Simpleton Pleasures

I'm grateful for jobs.

I'm grateful for full-time jobs.

I'm grateful for full-time jobs that count as a hundred or so volunteer hours.

I'm grateful for full-time jobs that count as a hundred or so volunteer hours and still pay for a nice chunkity chunk of my education.

I'm grateful for full-time jobs that count as a hundred or so volunteer hours and still pay for a nice chunkity chunk of my education and provide me with an hour of commuting time to ~~sleep~~ do my math homework.

I'm grateful for attractive men and gingersnaps and my long luscious locks and freckles and those days when I'm not sick and carbohydrates when I'm allowed to eat them and my screeching pig and my screeching dog and my Men of Hawaii calendar and chocolate protein powder and drugs and scented candle dates with my little brother and scented candles and my little brother and tabs. Just making sure you're still paying attention.

I'm grateful for full-time jobs that count as a hundred or so volunteer hours and still pay for a nice chunkity chunk of my education and provide me with an hour of commuting time to do my math homework and allow me to go on walks with my dad during lunch and where my coworkers pronounce my name right and that goes along nicely with my math major and where they let me address envelopes for 8 hours straight on my first day and Mary and Pippin work in the tech room while everyone else has at least a Master's except for me and where my dad can bring me a fanchy shandwich and treats and it isn't a call center.

I'm grateful for full-time jobs that count as a hundred or so volunteer hours and still pay for a nice chunkity chunk of my education and provide me with an hour of commuting time to do my math homework and allow me to go on walks with my dad during lunch and where my coworkers pronounce my name right and that goes along nicely with my math major and where they let me address envelopes for 8 hours straight on my first day and Mary and Pippin work in the tech room while everyone else has at least a Master's except for me and where my dad can bring me a fanchy shandwich and treats and isn't a call center, and for timing because this job and that job wouldn't have been nearly is valuable as the one with all the above listed benefits to drive me insane with gratitude and YOU insane with Shootmeintheheadiosis.

I'm grateful this post is over.

You're grateful I used coloring so you didn't have to read the whole thing. Lazies.

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For Steph's Mom:

You never actually entered the minesweeper competition, but Steph told me your score and I found it so impressive that I tried all week to beat it. I got down to 50, but didn't even begin to approach the 30s. Thus, I dedicate this verse to you:

Steph's Mom is a champ.
She could own a minesweeping camp.
She's better than Laura
Who needs to raise the bar-a.
I lost so bad my namesake feels damp.

(p.s. Those of you who don't personally know me will be lost real fast if you don't pick up now on the fact that my last name is an underwear company. I work it.)

Gratitude Journal

Girls' Choice Date #2 of 3

The askingness: It's hard to top myself when I set a pretty high Bread-Intruding standard, but I did my best when I found out 5 minutes before the fact that my roommate and I were to ask boys out at ward prayer and I wouldn't even be there. Some ridiculous lyrics and a quick phone-call later, the following happened:

[This is where I would post the video, except I forgot that it's been deleted forever!!!!! Sorry guys.]

A friend with a crazy accurate Jeffrey impression sang/chanted the lyrics while I beat-boxed over speaker-phone. It has come to my attention that several of you readers are Julian illiterate. As such, you'll want to watch this before trying to imagine how these lyrics make any sense, which they don't. Anyway.

Josh Laura. Josh + Laura. Josh-Laura. Joshlaura.

Take some Laura. Take some Josh. Look at that couple. Real posh.

Just make sure, you don’t eat, a real Josh-Laura. CUZ THAT’S A LIE!!!

Josh-Laura (ETC)

This world is full of college kids. Big, slow, and ugly, they go on dates.

If I ask you out normal, I might sound normal, but then you might think I have a normal date planned for you. BUT THAT’S A LIE!!!

Josh-Laura (ETC)

Take some Laura. Take some Josh. Don’t forget your mouthwash.

Josh-Laura. Josh-Laura. Josh Laura (they’re subtle but they make a smashing couple). Josh Laura (continue, fade out).

There was much whooping, snorting, gasping, blushing (In my defense, do you know how many words rhyme with Josh? Like 3.), and accepting. Mission accomplished. Then we did this on our date:

Good for becoming real comfortable real fast, but turns out this is a really gross idea. Also turns out I would gladly do it again.

