Things I Like About COD #2

If you come out of doorway 6 or 7...or maybe even 5 of the IC, you come out the back way which kind of looks over Lambert Rd. Start walking towards to Physical Education building, then make a left.
Suddenly you leave community college, and enter into a little haven with two benches and great big tree's which stretch over the pathway. In the fall, those tree's turn beautiful oranges, and the leaves fall, creating a tunnel of color.
It's probably my favorite part of COD. Sometimes I take the long way to my car just to walk through it.

So, bathrooms, and the little walkway next to the IC. Maybe COD isn't so bad, after all.

The Strange Things I encounter at COD

I'm in the Student Resource Center at school and some weird kid just popped out of the SLC office with a lap top playing latin guitar music. He just said, "Hey! You've got a free life!" someone passing by. I think he's retarded. Like, literally I think he's retarded. I'm not sure. He's wearing army fatigues. Maybe he's on a mission from God.

Just for the record here...

I'm not too fond of boys who don't know what the heck they're doing with their life. Part of being ready for marriage is knowing that you can support a girl. That doesn't have to mean that you're out of college, have a job, and ready to "woo", but it does mean that you have somewhat of a plan.

Here's what I know: Guys say a lot of things. They say all these nice, wonderful things like "I love you" and "I want to spend the rest of my life with you" and even "I can't wait to marry you."
All of those things are wonderful, and I really hope to hear them again some day. I'm not being downer on all of that. What I'm trying to say is this: Don't tell me that you want to spend the rest of your life with me, unless you are 100% sure that you're ready to spend the rest of your life with me. Don't tell me that you want to marry me unless you know that if you had to, you'd marry me tomorrow and be perfectly ok with that.

I want a guy who can look me in the eye and say exactly what he means, and nothing else. Even if that means not saying I love you, or not saying that you want to marry me. I want a guy who says what he means, not what he thinks I want to hear, not what he thinks might get him in a better situation with me.

I want to wake up every morning to my best friend. I want to spend the rest of my life with someone who'll scale a mountain with me, or just hang out and play board games with by the fire. I want someone who I can spend hours in a car with and laugh my head off because He loves making me laugh that much. I want someone who I can just hang out with. That is truly what I want.

I want a guy who gets it. I want someone, who when I say things, they say "I know exactly what you mean"
I want someone who's passionate about what I'm passionate about, and maybe if he's not, that he's passionate about me being passionate, and has his own passions, and that those passions can coincide with each other. I want someone who I can run next to, who I can run this race to meet my Maker with.

Mainly, I want someone who loves his father, and who lives to please his Father, or tries very earnestly to live a life to please His father. I want a guy who wants to desire God.

And I'm really tired of it. I'm tired of meeting these scuz ball creepers.
It makes me think there are no truly good, and truly noble men left in the world.
And that makes me really sad. I meet lots of guys, lots and lots of single guys. Probably about half of those guys would say they are serious about their faith. Probably about 10 percent of those guys are serious about saying their serious about their faith.

So where does that leave me?

I'm so rebelious

I'm eating ice cream...

FOR DINNER...

STRAIGHT FROM THE TUB!!!

GASP!

OkI'mdone

Aubree

Time elapses into broken sleep and broken dreams
But you aren’t here
Your mess is indisputable
Anyone will give me that

It all disappears into reality
All our fears, they’re translucent.
I’m clever when I see you there
Brilliant when we speak

Nothing when we touch

The line is fine between the chosen and inevitable.
It’s the race to beat the odds that were pitted against us
We can count the stars a million times, it’s all relative anyway
They’re screaming your name

We bleed
I shatter
You’re new

Don't go away with her, come change your mind
Whisper the broken thoughts
You never seemed to find
You are the stars at night, you call me down
You bring me to new heights
Oh, it's us tonight, let's make this right

When your melody meets harmony
It suddenly is clear
That you're all I've been singing for these years

Let's run away with this, let's read between the lines
We'll unearth the love we missed
Just follow all our signs
We'll open up our eyes, you'll dry my tears
We'll rid this of good-byes
Oh, of all our tries, this love will rise

When your melody meets harmony
It suddenly is clear
That you're all I've been singing for these years

When your broken song is all along
The words I've longed to hear
Then you're all I've been singing for these years.

For every time you may have crossed my path
In every way that I saw your face, but never knew
All the mornings we could have passed
All the nights that turned to dew

This is for every wanton mystery of life
That we’ve been born crying out so long
So if I’m Juliet, I’d take the knife,
And you Romeo, poison is your song.

The poison of the things we’ve done
The way the knife has always won
Let’s not look back yet
Let’s never forget.

The Things I Like About COD

They have lots of bathrooms. I never have to wander around, looking for a bathroom.

Uhhhhh

Ummmmmmmmmmmmm

UHHHHHHH

Still thinking

UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Oh. Well. I guess that would be about it. Bathrooms.

Oi.

So I'm actually getting pretty sick of all the crap about Barack Obama being black and McCain being old dude. I don't give a crap if Obama is black. Good for him. I'm a woman. And no, I'm not making any comparisons here, so don't get all up in my mcgrittle.

It also really bugs me when people make stupid statements like "Voting for a democratic party is a sin!"
Or...
"I'm not enough of a sinner to vote for Barack Obama!"

