As a post scriptum, I have 8 unpublished posts from the past 2 weeks drafted on my Blogger account. Go ahead and laugh, but this is 100% due to my inability to find my phone cord that would allow for transfer of phone pictures to this here blog.

Which is due to my room being completely trashed.

Which is due to suitcases everywhere that I don't want to unpack but keep needing to turn inside-out to find things.

Which is due to my lack of a current place to keep my belongings.

Which is funny considering that I have 3 homes. Yup, still unable to sell my old contract. Please please please, if you know anyone possibly wanting to move just south of BYU campus and live all my college singles ward adventures with my really great roommates, refer them here. I am not looking forward to paying 2 rents every month.

My Life Is One Long String of Embarrassing Underwear Stories

This morning I went to Macy's, the upscale department store, with the intent to exchange some silken pajamas I received for Christmas. Instead, I exchanged my good social standing for a face full of scarlet and another pitiful blog post.

The plan was to jog to my grandma's house to watch the Bowl game, where I would change into un-sweat-nasty clothing (packed over in a random plastic bag) and head to the mall during half time.

After what I thought was a complete change in garments, I made the drive, found some alternate classy silken pajamas (floral print--pinkies out, grandmothers everywhere), and brought the merchandise to the service counter.

This is my silken pajamas posing with Jordan's infamous picture-ruining face.

There were several service counters open, but I picked the one manned by a younger lady dressed in a swanky black dress, figuring she wouldn't bother me with small-talk; there was a football game awaiting my swift return. I overlooked one small detail: younger lady was actually the devil's niece, and she possessed a dangerous sense of humor.

"I can help you right here," she said without sparing a smile. No, it would be business as usual at this service desk.

"I just need to make an exchange," I said without sparing a smile. Yes swanky sales associate, it will be competition as usual for this I-can-be-serious-too simpleton.

Taking my bag and rifling through the contents with her ritzy, recently-polished fake nails, she daintily removed a crumpled black article of clothing that I did not want to exchange.

"Would you like these, m'am?" She asked as she dangled my skivvies a foot above her head where the long line of people behind me surely wouldn't look.

At first glance it would appear as thought the devil's niece betrayed no emotion. However, the laughter in her eyes did not escape my notice.

"Yaaaa . . . that's awkward," I muttered under my breath as I snagged the under-my-wear clothing from the grasp of her evil shiny clutches and shoved it inside my purse. Fortunately for my friends standing behind me, I've recently done away with boring whitey-tighties. It was a good day for them.

Upon completion of the exchange, I found a gray maxi skirt on clearance and went up two floors merely to distance myself from everyone on the entire level. The male sales associate up here was jovial, large, slightly feminine, and much inclined towards small-talk.

Ironically, I then went to a different store and bought more underwear to make the pain go away.


"Holding hands after midnight is NOT bad."
. . .

"It's like cracking a turkey's neck. You have to just take it, and then crack it. You just do it. Don't think about it."
. . .

"Pretend like you're a tree and her hand is a round, delicious apple."
. . .

"When you're getting ready, whatever you do, don't show her your toe."
"Too late. Not only that, but I got this giant mole removed on my chest and then went swimming with her."
. . .

"Jordan, why are you asking so many questions? Is this an interrogation?"
"Yes, this is an interrogation. I've got to get you somewhere."
"Whatever, you've never even had experience."
"Doesn't matter. I'm a man."

Jordan, on Hand-Holding

I think I stole from the Lost and Found.

Someone please call the Police Beat and report me real fast. This may be my only shot at fame.

So maybe when I took a looksie at the entourage of blue Camelbak bottles, none of them had a jammed mouthpiece quite like mine. However, there was one with a gnawed-on hook above the mouthpiece. I claimed him as my own and washed him three dozen times.

For those of you just following, this sort-of reunion is a big deal.