We played "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader," pudding facial hair style. Miss a question, and your date gets to paint on a soul patch. Miss another question, you get a Hitler-'stache, pedi-'stache, sideburns, and so on. Obviously, none of us are very smart.

This resulted in an extremely tentative hug at the date's close. For one thing, beware of pudding smears on clothing. For another thing, we both had beards.

...and then the entire next-door-neighbors' apartment of my date all came out to watch, including the EQP, the running buddy, and some other gents. That made for a wonderful giggle uncomfortably, hug, and run situation. One such example of how my life makes all involved feel weird. And then I found pudding in my ear three days later.

Girls' Choice Date #3 of 3

The Askingness: Our apartment is all date-asking-outness...outed by this point in the year. A couple of super cheese food-related puns later (pun intended--dang, that was intense), and all the roommates succeeded in invites any high school girl in Utah beam with pride over. Mine was less typical and more Lauracal:

Samwise, I have a joke for you: Why did the girl fall out of the swingset? It's because she had no arms or legs. {uncomfortable silence} I know this joke is CORNy (more like morbid), but will you go on a date with me?

For reasons I don't really understand, I think the morbidocity (I swear I'm done making up words now) was appreciated by the majority, and he graciously complied.

Date: Disco Skating. I never got any of the legit pictures of our complete outfits at the rink, but these work.

Sam is famous. That's a fact. Ask anyone.

Disco Skating + Hysterical Celebrity Date = Double Score.

Our dates didn't know where we were taking them. I wish I had one of the group pictures to share, because we looked awesome. After purchasing matching XXL-long t-shirts, we ambushed the guys and gave them 5 minutes to get on their most 80s-licious attire. Again, wish I had the other pictures because mah date won that competition.

One shredded disco-floor later, we inhaled burgers and bought sticky mustaches from vending machines. And looked really cool.

And then I dropped him off and realized that my knack for donning facial hair whilst hugging guys is a little creep-hahhhhhh. I should probably cut that out.
(Did anyone catch that reference and agree that those green ties and pencil mustaches are shamefully irresistable?)

Women Choose Dates: facially haired

So many great things about this post, I can't even focus on one topic. It was originally intended as an ode to the 'stache. Instead, we'll discuss:

1) Stadium Seating

2) Girls' Choice Dates

3) Guys Who Are Good Sports

4) Pudding Facial Hair

5) Disco Skating

6) How my life makes everyone else uncomfortable

I'm going to separate the post into two parts so that none of us becomes weary.

Basically, this is a condensed summary of my freshman year in college.

Ready go:

Friends, meet stadium seating. You all need to look closely and etch this picture into your mind for future use. The concept is incredible.

Step One: Bring projector over to a guys' apartment to shine onto a blank wall or shaded window. This way you attract more males and don't have to deal with cleanup. (Don't feel guilty - you'll make up for it by feeding them and doing their dishes all year long. Turns out all those funny woman jokes you heard in high school are actually true. And I'm not even a housewife yet.)

Step Two: Arrange room for maximum seating capacity. This will include mattresses on the floor, couches on ground, couches on chairs, and couches on tables. It may become necessary to raid neighboring apartments when the occupants are gone and steal their furniture. Oh, and the fridge works too if you really want a hoppin party. Make sure the fire-code police don't catch you; this arrangement may or may not be but probably is not safe or legal. The campus cops may come threaten to put you in their police-beat. On second thought, make sure you're caught. We all secretly yearn for that rebellious moment of fame.

Step Three: Comedy (such as Cloudy with a Chance) for a good ab workout, Sci-Fi Thriller (Inception) for good cuddle-ocity, or YouTube party (Hamish and Andy; SBemails; Julian; BalloonShop) for good quotability and knowing chuckles. Save all that chick-flicky nonsense for girls' night on your kitchen floor with a pint of ice cream and enough estrogen to drive away any and all nearby males who might foolishly think they want to join.

Step Four: When some dude complains insistently about how he's about to go knock doors in the girls' building if he must to find a cuddle buddy, offer to fill the position and go hop atop a fridge. After making everyone else in the room uncomfortable, realize that you are also uncomfortable and go boot two unsuspecting citizens off their couch in the front row.

I swear he's not this creepy in real life. He's more of the jolly type.

This picture leads me to the next topic of discussion: Girls' Choice Dates. My first of three this year was with the dude pictured above and in this post. Three seems like an excessive amount of dates to do the asking for. It was. That happens when your bishop mandates Ward Prayer Date Minute.