I for one personally believe that Republicans are sinners.
I also believe that Democrats are sinners. Why? Because all believe that MAN KIND, every single person on the earth is a sinner. If I got up right now and said "I'm not voting for Barack Obama because I'm not that much of a sinner!", I would expect people to seriously doubt my ability to make any kind of rational decision. You probably ARE that much of a sinner. I don't think that your not voting for Obama has too much to do with sin, and simply the things that you believe are right for the country. It has a lot to do with DEMOCRACY, in that your founding fathers made a decision years before you to form a government which you'd live under, that you could have the CHOICE to make decisions on ethical or economic issues that you believe will form a better and more sufficient ruling party.
I don't think that democrats are any more or less sinful than republicans, and voting for one party certainly does not get you one leg higher in the ladder to heaven. So please, for my sake, and for the sake of others, find a better reason to cast your vote, be it Republican or Democratic.

So let's stop giving Christian voters a bad name, and actually inform ourselves.

So which party do you think I'LL be voting for in a few weeks?

It's Ralph Nader. ;-)

I'm from Procrasti Nation!

I have this uncanny way of leaving all the things I have to do, that if I don't do them it will seriously effect my immediate future, for time that I may have after I do all of the things that I WANT to do. For instance. In the last weekend or so, I was SUPPOSED to be finishing reading, and writing up a summary of this book about the food market and the world's food distribution system. While this may seem like a very interesting subject, and it is in a way, I don't really enjoy reading 500+ words about the impossible pickle our world has gotten ourselves into. This summary is due tomorrow. Yes. That's right. You heard me. The summary is due TOMORROW. I still have about half of the book left to read. Am I a genius? Yes. I am.
Anyway, in the last weekend, I have had almost nothing to do. No homework. No jobs. Pretty much I've had the whole weekend to do this stupid thing. Here is what I got accomplished this weekend:
- A wicked cool painting/collage thing that I came up with and am quite proud of.
- The beginning of a new song (Which is completely counter productive seeing as I do little to nothing with the songs I write except post them in my Facebook notes, hoping desperately that one of my friends is secretly one of those people who go from club to club looking for bands to sign. I realize that I could probably play some shows, but I'm completely unmotivated)
- Lots of cool new frames I shot in the woods one afternoon.
- Carrying on in quite a few text message conversations so that I can feel like I have friends
- Got free coffee at Starbucks because the guy who works there thinks I'm a total hottie.

That's pretty much what I've done with my time. Oh yeah, and I posted in this thing.
As you can see, I have issues managing my time properly. I have issues focusing.
I'm also about to go to a photography class that I have a sneaking suspicion I'll be taking with old people and Asians. Not that this is a problem. Not that I don't like old people or Asians.

AND THEN TONIGHT I get to pull and all nighter in complete panic, because believe it or not, even though it stresses me out and it's completely unnecessary, my best work is produced within a 12 hour time period of when it's due.

Thank you. Have a good night.

The things I find at postsecret.com

Dear Starbucks Worker,

The picture you've included of the Starbucks on your Post Secret is not "My" Starbucks. It looks nothing like it. It probably isn't even in the same area as my Starbucks.
But sometimes I feel that my only friends are the people who serve me coffee. They don't even know my name. They only recognize me by my drink. But sometimes, I like to pretend that they wait all day long for me to come in after work and grab my cup of coffee. I like to imagine that one day, I'll walk in, and one of them will invite me to come hang out, to go out, whatever. This will probably never happen. Either way, when I walk into the Starbucks on Crescent in Glen Ellyn, and I see the same faces every time, and they say "The usual?" and I say "Yep", and they say "How's it goin'?" and I tell them how it's going, I feel like I belong somewhere.
So much to the point where it makes me want to quit my current job to work at that Starbucks.
My Starbucks.
So you aren't alone.

Sincerely,
Grande Café Americano with room for cream.

WHAT!?

OK - So I know I've already posted tonight, but I saw this, and I just couldn't wait to write about it.

I go on my sbcglobal/yahoo/whatever the heck it is now homepage, and I'm looking through the news stories, and I find one (why the heck this is considered news, beats the heck out of me) that says "4 things that make men want to marry a woman". So, ok, I admit it, I'm intrigued. What IS it that makes a man want to get married? What makes them say "I do" in a male egocentric culture that tells men that they can have as many women as they want, no matter how old they get as long as they work out and shave that back hair (Ew...)
So I click on it, and it's of course the usuals. Men want to marry women who are independent. Men want to marry women who are creative. Men don't necessarily want to feel like they're "settling down". Then I get to one that's entitled, "Jekyll and Hyde". Basically, what this says is that men want to marry a woman who can be a total sex goddess in bed, but then can be charming and sweet at a family reunion. The following is a quote from the article, which is OBVIOUSLY written by a man.

"It's the all-in-one woman who can equally pull off the roles of wife, mother, boss, friend, neighbor, vixen. That's not asking too much, is it? After all, if a guy is going to commit for a lifetime, he'll want his partner to be able to react to a lifetime's worth of challenges and opportunities, right?"

I don't even know where the heck to start in telling you all the things that are horribly wrong with the previous statement. Basically, this is a nice way of saying that men won't get married and stay married (faithfulness is still under speculation at this point I suppose) unless they can marry a woman who can do everything, all the time, and will never blink an eye. She can equally juggle being a sex goddess in the bedroom with a perfectly sculpted body, looking as young as it did when she was 20, an awesome mother who is able to entertain her children while her lazy husband sits on his fat butt and knocks 'um back, a wife who'll make her husband supper and rub his feet, and fetch him his beer and slippers after he gets home from a very exhausting day at work, and everything else without batting an eyelash. She is required to be super woman, so that Mr. Wonderful doesn't have to deal with challenges and responsibilities.
She's never allowed to yell, get stressed out, have a little break down, get an hour of quiet to collect her thoughts, or anything. She's on call, all the time.

Here's what I think.