If the real owner shows up at the Lost and Found and can't find her own baby, she'll just take another too, right? I support adoption and the Circle of Life. This is a combination.

Alright, still feeling guilty. Rationalizing never was my forte.
I'm a straight-up baby snatcher, but it just feels so right.

Baby Came Back

Things people say to me to express how much they will miss me next semester after I've moved apartments:

"Once you're gone, we'll lose all our sense of creepy!"
Here's one for the Photo Montage of Kill You faces.

"Awww man! When you leave, who am I supposed to be awkward with?"
"Ummmm, everybody here?"
"Yaaaa, but all you guys aren't Laura awkward. No offense."

"Thank you for the cookies. They were so burned."

"Please come back often and sleep under my bed."
Thanks guys, I'll miss you too.

Marie was distraught when she lost a sock to the washing machine.

The sign on her bedroom door read:

"Have you seen my significant other??? Cordially, One Lonely Sock."

Sarah was delighted and all-too-eager to scratch out "significant other" and replace it with "eternal companion."
I'm fairly sure "One Lonely Sock" became "A Returned Missionary," too.

Never a dull moment.
Match Made in Heaven

This is the type of long post that most people won't care to read (really, I'd skip this one if I were you--there aren't even any pictures), but perhaps my future baby Simpletons will.
(Baby Simpletons, although blogging life lessons trumps studying for final exams at midnight for me, the principle does not in fact apply to you. Please neglect not thine knowledge-navigation, my niño neurologists--Mommy's retirement yacht shan't be paid off on a salmon-snatcher's salary. We all must learn that younglings who are easily distracted from their studies doom themselves to the career path of the surly salmon-snatcher.)

For the vaster majorities: Don't fret--I'll get back to snarky paid programming in no time.

Life definitely kicks you when you're down; I experienced this firsthand in the worst way possible today.

However, I'm not the type of person who likes to stay on the ground (especially when it requires scrubbing blood off the linoleum just to look behind you and see you've made a fresh new trail), so the kick was just what I needed to regain my sense of humor.

Suffice to say that the morning had been terrible, awful, no good, very bad, and even Australia didn't seem like a far enough destination to begin a new life. In some ways it was nice to be at work because it required me to take a break and breathe. In other ways it was awful to be at work because I physically did not have the time I needed to finish my project before I had to defend it to my professor.

I was summoned forth to assist with a balloon order. Obviously, the first balloon I injected with helium got too big and erupted loudly--it happens often and keeps the customer on her toes. Unlike all the other detonations though, this time the balloon actually exploded into my eyeball. As I clutched the left side of my face, I was sure I'd have to buy a  Phantom mask to hide the bloody scarring, or perhaps invest in a blinged-up eye-patch.

My panic-stricken coworker could only find the words to ask if I needed to use the potty, and I nodded in shock, leaving the poor customer with her jaw unhinged on the ground somewhere near where my eyeball likely rolled to a stop. Gross.

In the safety of the secluded potty room, I pried my possessed hand from my face and observed only the dull redness from slight swelling and a sharp blow. The only real damage, other than temporary partial-blindness and engorgement of my facial second quadrant, was emotional exhaustion. I had reached the tipping point and set off to bawling in the public potty stall. This was the icing on the cake: the nasty fruitcake that nobody actually wants but they eat anyway to please the people who think it's good for them.

Sobs turned into laughter, turned into hysterics. Those poor confused other restroom inhabitants.

It was then, kneeling and weeping and giggling on the floor of the vending building's ladies' restroom (I spent a lot of time on the floor today), that I realized that things could only go up from that point, and not just from the standpoint of the world's crappiest day ever. The last few months have been hard for several reasons, but I'm ready to be whole again. I'm giving myself to the Lord. I know the fire would be worthless without this beating and stretching and shaping, and it's all for my good. I'm so looking forward to these changes and improvements I can finally begin to enjoy.

