understand.)

The first night of this goal, I went to take a shower and Dottie offered a "goodnight," reaching over to turn out her light. Good for goal-keeping Dottie, right?

45 minutes later, after I finished my shower (Fine--it was only10 minutes. This parenthetical is so wannabe...), I re-entered our room and Dottie, kneeling on the floor in front of her laptop, gave a little jump.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Nothing," came the all-too-quick response.

Then I glimpsed the screen.

"Is that...cute baby animals in your search bar??"

It was. I could feel the waves of guilt exuding from her skin. 

My roommates are so cool.

Except for when they want to kill me.

Apparently I violated "the rules" and made an open mockery of Elizabeth and Marie when I offered Lizzie a bust for something clever she said at the dinner table. To be honest, this act was indeed partially of a mocking intent, seeing as Elizabeth and Marie had busted each other at least seventeen times during the previous five minutes, but still, how was I supposed to know there were rules?

Death threats were made. They said they'd murder me and blame it on the witnesses, Lizzie and Sarah.
Valid argument: Elizabeth was on debate team. She went to state.

Basically I've locked myself in my bedroom. I don't go to the library. I don't go to the bathroom. I don't go to the fridge. Want to know why? It's because they're still out there, waiting for me. It's been four hours. Part of me hopes that leaving at an hour of the obscenely early variety to run up a mountain will save me from any surprise morning attacks, but the hope is weak. They know where I sleep. I don't think I'll make it that long.
Of thrushes, thoroughbreds, and death-threats

All I want to do is learn songs on my guitar.

And my piano.

And arrange flowers.

And study the English language so I can come up with more creative word-plays.

And be an awesome cook.

And meet new people.

And memorize scriptures.

And take spontaneous hikes.

And run trails.

And learn to do something new.

Maybe mountain biking?
Or study Latin?

And blog.

I am seriously so blessed. I do almost all these things on a daily basis. I'm living the dream, but almost too much of the dream. I wouldn't change any part of my life if I could--but I would invest in a time-turner so I could add "sleep" and "awesome grades" to the list. That would be good. 

Anyone with me? I have $4.21 in cash, and I can sell all my pants to contribute to this time-turner fund, as long as I get custody on Wednesdays. Working on the patience thing over here.
To do

I'm devastated.

How am I ever going to hydrate myself?

How am I going to upkeep my substantially increased numbers of pee breaks?

How will I keep my face clear?

How shall I continue to feel athletic, or fill up my tummy, or unparch my mouth?

I am lost without her.

I also lost my ipod this month. Somehow that's not nearly as traumatic to me.

This sudden lack of suckiness in my life is highly unsettling.

Lost my baby

Being single is great.

I spent Friday night watching youtube videos of strange guys belting Christmas songs, and then I sacrificed my hygiene to heist a few pumpkins.
Pumpkin Supply: +1
Laura's Breath: onioned.

I spent Saturday night at an outdoor concert. Then the roommates took glowstick pictures at 10:30 because Marie told her date she had to get home to "do something with her roommates."
Marie: +1
Bedtime: Rulesified.

I spent Sunday night photoshooting and at a Berrie Family devotional, where I was awarded negative 700 Berrie points for asking during the Q&A if the Berrie panel (a men's apartment) enjoyed sitting in a room surrounded by overenthusiastic girls (a dozen or so), and pretending they knew the answers to all of life's deepest questions. This is how I choose to meet new people. Forget classy, I'm a sassy lady.
Friends Supply: +1
Laura: -700.
Thoughts from a weekend's end brain cells.

Or maybe the problem is that I was lacking a few to begin with.

I just spent 5 minutes in a liquid nitrogen temperatured shower because I was a stinky.

Roundabouts the time the shampoo drained off and my skull shrunk two sizes to the point that I could feel it Anaconda Squeezing my brain, I realized that the knob had been turned all the way to the "cold" side instead of the "hot" side. Hot? Cold? Yes? No. They are different things.

This is how I came out. Realize that 70% of the time, mascara remover requires too much effort:

I have something to tell you, and I mean it in the least offensive way possible:

Take a hike.

Them mountains are gorgey.

The things I sacrifice for hygiene...

It's a good thing we established a strict 10:30 roommate bedtime. That's all I have to say about that.

You know you're starting the study-heavy night off right when, after ditching the library and going to the mall, you return to the library and your roommate cracks the greatest pun ever:

"Looks like someone ate lunch here. Laura, you get the crummy desk."

Laughter for nearly two solid minutes ensued. Punday Monday has ruined us forever.

This post seen on Facebook gave me a second wind. And then a third wind.

Heavy Techno. It's my new genre for late-night longevity. Homeboys Steve and Jor'n sustain me by seeking and sharing agreeable grooves.

You know that seasonal Pumpkin Smash smoothie at Jamba Juice? The one that tastes like Autumn? Roommate and I prepared the ingredients to make our own at two o'clock in the morn, but she only lasted until one. Good thing breakfast is in five hours. Brain food, friends. I'm acing tomorrow's Nutrition exam.