I for one, am going to refuse to get married until I find a man who is equally great at making me delicious, gourmet meals, then spoon feeding them to me as he is taking intricate care of my beautiful and flawless children. He indulges me at every turn, buying me jewelry and spa treatments, and cars, and big houses. He makes me a living, but at the same time, is very compassionate about all the hard work I've done all day sitting down in an air conditioned office at a desk with contemporaries that are the same age and have the same interests as me, and gives me a few hours to relax before insisting that I go out and pursue some of my hobbies, such as going out with my girlfriends for martinis, or getting my nails done, or even just sitting back and watching the newest episode of Sex in the City.
He is at my beckon call, and I have him wrapped around my finger.

So now, do you think I'm a big high maintenance brat? Gosh, I do.

Here's my point: When a man expects a woman to be super woman, satisfying every one of his and his children's needs, indulging him and taking care of him (though he's a grown man...) and never attending to needs of her own, it's considered reasonable. After all, he's trading his FREEDOM. When a woman expects a man to satisfy her needs, or to indulge her for once, she's considered high-maintenance, and a nuisance. For a man, it's got to be WORTH getting married. For a woman, she really doesn't have much of a choice, unless she wants to be a.) the crazy cat lady or b.) a lesbian.

Ok, NOW, I am done.

Once Upon A Time, Cinderella had a glass slipper, but it was glass and so it broke. Idiot.

So, on the back of the Starbucks hot cups...the cups they give to you when you have a hot drink versus an iced one...duh. Why am I explaining this? Anyway, back to what I was saying. On the back on the Starbucks hot cups, they have these things called "The Way I See It" and then it has a number. I actually have failed to notice this about Starbucks hot cups until today, even though I get Starbucks like, three times a week. This probably has something to do with my addiction to caffeine. By the time I get my four shots of delicious espresso, I'm not really that concerned with the cup and really more with the contents the cup is holding. The cup is useless to me. That's actually quite sad. Aw. Poor cup. Have I mentioned I'm having issues focusing lately? Anyway, on the back of the cups they have these things called "The Way I See It" and they have quotes from like random people. So, I'm just sitting here, chilling in my dining room, trying to upload some stupid pictures that won't upload and I'm getting really frustrated, when I look up to find my empty Starbucks hot cup, and I read the quote. It says;

"I used to feel so alone in the city. All those gazillions of people and then me, on the outside. Because how do you meet a new person? I was very stumped by this for many years. And then I realized, you just say "Hi." They may ignore you. Or you may marry them. And that possibility is worth that one word" - Augusten Burroughs.

Before I go into what I'm about to say, I've been reading a lot of J.D. Salinger as of late. As a result, I've become quite pessimistic, and have come to the conclusion that I am very misunderstood. I know, I know, how angsty of me. Anyway, I'm going to warn you right now. If you're reading this, and you think that this quote is a beautiful message of hope, encouraging you to go out and just say hello to the world, then please stop reading right now. I'm about to rip this quote into shreds, and the last thing I would want to do is spoil it for you. Actually, that's not the last thing I'd want to do, but that's alright.

Let's continue.

That is the BIGGEST load of CRAP I have ever heard in my God-given life. PAAAA LEASE! That's bull. That's what that is. To demonstrate this point, I'm going to tell you a little story.

Once upon a time, I went to Starbucks on a Sunday afternoon. I was looking quite ravishing. In fact, I was channeling a 1940's post war bomb shell with this rockin new pair of shoes I bought. I walk up, feeling quite sure of myself, and I see this drop dead gorgeous guy, sitting outside of Starbucks. My jaw nearly fell open. He was beautiful! He's getting up to get a paper from inside Starbucks, and he opens the door for me. I, of course being cunning and the very essence of a lady (or something like that...) flashed him a brilliant little smirk, and said, "Thanks" then waltzed up to the counter to order my Café Americano. So, I get MY copy of the Sunday Trib and I go outside to read it, at the table opposite from his, when I realize that he has stopped reading the paper (I love a guy who reads the newspaper...and not just for the sports section) and has started to read what looks like a just delicious old copy of Huck Finn. HUCK FRICKING FINN. One of those brilliant copies that's all old and the pages are starting to yellow and the smell is just amazing. Ah gosh. I love old books. So here I am, stuck in this ecstasy of what may just be the perfect man for me...WHEN HE WHIPS OUT A BIBLE. A bible. Oh gosh. I nearly wept with joy. He's a Mark Twain loving, newspaper reading, door opening, CHRISTIAN! I love it. I just adore it. So, by this time, I'm planning our wedding, when I finish my drink, get to the last pages of my paper, and realize that I have absolutely nothing to do. So here I am, thinking that I'm going to impress this guy and he's going to ask me for my number, so I walk past him to go to the garbage, and I say "Hi"
He looks up, and says "Hi"
And then I walk away.
So then I get this idea in my head that this guy quite possibly comes to Starbucks every bleeding Sunday, and I decide that every Sunday, I'm going to go to Starbucks, with a new piece of literature each week, ready to create this budding new love story. Of all the places to meet. Starbucks. Ahh. So I'm all ready. The next week, I show up, looking simply gorgeous in whatever I was wearing, book in hand (I believe I had This Side of Paradise by Fitzgerald) and I sit down at the table. He's not there. So I wait and I read.
Well, if you scroll down a bit, and you look back in September I believe it is, you'll find that Mr. Perfect didn't come back to Starbucks, but I had a rather...awkward and disgusting conversation with a certain old man about sex, in which I retreated very quickly to my car.