It was still the worst day of my life. I f-f-f-failed my final projects because of a printer malfunction--an oversight that was totally "my bad." Live and learn, Laura. Live and learn. Regardless, I'd be ungrateful if I didn't acknowledge the people who made this day livable. Yes, all of them. You purely cynical bloggers might as well go talk Utah-hate and people-hate and happiness-hate and give up on me right now. This post has reached the point of ultra-sap with no hope of return.

Mom: I called you like 14 times today. I know it probably seemed like you just said the same things to me over and over again while I complained and didn't listen and made dumb decisions. Not true. It meant a lot just to know that you had a hard time sleeping for worrying about my worries. I especially enjoyed when you joked about me failing and not selling my contract and dropping out of school. I told you it wasn't funny, but really it was.

Dad: Your sweet texts light up my whole day. I save them and cherish them. I appreciate your level-headedness when everything I'm doing and thinking screams, "irrational!!!!" I love your dry humor. I just love you, so much that I sometimes don't know what to do about it. Let's pretty please go hiking together over the break?

Chris: Thank you for acting on promptings. I don't think you had any idea what I was going through, and you have enough to worry about on your own. When you spontaneously broke into the flower shop to pick me up from work and treat me to ice cream . . . that was good news. You're the sweetest big brother ever, but we can still feign indifference to each other in public if you want.

Dottie: Thank you for showing me tutorials of how to turn old t-shirts into underwear. Thank you for supporting the pantslessness movement. Thank you for every single note, pillow nugget, and puppy picture. Thank you for chocolate soy milk. Thank you for the best hugs ever. Thank you for being so perceptive and asking me how I'm doing, even when I'm hormonal and a jerk. Thank you for not calling me a jerk even when I am one. Thank you for protecting me from scary roommates. Thank you for protecting me from scary neighbors. Thank you for digging through my unmentionables drawer for my thumb drive. Thank you for your bluntness (but really). Thank you for gummy bear breakfasts. Thank you for your unconditional service and love. Thank you for your example. I miss you already.

Sarah: I don't even know what to say. I would have drowned in the sea of simultaneous college ginormousness and nothingness without you. You do anything you set your mind to, and you set your sights high. I aspire to be like you, and not just because we have to beat the men away from you with pillows and nasty texts so you don't suffocate. Thank you for your never-ceasing wisdom and advice. Thank you for making fliers for me; that took a huge load off. Thank you for being my running buddy always and forever, even when we're married with babies everywhere. I miss you already.

Other Roomates: Thank you for doing things like such as cleaning the oven for me, providing hours of entertainment, getting really enjoyable reactions out of Dottie, driving me places, and the like. If it weren't 1:30 in the morning I would continue. I miss you already.

Changed my mind. There are way more, but I am way done. I must, however, emphasize the good that a run to the temple did for me to finish the day off. The eternal perspective is the best one. And sometimes, sometimes, hymns are even better for running than Ke$ha and Karmin.

Conclusionally, I choose to observe the fact that, in the words of my wise father, tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life! And since I did terribly poorly on my final today, the pressure's off for the rest of my finals since it is impossible not to improve upon my tainted record thus far.

. . . and there's the silver lining!

who's playing basketball at 2:00 am in below freezing whether by themself during finals week?
oh campus plaza, you shall be sorely missed.
Looking Up

I hate complainatory posts, but this must be done. You don't have to read it.

I set my alarm to wake me up at 3:30 this morning.

It never went off.

Instead I woke up after 7:00. My first thought was, "Oh no, this only gives me 7 hours."

7 hours sounds like a lot of time, but let's put that in perspective. This lovely morning I have 7 hours to start AND finish 2 massive projects for my print publishing class that must be done on a Mac computer. I don't even have a Mac computer. No biggie.

7 hours not only for that, but to print said projects to defend to my professor this evening. Yes, there must be accountability for this lack of decent projects.