This place is nuts. There are people running around the courtyard and singing. It is 2:51. Ante Meridian. (AM. I want to take Latin so badly.) Did I ever tell you about the time the girl downstairs wouldn't quit with the horrible guitar playing and singing so we thrust a rotten tomato at her?

This one time six roommates and Jake sat crammed into the living room for some attempted studying. Front door ajar because we're too cheap to pay the A.C. bill, it didn't take long to tune out the two- or three-dozen laughing, flirting, water-ballon-thrusting collegiates. However, the girl who sang loudly and off-pitchly for near on an hour wasn't cutting it. Dottie casually let drop that we had a nice, soft, month-old tomato sitting in the other room. After fifteen minutes of searching and pondering, we hesitantly decided to drop that idea on the basis of being kind and stuff.

Then she hit a new note. Unacceptable. Without missing a beat, Jake stood, snatched the tomato, strolled on out to the balcony with six girls trailing unconvincingly casually behind, threw it into the courtyard, and strolled back in. Perfect aim. Hitting three feet in front of the girl, the leaking fruit slid and skidded to a stop not twelve inches from the tips of her toes. It was a beautiful moment. Mild confrontation ensued. Continued singing did not ensue.

I found this picture on my desktop. It's artwork. I painted it. Let's not worry about what it means.

Late at night I eat questionable stuff so I can stay awake and energized. Following it with a salad makes me feel better. Not giving specifics about "it" leads me to believe it is something dreadful.
It is.
Don't worry, I had carrots for breakfast and a vegetable medley for lunch. I used "light" butter and zero-calorie sweetener as I prepared dinner. Please do poke fun. This is not normal.
It's nearly 3.

I don't use sunscreen.

I don't brush my retainers.

I don't wash my vegetables.

Yes roommates, I did in fact feed you these plants sans-sanitization. Sans means without.
Bam. English Languagifized.
Bam. Immune System Enhancification. 

Oh hey bloggers. Cooking Tip:

Cut up some veggies. Any kind will do. 
Carrots, parsnips (personal favorite--the long white ones in the picture), broccoli, onions, potatoes, mushrooms, zucchini, and yams have all been tried, tested, and rushed promptly inside the belly. 
...inside being the operative word.

Toss with oil, salt, and sugar to taste. Place in oven at 450 Fahrenheits for 10-15 minutes, until the goods are crispy, not blackened. All of a sudden, you will love you some nutrient-dense fiber foods.

2 words:


Curse you lil' brudda. Someone bring me a dance party and now.
Character flaws

Ward Directory: Center Fold

These are my roommates. 

I whited out their last names, numbers, and majors to protect their identities.
Because their identities are all they have, besides extensive stashes of fruit leather, estrogen up the wall, and occasional stripping parties.

ya . . . . . . . 

We are the girls that match. And that is all. 
I don't think anyone outside this exclusive group actually knows my name.

Sarah on the other hand . . . . the rest of us have resorted to setting her up on blind dates just to be funny.  Averaging three dates a weekend, that one is. Enough to make up for the rest of us slackers.
Wouldn't trade her places though. Did that over the summer, if you recall. Brutal, it was.

Polyester polka-dots have never looked so good.

We're gonna be famous

I attended Sunday School in the home ward today.
Followed my parents to class because all the other kids with the pumped up kicks are at college.

Bad idea.

Sure marriage is full of complicated nitty-gritty. Do I want to hear about that? No.
Did I have to anyway? Yes. And so do you. Right now. Justice is sweet.

1) Communication is complicated. Fine. That's a given. But do we really have to go around the room telling stories about when our spouses came home from work and wanted dinner after we've had a hard day and broke into tears for who-knows-why?

2) Intimacy is complicated. Really compadre? Do you not see me? How about if we talk about this next week when the unmarried teenage baby is not around. You just made the whole room feel uncomfortable. Nobody here will make eye-contact with me for the next year at least, which is fine.

3) Don't go to bed angry. Just go to bed. Apparently talking things out when it's late and you're both unhappy is  a waste of energy. Just get some sleep and the problem will magically begin to dissolve overnight, like an angry note left under a leaky roof, or invisible Kool-Aid powder in the bottom of your jug of invisible Kool-Aid.

4) Men just don't understand. Period.

5) Women are just emotional. Period. (No pun intended.)

I think I'll stick with the singles' ward. Yes we're the recipients of extensive marriage preachery four out of four weeks every month, but I appreciate our unrealistic unicorns-and-rainbows naivety.
What I learned in Marriage and Family Relations class

Breakups are rather sucky.

Impromptu water-balloon races and finding chicken nuggets under my pillow are less sucky.

My gag-on-nuggets bedding situation could be rather sucky,

but I bought those sheets to be funny (scottie dogs: what's not to laugh about?), which makes them less sucky.

Long Live Wednesdays.

Done did the dumb deed

Everyone should match their dates when they go to fancy sit-down restaurants. 
Excessively casual attire preferred, please and thank you.

Then I wouldn't feel like I was doing something weird.

Then again, since when have I ever cared about whether I've been doing something weird?

This post was brought to you in part by Sir Ankney.
You're right. It's time to bring back the blog. 
Check out the plaids


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