So, here's the thing. I don't know what kind of strange fairy tale world we're all floating around in, but most of the time, when you say "Hi" to someone, chances are, they are going to say "Hi" back and that'll be that. No deep connection. No budding friendship is started. No new romantic passion is awakened. I'm sick and tired of people thinking that the whole world is some stupid movie. People don't meet like that, and when they do, it's usually a booty call. Sorry if I'm being crass, but that's the truth. I think it'll suffice to say that I don't believe in fairy tales. They are very nice notions, and I think I would like to believe in them, but in the end, you're born naked, you eat a lot then crap it all out, maybe touch a few lives, try hard to gain a level of success you find worthy, and then you die...and if you happen to be one of God's elect, then you get to go to heaven, where even THERE, nobody is going to care about your romantic little love story because heaven is all about God.
So I'm tired of all that crap. I wish for once in my life, I could hear an actual story. Bob and Kelly worked in the same office. Bob thought Kelly was cute. Kelly thought Bob was funny. Bob asked Kelly out. Kelly said yes. They date for a couple of years, then Kelly and Bob decided to get married. Now they're living somewhere in the midwest with a couple of kids. I'd like to see someone make a movie out of that...but they wouldn't. Why? Because for some strange reason, we have the desire to romanticize the crap out of everything.

Like the other day, I heard this song on the radio. This girl is singing this mushy love song that's supposed to make you feel all soft and squishy on the inside, and the lyrics are something to the extent of, "If I'm Juliet, will you be my Romeo, and we'll live happily ever after" and I had to laugh. I think it was some teenaged blond girl singing it. All I could think was, "That's great hunny, but have you ever read Romeo and Juliet? Maybe seen a movie? There are lot's of Romeo and Juliet movies. Ever seen the play? Yeah. Guess what happens. They have their short lived little love, and it's all romantic, and they think that their love is going to pull them through, but what actually happens is that they both die in the end. So good luck with that."


End.

Random Ramblings.

I'm thinking that I should quit taking relationship advice from the articles that pop up on my Hotmail home page...yeah, this would be a great idea. I've also decided that I need to stop watching the Notebook and thinking "It happened for them! Why not me?"
I also need to stop listening to songs by beautiful male artists who are adorable and thinking "There has to be more of them!" since essentially, I think that a lot of male song writers are just big egotistical jerks anyway. To tell you the truth, so are women song writers. Gosh, I'm such an egotistical jerk. My songs aren't even that good. I'm not really all that great at anything. I'm mediocre at pretty much everything I do. It's a little depressing. Oh well. Who cares? Not me.
I should also be finishing an outline for speech but I think I'm just going to go home tomorrow morning and yeah do it there. So woo hoo for me.
I'm also thinking that I really can't wait to be done at COD. I'm even starting to SMELL like it there.
I should probably also learn how to go to bed on time.
And to stop thinking that I'm rich and spending like, a hundred dollars in one weekend.

I've something. I sincerely think that some people are just ugly. I also think that some people are gorgeous. I also think that some people COULD be gorgeous, but they're either not trying, or trying to hard. But the point is, there are just some people who are blatantly ugly, and there's really no way that I can reason it to make them prettier. Braces? Nope. Different hair-cut? Nope. Different clothes? Probably not. Nose job? Nah. They would need to have their entire face reworked. I'm really sorry if this makes me mean. I'm not talking about anyone in particular. I'm just saying, sometimes I see people at school, and I'm just completely repulsed by them.
So here's where the conception of me that people have that I'm just a nice person. I'm really not. I get annoyed really easily. I think really horrible mean thoughts that I would never say out loud, but would probably bust out laughing if I did say them out loud. Sometimes I can't stop smirking because the things I think are just so mean. I'm a mean person. So for those of you think I'm "Nice" or "Sweet"
You're wrong. I'm not. I'm mean. I'm also controlling, bossy, and I'm an agenda pusher, and if you aren't willing to hop onto the band wagon, then screw you. I've been told to my face that I'm crazy. The truth is, I kind of am. I am semi-crazy. I also have this suspicion that I have this strange genetic dysfunction that causes guys to be extremely interested in me, like, transfixed, like, can't go a day without talking to me kind of interested when they first meet me. They'd like, kiss the ground I walk on. But then, after a few weeks, they dump me. Weird? Yes. Weird.
Maybe it just means that I'm not very complex at face value.
It's pretty smart though. You need to know what you're getting into when you want to date me. Like I said. I'm mean. :)

Ok. Now I need to go to bed.

Good-night

The things I will revert to in order to avoid doing literature homework...oh the irony.

I am sitting here at school, writing in my blog instead of reading the 6 poems I'm supposed to be reading for literature. The thing is, I left my syllabus at home which has the names of the poems I'm supposed to be reading this week. This greatly effects my ability to read the poems. The girl who's serving coffee in the coffee shop keeps singing the same song over and over again. She has an OK voice, but I always feel a little embarrassed for people who sing out loud like she does, because it's pretty obvious that she's not singing it just for her own enjoyment because she's adding vocal rolls and stylistic techniques. She obviously wants somebody to comment on what a beautiful voice she has. Unfortunately, people probably won't because this is a COMMUNITY COLLEGE, where nobody notices you do anything, and if they do, they don't show it. They pretend, just like I'm pretending right now that I'm not noticing this girl sing, that they don't hear or see whatever it is you're doing. The other thing is that this girl's singing has an extremely distracting quality to it. I'm not sure what it is. She also has a very unique outfit on, and is turning on music in the CD player that's obvious that she's the only one who likes it. The CD is skipping. It's too loud. People are trying to study in here. She's only turning on the CD player for her own enjoyment.
In fact, there's a guy who's sitting diagonal from me at a coffee table who looks like he's writing a research paper. He just put his earphones in because he probably prefers the white noise of his own music to her extremely strange and somewhat more appealing than hearing her sing music. I also find it a little funny how whenever an older person walks into the room, one that looks like they could be my mom (or in some cases, my grandmother), everyone assumes that they are a professor - but sitting across the coffee shop from me are two men who look to be pushing their 60's, and they are talking about what they are learning in a class that they seem to be taking together. Don't get me wrong, I applaud them. I hate school and would never come back to this hell-on-earth after I'm finished at COD. I cannot wait until the END of this school year.