(haha, man-dates. ha.)

The first time, roommate and I cleverly hid our request in freshly baked bread and invaded the guys' hall meeting dressed as Bread Intruders and struttin to this song. We tried to ride in with Sarah on my shoulders, but when that failed multiple times right outside their window and we looked up to see them all staring at us, we just ran in, ditched the bread, and ran out, heads down (straight-up Napoleon D style).

The date consisted of us making them food (as it is a woman's duty to do?), and then I got sick of the nonsense and initiated a whipped cream war by spraying my date in the face when we were supposed to be playing a friendly get-to-know-you game on our walk back home. Nobody else participated besides us two, but we fought with passion and both returned severely battle-scarred. That was a sticky good-bye hug.

And a standard for many more sticky dates to come.

Women Choose Dates: not the facial hair portion

Favourite Fitting Room Moments:

1) When you somehow force those skinny jeans on or that shirt that is 3 sizes too small, and then have a panic attack when you can't get them back off. What if I'm stuck here forever? Will my family miss me? Will my friends notice I'm missing? Maybe I should holler for assistance? Nope, starvation it is. Oh wait, was that a ripping noise coming from the sleeve? That can't be good--hopefully no one will notice. Free at last!

2) When you're standing in there all neked and whatnot and and some little boy crawls under your door...

Simpleton Pleasure #3: The Fitting Room

This is an open competition. If you beat my minesweeper score (on the standard "intermediate" difficulty level), I will write a limerick about you. 2 verses. It will include content on how you are a superior being when compared to me. I will publish it on this here blog a week from today. I don't think I need to say anything else.

I included the flying pig on my keyboard in this picture so you can know that this is indeed my score and I didn't get a picture of someone else's time off the internet. I was tempted though. Minesweeper competitions are almost life-altering enough to warrant a sacrifice of integrity. So get on it.

Comment your time score if you beat me; 56 seconds or better. Take a picture if you think I will doubt you. I might.

It's on like Diddy Kong.

The super cute kind that you get on accident when you sit outside and read a book (don't you ever interrupt me) after breakfast for half an hour and it's hardly even sunny so you don't even think about sunscreen and it's the first one of the season for your pasty skin so it's stuck like that for the rest of summer no matter what you do. Ya, that kind.

This picture doesn't even do it justice. It's incredible.

And last year's proof that the first awful tan of the season sticks until the end of the summer no matter what. Bad running choice in May = same weird line we see in August. Fabulous:

Any super sick tan-line stories out there? I know at least one of you has a picture for me. Link me up!

Good news: I got a tan today.

[cr-ak-own-ie-czars]
--noun
1. cream cheese (cr) + yellow cake mix (ak) + brownies (own) + cookie dough (ie) + candy bars (czars)
2. concealing vessel for harmful and maybe illegal substances

Swirl it all together and cook it for however long you feel like you want to cook it (gosh!). I'm sure it will all work out, despite its sketchy name.

My apologies for the phone camera. Sometimes, 15 feet is just too far to walk for a camera that will provide a decent image -- especially when the only thing at stake is all y'alls perception of this unnatural and half-eaten monster. I think the quality only adds to the effect anyway.

I really shouldn't sign up to bring the treat when I'm feeling this creative.

Crackenezers

Today/Yesterday (it's that awkward 10 minutes after midnight time again), I went road-trippin' to Jidaho and had Big Jud's for lunch. I know, sounds like bad news already. It only got better from there, because then I ate this:

And then my pants a'sploded.

Except not like when I went to prom and finished my entire entree and my date and I groaned in the back seat threatening to 'splode while the only real damage done came when I spilled sauce all down my dress and smelled like garlic cream sauce all night.

Or that one time at another dance when a different date and myself shoved pizza mercilessly down our esophaguses until I could feel the threads in my sash threatening to rip and my date's button popped off his suit. (If someone wants to pay for my dinner, I ain't gonna wimp out on them and pick at a side salad.)

Not like that.

Like, my pants actually a'sploded.

Luckily I had a friend there to tell me this time, and the damage was only the length and width of an Eagle Scout's three fingers rather than Chuck Norris's fist. Prevention measures were taken. Be prepared.

Unfortunately, I was not wearing my stripy skivvies for the viewing pleasure of restaurant patrons. No, my back pocket felt great about flashing the good family name to all of Jidaho this time around. These whitey-tighties have never felt so free.