7 hours to clean for the white glove cleaning check this afternoon. I think I might have to just take the fail and pay the fee on that one. Maybe I'll miraculously have time for the redo tomorrow. I'm in denial.

7 hours to make fliers to sell my contract. 7 hours to print said flyers and place them strategically...everywhere. Oh ya, and 7 hours to sell my contract.

This morning when I woke up, I stepped on a piece of glass. I bled for 10 minutes. Everyone else was asleep. I have no band-aids. Whoever's job it was to clean the linoleum is not going to be happy about this. I have a paper towel in my sock.

Washing my face and looking into the mirror was just the icing on the cake. I know everyone has Finals Face, but that doesn't make the pimple party any less obnoxious.

Why am I blogging? That's the biggest mystery of all. I'm a good student. Like, a really good student I'd say. So basically, I just don't know.

6 1/2 hours, people. I know it's just as bad where you are, too. Best of luck.

Zit Happens

submission by Debora Lyn:

These truly are the Final Days.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

Sarah: Dottie, why are you sending cookies to Elder Bessey?

Laura: She likes him for his chest dance.

Dottie: Do not! Never say that again!

Laura: It's okay Dottie--embrace it.

No pun intended.


Topher's been reading up.
How awkward.

Topher, I think you're great.

Punday Monday

I have a plea for you and your kin.

I'm selling my apartment contract for winter semester. This in no way has anything to do with the condition of the apartment, the roommates, or any other factor outside of my control--it just feels like the right thing for me to do right now (BYU kids are allowed to say that). I'm a little bit terrified just because the situation I'm in right now is so awesome, but I'm going to take a leap of faith.

With that being said, would one of you like to buy my contract? My roommates would like to adopt someone who enjoys a clean kitchen, late night walks to the duck pond, and projector parties in the living room. I have full confidence that each of you fits the bill. If not, do you know anyone in Utah Valley who's looking for a change of scenery? I have five days to sell this thing, all while worrying about finals. For some reason I feel like this might be a good opportunity for someone who has been living at home and just needs a change of pace for the next 4 months. You don't need to be a student at BYU.

-Shared room: $240/month, plus utilities (which run about $8 during the winter)

-3 minute walk to campus

-Roommates? Really clean and really great, but you know that from reading. They're what I'll miss most.

-Dishwasher, stove, internet, the works.

-Awesome, social ward. Even amounts of Sophomores, Juniors, and Seniors, with a few Freshmen thrown in there.

Do you have any questions for me? Know someone interested? Comment or email me:

Who could resist an apartment with such tacky decorations? 
(Don't worry, we keep it classy 11 months of the year. December just isn't one of those months.)

Who could resist apartmentmates with such ability to compromise?

More info and images to be found here and here.
Moving time

The Nutrition final requires the most Little Debbie snack cakes and Pinterest cookie experiments to study for.

Withstanding the English Language final requires finding the most language-bashing comics. The ones that define my beliefs and language style the most are the ones in most discordance with my major.

Not to be irreverent or anything, but often my Mission Prep and New Testament course guides require excessively boisterous music and kind-of-weird music videos (my favorite variety) to fill out.
(all links thanks to lil' bro Jordan--my music guru for the days that feel a little out-of-this-world)

The semester project for my Print Publishing Computers class is requiring the most breaks away from any and all technology (kidding) just to wrap my mind around.

What sorts of ironies are you experiencing in these last days?


I have a new friend. He's a small asian man down the way. Let's call him Topher, for anonymity's sake. I don't remember precisely when our bond took root, but it was invariably either after a time when I went crazy and verbally lashed the world, or when I kicked him out of the apartment, or when he saw me arranging flowers in my sweatpants and XXXL man's shirt with sopping wet hair, or when he looked through my phone pictures and found the ones of me modeling ugly jumpsuits in fitting rooms, or when he overheard me telling some story highly revealing of how crazy I am. Or maybe it was when he heard I have a blog. He likes blogs.