The coffee shop needs a new CD player.

My hands are dry.

The coffee I'm drinking is a bit too hot, but I'm drinking it anyway.

This girl who I'm in sociology class with just walked in, and she always smells really bad. She always sits, without fail, directly behind me, and I have to spend the entire class semester sniffing her disgusting scent of B.O. mixed with cigarette smoke. Even if I move into a completely different part of the room from where I usually sit (Which I have done), she STILL sits near me.

A boy just walked in who's wearing perfectly boyish clothes except for the fact that he's flip flops are glittery and have platform heels. This is weirding me out a bit. It's kind of unnatural. Are you a cross dresser, or do you just have a thing for really feminine shoes?

The girl is singing again, but this time along with the songs.

The smelly girl has a bag that's pink and has the recycle symbol except it's not in a circle, it's in a heart. Does this insinuate that recycling is cute? "Oh gosh! Look at that girl! She just threw her empty pop can into the recycling instead of the garbage! HOW CUTE!"
"Look! That boy LITTERED! He is SO NOT CUTE!"

Adorable.

She's also wearing yoga pants. Someone needs to tell her that chubby girls don't really look good in yoga pants. Correction - no girls look good in yoga pants. The only people who look good in yoga pants are anorexic girls.

The girl is singing along to the lyrics "I want you, I want you soooo baaaaddd"

I wonder who she wants so bad? She's singing it quite passionately. I bet she's a vocal performance major. She just turned up the music. It's making it hard to focus. I used to be able to focus no problem. I think it's the spending excessive amounts of time with people who have substantially lower IQ's. Seriously, just being in this coffee shop I'm sure has caused me to drop at least a point off of my IQ, I'm sure of it.

I feel bad for the guy trying to write a research paper. He's actually pretty cute. Hmm...

My Philosophy professor is convinced I'm an English major. I'm NOT an English major. Sadly, I'm a music major. Actually, both majors will get you close to nowhere in the world. I've never heard of a famous musician who graduated with a Associates in Music from the College of Dupage. I'm pathetic. I'm destined to live in a cardboard box by the river. Actually at this point in my life, I'm finding the idea of that not so bad. The girl who just walked in is at least a foot taller than me. This intimidates me a lot. I'm going to hide in this corner that I'm sitting in until she leaves.

What is it with boys and shoes today? A boy just walked in who is wearing two different shoes! This is NOT a fashion statement. This is called "Getting dressed in the dark". It's tacky. Pick your favorite shoe, and find the other one so that they match. Thanks to you, I'm going to spend the rest of the day thinking about your unmatched shoes. You mean, mean boy. No, I don't have problems.

All of these people are buying really delicious looking breakfast treats and I really want to buy one, but I'm broke. I have to wait until my check clears on Wednesday to buy nice delicious treats from the coffee shop, but I really shouldn't do that even when I have money because it's an unnecessary expense and it adds up. I could be spending the extra 3 dollars on gas, which these days won't get me even a gallon.
Yes, I think the world is out to get poor, hungry, music majors like myself who are going to end up in a cardboard box (maybe a van if I'm lucky) on the side of the river.

I love gay guys at COD. They are hilarious. This guy just walked in with another gay guy. I can't tell if they're like Jack and Will, who are just gay FRIENDS (and occasionally have gay sex...) or if they're together. It's really amusing. That's probably the only thing I will miss about COD - the extremely wide variation of personalities and people. But doesn't a person's personality make the person? Isn't that why it's called a personality? Do we even exist, or is it just our mind that exists? Gosh, I think I should start sleeping through my philosophy class.

I'm going to go splurge and spend a buck on a bag of chips from the vending machine.

For the record, I still haven't done any homework.

The Meaning of Alone - Part One

Beware, it's a long one. Not that my other's aren't...

-------

I spend a lot of time alone. Let me rephrase that. I spend a lot of the time that I have to myself alone. Between school and working to pay for school, I don’t have a lot of time to invest in friendships. Relationships are purely out of the picture. I’ve tried, believe me. I’ve handed out my phone number, only to discover that every time the wonderful sweet boyish voice would resound in the receiver of my phone, asking me out that Saturday, that on that specific Saturday I would be working. He’d call again and again, and the same scenario would be repeated, until finally I would schedule one weekend completely clear of anything at all, expecting a call, expecting to finally go on that date I’ve wanted to go on so badly but couldn’t. What usually happens at this point is that I don’t receive a call. See, there’s only so many times in your life you can say “Sorry, I’m busy” before your pursuer ceases to pursue you any longer. It’s rather depressing, but it’s life, and I live.

So, I spend a lot of time alone. I go to book stores and move from section to section, taking in the smells of the books and the feeling I have knowing that I’m in a place where there are a thousand truths at my disposal. I go to coffee shops and listen to the whir of the espresso machine, and the low chatter of the customers.

I go to parks and soak up the sunshine and markets where there are colors, and sounds, and every taste you could ever want to cross your lips.

I go to resale shops, or antique shops. I find strands of pearls and imagine who wore them long ago. Whoever it is, she’s probably dead, or very old, but once she was young. I imagine her out on the town on the arm of a sailor, dancing the night away. I imagine that once the pearls may have been the only thing left that she wore as her and her sailor made love deep into the night before he shipped off to war.