Diary of the BVDs: round II

warning: This post was written for Jan and Sarah, two curious cats who will regret ever wondering about such stories that ought not to be told. For the rest of you, read at your own discretion. It's not a very interesting story by any stretch of the imagination, despite all efforts made by me to make it something it's not. These efforts simply resulted in an ending that is unbefittingly inappropriate and disturbing.

~~~

On the topic of birthing stories....

Once upon a time in a sewing class far far away,

Laura made her teacher cry.

This doesn't happen.

But don't fear, it was for a good cause. Laura was apparently making some absurd face at a girl across the table.

(so Laura-esque of Laura, we might all agree)

Teacher took personal offense.

Ok, so Laura probably should have been listening to teacher.

Teacher shot a dirty look in Laura's general direction and encouraged students to listen to her, even if they thought she was boring.

Of course none of this could have been directed at Laura. This is in the days of high school innocence and teachers either don't know who Laura is or love her immensely because she doesn't say a word and always gets her homework in on time.
(yes, there was such a day)

Later on....

Teacher: "And some fabric is made from flax seeds!"

Girl sitting next to Laura (paraphrased): "What in the name of Hansel and his foolish sister Gretal is flax?"

Laura (in barely audible and probably quite suspicious whisper): "Flax shall be the name of my firstborn man-child."

Teacher (with glares worthy of lasercatz straight from outer darkness): "See me after classsssss."

So the day ended, and still unsure who the teacher was mad at or why, that entire corner of the room approached teacher to soothe her wounded soul.

It was then we found out that Laura is a disruptively disobedient devil-child.

It was then that the teacher wept openly.

(I still believe that this was more because my sewing, and not behavior, was consistently tragic)

It was that Christmas that Laura received a box of flaxseeds bearing the title:

Laura's first-born manchild

And it must have been nine-months previously that Laura made love to a flaxen muffin because she can think of no other possible way that the blessing (not mistake--children are never mistakes) of a man-child came to enrich her life.

(It was January when Laura disruptively and disobediently consumed the infant in the from of delicious breads and smoothies, after failing miserably in any and all attempts to sew him into a flaxen blanket.)

I DON'T GET IT EITHER.....i'm going to bed.

Judge not. Or do. I probably would.

Waking up at the crack of dawn is super great until you turn 80 and all of a sudden you have an aching back that requires hunching over to walk. I feel better about the situation when I sit in a chair on the front porch and mumble audibly to myself when children walk by.

Thrift stores bring joy to my heart; not because I can find bright and trendy clothing for a fraction of the cost, but because I sometimes stumble upon pre-worn 50s-era shoes that are too small for me but FABULOUS and only $5. Oh, what a beautiful morning it was.
.

For mercy's sake, when taking pictures late at night with horrid lighting, please do not use a ghetto camera with a broken flash. Speaking of, why was the maid afraid of the camera? (Holla to my white friend Julie! Also, I hope that the rest of you will come up with your own punchlines and comment them. That would bring joy to my soul.)

While we're on the topic of how truly great a sport thrifting really is, I went through my phone for the first time in ages today and found simple pleasure in the fact that most of the pictures follow this pattern:

Granny-length skirts with a bold floral print, draped against a background of old, mismatched china? Be still my heart!

Sign me up for retirement. Anything is worth spending two-thirds of the day in oversized sweats and hair tied up in a knot -- even bunyon pain and furniture that smells like cats.

These are a few of my favorite things, and I'm not just saying that. Ask anyone who knows me. Sometimes I offer up the excuse that I just have a classy, sophisticated sense of style. Inside, I know that's a load of codswallop.

Other elderly-aged lifestyle choices that I adore:

Classical music playing softly in the background as I let the hours slip gently away playing solitaire. In my defense, it was classical guitar music, which makes me super hip, right?
Using the word "hip" as an adjective.
Getting so fed up trying to figure out technology in an attempt to make a tab for flowers that I give up and only offer my blog nasty looks for the next half a week. I vote we throw out cellphones and computers and revert back to the good-old Pony Express.

Simpleton Pleasure #2: Being an old person.

I'm ready to go turn in a questionnaire for a job I would enjoy obtaining. I answered 6 of the 7 questions with ease and, if I do say so myself, impressive capability. However, I was having trouble coming up with a response to the first question that was both creative and memorable (in a good way). Finally I settled on something. It's a risky move.