1) That time when he burst unannounced into our living room and Elizabeth tried to pick a fight with him. He told her he would if she wanted to and that he had fought some girl before. Conversation:

Elizabeth: Wait, you fought her? That's terrible! You can't hit a girl!
Topher: But I'm nice and do what girls want, and she wanted me to!
Elizabeth: Are you trying to say that you'd do anything a girl wanted, just because she asked you to?
Topher: Yes.
Elizabeth: Fine, I want an ice-cream cone. 
Topher: Hmm....okay, bye.

We thought he was gone for good, but nonetheless should not have been so surprised when he showed up fifteen minutes later with a heaping bowl of chocolate-chocolate ice cream and a paper cone on top of it. Elizabeth and I sat, jaws agape, while Dottie had the presence of mind to seize the opportunity:

Dottie: I want a unicorn.
Topher: I never turn down a challenge. One unicorn, coming right up!

Fifteen minutes later, he showed up with a picture of a unicorn carved into a piece of toast. Then he booked it out of there before I could procure a wish-list.

2) The half dozen times he invited himself in while I wasn't around asking, "Is Laura here? I miss her." When told I was nowhere to be found, he'd promptly leave the premises.
3) That time he showed up on a Saturday night and Dottie and I sat in our sweatpants on the living room couch. Swinging the door violently open and looking wildly around, his eyes locked with mine and he fell down on the ground.  

"Why didn't I realize you were so cool until now? It's almost too late. Will I see you again after the semester?"

Instead of responding, I glared at my gleeful roommates, daring them to give him my new address for Winter semester. When Dottie left my side to get a glass of water, he missed no beat in filling her spot, laying his head on my shoulder, and weeping softly.

Good thing Dottie returned when she did. She stopped cold at the sight, gave a roar of disapproval, and mercilessly beat Topher to the other side of the couch with a pillow, all while shouting angry phrases like "How dare you!" and "Get away from her!" She must've been feeling especially emotional, because she then collapsed down next to me, threw her arms around my neck, and began to sob.

Ok, we're all a bunch of dramatists. We do what we must to get the job done.

4) Two days ago, when he walked unannounced into our kitchen, he locked into my suddenly fearful eyes. Taking long strides in my direction, he dropped a term paper on the table in front of me, cradled my head into his chest, and sighed.

"Oh good, you're here. Read through this paper for me."

So I did. Maybe I secretly like him, like one might like a small pet chihuahua.

Topher reads my blog. I temporarily blocked him, but he'll find a way to read this anyway, I'm sure.
How awkward. 

Family pet

...and boys who are good people and buy Christmas gifts for their dear sweet mothers.

Go to Campus Floral tomorrow. There's a coupon on Facebook that gets you 40% off any gift item! All you have to do is print it off the page that this link leads you to and bring it in with you.

The store's kind of small, but the jams are great and the jewelry is super cute (and pricey, so I'm definitely taking advantage of this opportunity). We have tons of scarves too, some of which are seen here.

The offer's good for today and tomorrow. I would have told you about it last night, but

A) I was up until past midnight wasting time and contemplating the lifestlye of a permanent Burger King employee writing a killer essay on the speech habits of the lovable villains in The Princess Bride.


B) I was selfish and wanted to have first pick for myself before you went and took all the good stuff. Good news: the good stuff's still there.

Good luck studying! I mean that from the deepest part of my soul!
Dear [Provo] Girls,

Remember my "vegan diet"? Well, my good friend Jan sent me a pun that describes perfectly what happened to it:

"I decided becoming a vegan was a missed steak."

Hardy har har! And there you have it. I fell to the Turkey at the company Christmas party. I fell hard, I fell bad, and I liked it. I feel good about lasting five whole days. Aaaand, let's just pretend the grilled salmon at three days in never happened.