I let the hundreds of stories and scenarios sink into my mind.

See, I live in this secret world of colors and thoughts and sights and sounds. My world is sensory, and imaginative, and nothing and no one can disturb that or take it away from me. Unlike anything else in the world, my thoughts are my very own, and no one except God Himself can hear them. So I dance my way through the rain, in a rain coat and galoshes, with a big black umbrella as I run to class. I imagine running full force into a man in a black trench coat, and piercing eyes. I feel my cheeks flash scarlet as I think of it. I think of how he picks up my bags for me, and holds open the door. I thank him, and run up the stairs so I’m not late for class. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again, if I’m running away from my one true love, or if fate would have it, we may meet again in some unexpected way. See, there’s just something so romantic about the rain.

So call me crazy, but my world consists of dreams and stories and plots all circulating and needing to be created. So I create them. Alone, in the book store, in the coffee shops, in the antique stores, or in my own room, I make them mine.

I formulate them, and dream of the day when I can share my secret world with someone else, someone tall and dark in a black trench coat, piercing into me with his brilliant eyes, and his knowing grin.

I’m not telling you this absolutely mortifying confession for nothing though. I’m telling you so that you’ll better understand the way my heart stopped when he walked into my life.

The thing that was so funny was that my day started out completely ordinary. I had not even an inkling of a notion of the uncanny and life defining event that was about to crash through the walls of my heart. I woke up with my alarm, looked at the time, and tried to remember what day it was. It was Thursday. I had a class. I rolled out of bed, and hopped in the shower, just like I do every single Thursday when I have class. I dressed and dried my hair, packed my books, and took a cup of coffee to go. Nat “King” Cole was wailing out Paper Moon on the Jazz radio station that my little college ran. I barely noticed, and I pushed my petal to the gas and sped off to school. I walked up the same 22 steps, and turned down the same corner with kids waiting in the halls for professors to unlock the doors to their classrooms. I hurried my steps so I wouldn’t be late.

I turned into the harshly lit and particularly cold classroom and plopped down in the 2^nd row from the wall, 4^th chair from the front row.

I reached down to pull out my book. A foot dressed in a black shoe stepped next to my book bag. I paused, and looked up.

It was like a scene from an old movie. I had to blink a few times to focus. His hair was dark and looked as though it would be soft to the touch. It invited my fingers to run themselves through it, to feel its texture and its warmth. His eyes glowed with a piercing darkness. They glimmered as they moved down to glance at me. A smug smirk spread across his beautiful face. He sat at the desk in front of me, wearing jeans and dark blue collared shirt. He smelled of fresh soap and warm sheets. The kind you hurry to climb into after you throw them in the dryer. He turned around, and in a low but soothing voice asked, “Did the professor assign a reading this week?” I blinked twice and shook my head. I knew the minute I did it that this was the wrong answer. I stopped, trying to figure out what to say. The expression on my face must have been priceless, because the smug smirk snuck its way onto his face again. “Wait. Yes. He assigned Hemmingway…do you know Hemmingway?” It was the worst question I could’ve asked, but I did it anyway. He raised a brow “Yes…I know Hemmingway…do you?”

Did I know Hemmingway? Did I know Hemmingway? Was he even aware of whom he was speaking with? I nodded “Yes. I know Hemmingway. I’m…I’m majoring in English!” I blurted out, trying to prove my knowledge of Earnest Hemmingway. He chuckled. “Well, Miss English Major, it’s nice to meet you. Do you have a name?” I swallowed hard. “Sophia Descartes”. Again, the soft chuckle, “Nice to meet you Sophia, I’m Jack” I felt warmth spread generously across my face. It was the tell all blush that no one could stop. I tried to save myself with a smile. “Hi Jack, it’s nice to meet you, too”.

And that was that. From that day forward, I was intoxicated with Jack Branston.

For the next two weeks, I sat in class and stared at the back of his head. Every Tuesday and Thursday, he’d walk into class; turn and smile at me, then sit down in the seat directly in front of me. He never changed or faltered. His movements were always fluid. He seemed swift, and gentle. His presence filled the entire classroom. I felt crowded in his scent, but I loved every second of it, and longed unendingly for the 8am Literature course I had once deemed juvenile and longed for deeper material. Sometimes, Jack would turn around and ask me a question having to do with class. “Do you have an extra pencil?” he asked me once. His dark brown eyes were dancing in the synthetic lighting of the chilly classroom. I’d nodded enthusiastically, and then dove into my bag for that day saving extra pencil.

I nearly came out of my seat in the mornings where he’d pass the attendance sheet back to me, and smile crookedly out of his beautiful flesh colored mouth.

I’d feel the blood rush to my face as his eyes pierced deeply into mine, reading my every thought, knowing my entire world. I was transfixed, and sometimes would have to sit for a few seconds before being able to steady my hand enough to sign next to my name signifying that I was in attendance. The irony of my almost perfect attendance was that to this day, I cannot recall any of the material, but can tell you the exact color of Jack’s hair, and the way the muscles in the back of his neck looked. If our tests included what color sweater was Jack wearing on October 21^st, or what hand he wrote with (it was his left), then I would surely have done much better in that introduction to literature class than I had.

See, if I were to tell you that every Tuesday and Thursday was the highlight of my week, then I would not be lying, but it was on one specific Thursday that my whole world ceased to move in one forward direction, and suddenly became an explosion of particles all floating amongst each other in the big beautiful earth. The day was revolutionary, it was tear jerking, and it set my life on fire.