Question 1: Why do you want to be a part of [Awesome Pizza Place]?

Answer: "Sometimes, when you go to college, you need to get a job making pizza--in your building; it’s for fun."

If the employer is a die-hard Nacho fan like myself, then it's in the bag. If not, I'm most likely doomed. Especially since this is the first thing they will read.

I for one am hopeful, but my mother thinks I'm a crazy person. Feel free to place bets on the outcome of this tense situation.

How's this for a gamble?

Remember my baby craving? Whelp, the hunger has been satisfied.

I received this beautiful child for my birthday. I was the happiest mama of all on my special day. I'm very good to her and pay her lots of attention, and she coos dreamily for me.

I also got these treasures:

Asian Landscape in a Questionable Smelling Bottle

I really don't know what this is

Thanks, Steph. Thanks, brother.

And finally,

right here, we find further evidence that I do the stanky leg subconsciously at pretty much all times: when taking study breaks, brushing my teeth, offering hugs-- It's a little bit awkward, seeing as I can't even joke about being black on the inside. I suppose I could at least pretend I'm proud of my super-white wanna-be subconscious dance moves.

Ya, maybe that.

6 pounds, 4 ounces

This started out as a music video throwdown against my little brother Jordan.

Jordan's pretty lazy though and never did anything, so roommates and I didn't actually execute this plan and film anything until the last night of college, when nobody was going to sleep anyway. Add that to the creepy basement cage/study room. It was not hard to get my face stuck in that disturbing position.

I was nominated to the fill the part of creeper Julian for reasons unbeknownst to mankind.

The technological problems made this video almost more trouble than it was worth, but not quite. It messed up the timing with the lip syncing, but Sarah saved the day with the legit captions, so no complaints.

Much of this arises from college ward inside jokes (such as construction workers watching us through our windows and birthday party for bishop's daughter in their basement). But as you can tell, most of the human race can relate. I guess.

Fun Fact: Dottie's face is pressed up against the glass in all the shots where I'm reading a book in my favorite nook. Some girls walked by at 3 in the morning and saw her standing there, alone outside. They were never the same.

Take notice of our selection in reading materials. We're questionably righteous.

enjoy.

We made this for you.

(precurser: I wrote this "yesterday," but then it rolled over past midnight. Hence the faulty date.)

In honor of Mother's Day and also my birthday, both of which are today (I think the universe is trying to send me a message. Nice try, universe.), let's talk about my recurring baby hunger.

Sometimes I see a chubby baby and my stomach starts to rumble.

My baby swings run on a monthly schedule.

Oddly enough, they often come without any hunger for a man.

Let's skip that part. Somebody just snatch me a baby.

I have fallen victim to the "how about if I just get married and start

having babies so I can be done with school" mentality.

Let's face it. Babies are cuter than my math textbook.

However, that victimization has only happened once.

Usually, this mentality makes me want to vomit, or (ironically enough) kick a baby.

Often, I try on baby first names with the last names of men I will one day wed.

(Bale, Li [Shang Li--straight up Mulan style], Emery, etc. etc. etc.)

I never share my baby names with ANYone.

Even my own mother is a risky confidant.

One time I shared my baby names with a roommate.

She threatened to steal them. She no longer exists.

A double celebration was way better than any loner birthday party, so Happy Mother's Day to the incredible woman who gave me life, as well as all you other people out there who didn't give me life. I guess you're a'ight too.

Babies? Babies everywhere!!!!

No really, someone make me get a life.

Good somewhat-later afternoon

Less than 20/20 seeing powers? Clicking causes enlargement, dry nose, and nausea.

Will someone please tell me to get a life?

Good afternoon

I should have been job hunting all day.

Instead, I cut and pasted for ages whilst baking on my white-trash deck in order to bring you the new header. Good thing our backyard is completely exposed to the street and all surrounding neighbors, and the deck is 30-feet up in the air so all objects thereon are by default pedestalized.

I used to sunbathe only after draping towels, blankets, and tablecloths over all sides for privacy (even though I practically dress like a nun when getting friendly with the ultraviolets). Then I moved out and got four female roommates. Now, back home, I have to remind myself that little boys don't think it's normal to change with the door open or skip freely from the shower to the bedroom whilst nakedly belting show tunes.
What privacy?

I do live such an oh-so-charmed sort of life.

'Whaaaaaat?' Moment of the Day:

"Laura, girls don't like boys who like girls, do they?"