Another one for you, this time told by my supervising florist, Holly:

"There's going to be mistletoe at the coolers."
"We're hanging mistletoe above the coolers?"
"No, we're selling mistletoe at the coolers. But that would be a cool place to kiss!"

Yes, it's true. While limited supplies last, Campus Floral will be selling mistletoe in store and at their satellite cooler locations in the Bookstore and at the Creameries (on 9th and in the Commons). Get some.
Punday Monday

A woman's first run in only spandex seems rather exposing, but ditching the shorts made me feel fresh, free, and furiously fast.

We ran from our apartment to the lake and back. Along the way, intelligent non-runners took pictures of us from the bushes, blasted Ke$ha tunes, provided energy-nast pinole and stomach-nast gingerbread, and instigated dance parties. This place about to blow.
Partway through, I split with my typical running partners and made a daring dash for the party running ahead of us. This group consisted of Pocker Night boy and some other attractive dude I'd never met. Neither of them were runners in any sense of the word: they just up and ran 13.1 miles on a whim. Still, keeping up with them required me to bust an "I've been training for 8 months" lung. Boys are the worst.

Roundabouts mile 10, as my feet threatened to 'splode (half-marathon in Vibram shoes is a dangerous idea), I epicly wiped out and dove into the bushes. Despite bloody palms and shaken nerves, the only real damage done was to my pride when I realized a mile later that my broken headphones had been knocked loose and hung in one long, embarrassing string from my back pocket for all to admire. I hate back pockets.

After running beneath overpasses and through full-blown movie sets for a feature entitled Family Reunion (oh Utah), the finish line loomed close.

I've rarely felt as good as when I sprinted through the end, found my time to be 1:56:00 including dance breaks and pit stops in the movie crew's trailer, and gorged myself on energy bars and fruit. I've rarely felt as freezing as I did when I was Gatoraded.

My foot is out of order now. I haven't run on it for a month, and it'll probably be another two before I have it back. This is particularly unsettling since all I want for Christmas are new running shoes and more spandex. I've surrendered myself to the winter chubs and Seasonal Affect Disorder. The only treatment is a shopping trip and more cowbell. Worth it.
The Gingerbread Run

Chocolate chip cookies made without eggs are nasty.

Chocolate chip cookies made with 100% wheat flour are nasty.

Chocolate chip cookies made with vanilla almond milk in place of vanilla extract are nasty.

Chocolate chip cookies made with artificial sweetener are nasty.

Chocolate chip cookies made without chocolate chips are nasty.

Chocolate chip cookies that burn on the pan after 3.5 minutes in the oven are nasty.

veganism + the pantry of a college student = sad late night cooking schemes
It's ok though, I honestly wasn't even hungry. Perhaps the trash can was.
But probably not, because I haven't emptied it in two and a half days.

Sometimes I wish I didn't have a laptop. Then maybe I could get some homework done. 
Then you'd be sorry.
Make me.

I stand at the starting line, ready to give the next 13.1 miles my all.

On my right is the ex-boyfriend, on my left is the roommate, and on her left is her ex-almost-was-boyfriend/soon-to-be-boyfriend/"things are just terribly awkward between us right now" thing. On his left is his good friend, who has fought a valiant battle for roommate's affections to no avail thanks to the man standing next to him. Beyond, we have Mexican Pocker Night boy, the girl next door, and her attractive brother.

Already this run is messed. It's the perfect set-up to be the climax of some over-hyped romantical comic masterpiece capable of drawing chicks for kilometers around to the nearest Movies 8.

The gun goes off.

Commence pushing and shoving, dramatic conversations about the past, tears shed, blood trails, old loves re-kindled, new loves born, spontaneous man-brawls, the petty dunking of heads into the freezing lake, and the tripping of arch-rivals at the finish line.

Alright, de-commencing overactive imagination.

Though actual happenings of the race fell just short of Hollywood hype, entertainment ran far from short.

The Gingerbread Run: Setting the Scene


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