That particular Thursday was one that I had missed my alarm. I woke up 30 minutes later than usual, and almost died of a panic attack while trying to get ready for class. The battle within me was raging. First I would think I’d just throw on an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. No need to worry about make-up. I hardly wore any in the first place. Then I’d stop dead in my tracks in the realization that I would see Jack, and if Jack saw me in a pair of old smelly jeans, he’d never in a million year, in all of his perfection and fluidity start to see me as his equal…or equal enough to be more than just the girl who sits behind him in his Intro to Lit class, anyway. I’d start to rifle through my closet, and then realize I’d be late if I really took the time to prim and pick at my appearance. In the end, I threw on a pair of not-too-old blue jeans, and a long sleeved t-shirt. It was good enough.

I rushed out the door, the bitter cold biting at my cheeks. I found myself desperately wishing I would’ve woken up in time to start my car before getting into it. I clutched the steering wheel, only to find that the leather on it was just as cold as the air outside, possibly even colder. I pulled a pair of gloves out of my bag.

I’m surprised I managed to get all the way to school without being stopped by the police, because I’m positive the slowest I went was at least 15 over the legal posted speed limit. I pulled into the parking lot, swung into the closest spot I could find, and flew out of my car. I flung open the double doors, and ran up the 22 steps. The snow had just started to fall, and little pieces of snowflakes were clinging to my hair. I turned the corner sharply, and hit something…or someone. I sucked in a heavy breath of air as I looked up to find that the something or someone I had just ran full-force, head on into, was indeed the man of my every dream – Jack.

Now I know it was predictable. You saw it coming. You knew the entire time I’d run into Jack at some point. Still, you must understand, it was unlike Jack to do anything that differed from what an old black and white movie would’ve have looked like. He was dressed demurely, again with the piercing dark eyes. He steadied my shoulders as I uneasily backed away from him. “I’m so sorry!” I began to scramble for words to express how absolutely mortified I was. He chuckled under his beautiful sweet smelling breath. “Sophia” he said my name…he knew my name. It sounded wonderful coming from him. How could it not? “Stop. It’s ok. I was actually looking for you. You aren’t usually late for class” I looked up at the time. 30 minutes late. In an hour long class, it was almost not worth going. Apparently, I looked nervous. Again, that oh so convincing chuckle broke from his smirking face. “Let’s ditch”

Ditch? With Jack? Jack wants me to ditch with him? No. It couldn’t be. What he meant was, we can both ditch, and you can go your way, and I’ll go mine and I’ll see you again on Tuesday. “D…ditch?” I said, probably sounding very much like an idiot.

His eyes shone brilliantly. “Yeah, you and me. We’ll ditch and get a cup of coffee or something”

My mind was running at a million miles a minute. Oh, if only I had time to do my hair. It was wind-whipped and curling in every direction. Coffee with Jack on a day when I had to throw on a semi-old pair of jeans was not my ideal picture of what my first out of class experience would’ve been. I could take it or leave it, though, and I would’ve been crazy to leave it.

I looked once over my shoulder, spotting the dim light flowing from the class room we should’ve been sitting in, him in front of me, me behind him soaking in his awe-provoking beauty. I realized then that his hands were still resting on my shoulders, where he had placed them to steady me after our collision. I blushed bright red. I knew in that moment he knew everything. I had to say yes. There was no chance at cat and mouse, now. There was no hard to get, no come hither expression, while walking the other way. It was impossible. I was no Grace Kelly, and definitely no Audrey Hepburn. “Sure. Why not?” I said, amazed at the nonchellance. His smile brimmed. He knew in an instant what had happened in my heart. He threw out the bait with accuracy and ease, and me, being innocent and willing, took the bite. He felt the pull, and reeled in. He reeled me all the way to the campus coffee shop, and watched as his prize came gently to the surface as we sat by the fire, which was just a little too hot and sipped at our coffees, staring into each other’s eyes.

Jack was exactly as I thought he’d be. He was debonair, and never flawed in his speech. Someone should have warned him though, because once you open the latch, you can’t close it again, and I just rambled on and on. He sat across from me, and smiled gently to himself. I’d stop every now and then and apologize. “I’m sorry Jack, this all probably bores you to death” his face would curl into a lovely grin and shake his head “Not at all. I love hearing you speak.”

I felt my face light up as he said those words, and kept on.

It’s magical, that first moment where two people find out more about each other than their names. When the “Nice to meet you” comes to life, and you realize how truly nice, or even beyond just simply “nice” it was to meet the other person, because that other person is beginning to define your entire existence.

Your purpose behind waking each morning centers on the fact that your life, for the first time ever, is in fact better than your dreams.

So as we two people, Sophia Descartes and Jack Branston sat across from each other on that tell-tale morning that we should’ve have been sitting in class, all the wonderful notions and thoughts that come after “Nice to meet you” stopped being thoughts, and started being real.

Just like in the classroom, Jack filled the entire coffee shop with his smile, and his wonderful way about charming everything that falls in line with his stride.

My whole life I’ve been afraid of the moment I’d meet the man who’d finally match up with my dreams. I’ve been afraid of the day we’d stop being acquaintances and start to move up a rung on the ladder of life and relationships. More so than all these things, I was petrified of the day when I’d find out exactly how this man felt about me.

See, as much as dreams are lofty and wonderful, and always seem to pan out perfectly, real life doesn’t always work that way. I’m sure many a girl has met many a Cary Grant or Gregory Peck, and has been rejected, or walked right past them.

Sitting there, in that coffee shop with Jack may have been enough evidence of his approval for most other girls, but I guess I’d call myself a bit of a skeptic, and I, as the great philosophers have once said, will doubt until I can doubt no more.