-Lil' Brudda

(I secretly only added that segment to the end so I could use

underline,

italics,

and bold

all in one convenient location. Again, oh-so-charmed.)

I feel crispy.

"not valentimes!"

"what we gonna get?"

"several boys!"

"how we gonna get 'em?

"mock U.N. medals?"

"wearing unflattering clothing?"

"voodoo? is it voodoo?"

No, unfortunately it is not voodoo this time.

Fortunately, it is wearing unflattering clothing.

In my defense, the 80-year-old lady behind me in line when I purchased this beaut told me she thought it was lovely that girls these days were still wearing such flattering and chic dresses. She was worried that they might have gone out of style. Oh, cute, silly lady. You had no need to fear. I'm glad I could put your mind at peace about the wellbeing of the world today.

Judging by the ginormous flower on my wrist, it is likely that I wore this gown to my senior prom once upon a time.

It is unlikely that I actually arrived like this. Too bad for the rest of the children at the dance, my date was a respectable young lad and I felt the sharp pangs of guilt as I tried to rip myself from the door-frame and into his car without changing into something more socially appropriate. My conscience won out in the end, as it usually does in real life but less often in writing. Blight that party-pooping conscience (the previous sentence is a probable example of incorrect use of the thesaurus when seeking out a cooler word than my brain wants to dig for).

To this day, I regret that I did not get to bust a move in this baby. Sincerely. Regret. Maybe one day a new strapping young lad with more knowledge about my true character and less care for social norms will sweep me off to a formal whilst wearing it. (Not him. Me. Or him, I guess. That would be good too.) Probably he will be mustachio'd. Speaking of mustaches, I have a pending post dedicated to the wearing of them. Keep your eyes peeled. It's a gem.

(As an unnecessary aside, whenever I say "What time is it?" in a scratchy voice and someone proceeds to respond "Summertime!" I get upset. They're supposed to respond "It's Valentimes!" High School Musical is less than and most certainly not equal to Teen Girl Squad. Don't worry-- I recognize this is a personal problem. I'll get over it.)

what time is it?!!!?

Every morning I wake up, apply my Old Spice deodorant, do some push-ups (insert manly grunt here), and run upstairs to lather on my father's cocoa-butter lotion (if I'm going to inhale cocoa, I see no reason why I shouldn't coat my body with it).

Sometimes I want to date myself.

It's a problem

Plus, who couldn't use another cliché pyramid picture in their life?

*enlargement required for appreciation of how real these smiles are

Because this blog needs some color and I miss my family

This last week, I was filling out job applications when I came upon a question asking if I had any special skills. I really hadn't a clue how this question was important to that particular job (canning. all day. everyday. this summer's going to be brilliant.), so I thought I might get bonus points for creativity by answering:

skills: nunchuck, computer hacking, etc.

For some reason, they haven't called me back to offer me the job yet. Huh. This comes as just as big a shock to me as not getting an "A" on my math final even though I answered one of the problems by drawing a goat eating a lollipop and the final problem by writing my professor a note (Dear Dr. Fisher, HAGS. From, Laura). Yes, that actually happened.

Today I discovered another surprise skill festering in my bones. My little brother went to his high school prom, as did my chaperoning parents, and I thought I'd try my hand at constructing their corsages/boutonnieres, since I did a bit here and there in my floral design class last semester. I guess that makes me qualified or something. Here's a looksie:

(My parents are cuter than your parents)

So they're not your ma and pa's traditional dance flowers, but you could have guessed as much from past readings. I'm not much of a traditionalist. Because I love you, I will make some for you anytime, cheap. Even the more traditional kinds. Just say the word and spread the word. This is an exceptionally good deal because, personally, I like these better than anything I ever bought for my school dances and they're half the price. That's like four times the value. But as you can tell from the title, this might just be because I am vain. Or if you really understand the title, it has nothing to do with being vain and everything to do with watching really dumb movies altogether too often. Anyway.

Boutonnieres: $5

Corsages: $10

Spelling ridiculous French words correctly without using Google-search: Priceless

email me if interested and willing to travel to Orem for pick-up: 1simplaur[at]gmail[dot]com

I don't even care if you don't follow me openly or at all. Actually, you really should follow me openly and at all because I have a crush on all my readers, but I'll still love you if you don't. Aaaaand, that's a wrap.

Boys only want girlfriends like me.

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