The thing was though, that with Jack, there wasn’t much doubting to be done.

After about an hour of my chatting constantly, trying to fill every second with liveliness (Somehow, this makes me feel better), I had finally hit a wall. My voice was growing hoarse, and the somewhat safe topics I had brought up were beginning to exhaust themselves. I looked down into my coffee, and glanced up. I found Jack starring at me, deeply and intensely. I blushed again, the inevitable, and looked down in the swirling light brown of my regular coffee with cream and sugar I bought every day in this very coffee shop. I peeped up again to find him still looking at me. I held his gaze. I couldn’t really help myself. His eyes invited mine to drown themselves in his, to allow myself to be consumed in their deep sense of knowing. Looking into Jacks eyes was like looking into an ocean of mysticism, and Jack was the vessel waiting to carry me off into the sunset. Jack was everything. I felt myself begin to melt against his gaze. Finally, he spoke.

“Sophia, I really like you”

What? He what? He what’s me? Did he say…no…I can’t say it…I might jinx it…

“And I don’t want to rush things, but I’d really love to get to know you”

Know? Who? Me? I looked around, trying to see if there was another Sophia in the room. He stared straight at me, barring into me with his gaze.

I locked my jaw to keep it from falling open. I said nothing, afraid of the whimpers that would escape if I did. If uneasiness was an emotion possible for Jack’s face to express, that would’ve been the expression he wore at this moment.

“So…I wanted to know if you’d go to dinner with me on Saturday.”

It took me a few seconds. I had to recover from the rush of impossibility that had just been directed at me. I thought about pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, but concluded that if I was dreaming, then this would be a dream I would not want to wake up from. His brow furrowed at my silence. Finally, I broke.

“Yes! I’d love to! I mean. That would be nice. Yes. Very nice”

His expression of trouble quickly disappeared. “Good. Then I’ll come and get you at 7?”

I swallowed hard. This was not a dream. This was real. “Yes. 7”

I spent all day on Saturday checking the clock. I woke up at 9AM, which was a tad earlier than I had hoped I would wake up, and checked the clock every three minutes after that. It was the longest day in the history of all days.

Five o clock started to creep up on me, finally after hours of agony, and I figured I should shower and start to get ready for the event in which I was sure would change my whole world. I took extra care, and washed every crevice of my body. I washed my hair twice, using the nice conditioner so that the aroma would lift off my particles of hair and send him into a tizzy of ecstasy the way the scent of a woman’s hair often does to men. I stepped lightly out of the shower, and I examined myself.

I was not too skinny. I was also not skinny enough. I was in between. There were parts about me that I loved. I loved my legs. I loved my hair. I loved my eyes. The rest, it was all under speculation still and I needed some time to get used to them.

Satisfied that I was thoroughly clean, I began to pull out the outfit that I had spent all day trying to decide upon. Even after spending a good 8 hours of that day, and a good chunk of the rest of my Thursday and Friday thinking about it, I still made a few minor changes.

Make up, hair, it all came on until I was absolutely satisfied that I could look no better.

I put on a dainty gold chained necklace, with a soft pink fresh water pearl dangling at the end. It held the sheer expression of femininity, and was exactly what I needed to complete my outfit. After fussing over myself for what seemed like actually an extremely short time, I looked at the clock and found that it was already quarter till six.

I situated myself comfortably – yet uneasily on the sofa in our front room, and picked up my favorite copy of the Great Gatsby. It was worn, with pages torn here and there, and scribbling all over the side. I am the type of person who can never get rid of a book. Each holds sentimental value, and I cannot bring myself to discard them in any way, shape, or form. All this being said, the Great Gatsby held specific importance to me, and I always kept it handy and accessible.

I heard gravel crunch outside, and looked. A black Toyota Camry was parked in the drive, still running, and a tall man with dark hair was climbing out, looking as if he just stepped straight out of a romance novel. I gasped. It was Jack. “Ok.” I told myself “Don’t rush. Wait for him to ring the bell”

Jack waltzed up the front walk way, and pivoted onto the porch. He rung the bell, and I waited a few seconds before opening the door. I grabbed a jacket, and greeted him.

“Hi Jack. How are you?”

He smiled, cunningly. “I’m well, how are you”

Well. He’s well. Oh Jack, could I be anymore in love with you; you and your impeccable grammar? You are heaven, and must be preserved in your own right. Well. You are well. Well is incomparable to good. So well, that is you, you are well.

I chuckled a little at my thoughts. “Well, I’m well, also!”

I said enthusiastically. What I wanted to say was, “Me? How am I? I am fantastic! I am great! In fact, this is the best day of my entire existence, and the reasoning behind this is you! So how am I? I’M FABULOUS!”

I thought that would be a bit too forward, so I settled with well.

He offered his elbow – his elbow, as if he were Mr. Darcy or something. I took it, obligingly, and we gracefully floated to his car, where he opened the passenger side door for me to get in. Soon, he was sitting beside me, looking perfect as heck. I wondered to myself if he always looked that way, or if his perfection was something he worked hard to attain? It looked so natural – I couldn’t decide.

Jack Branston took my hand that night and led me into a starry abyss. He brought me into the clouds and coming back out wasn’t really an option.

As we sat in a dark theater, holding hands, not paying any attention to the movie but rather would move the other would make, it seemed like the whole world was turned upside down and shaken around. I couldn’t see a thing, but I didn’t care. I was in a blizzard, but it was such a lovely one that seeing past the blizzard was something I dreaded.

I stared into the moving picture, and felt a tickle at my ear.

“You’re beautiful” Jack whispered to me. There it was again. The tell tale blush crept onto my cheeks. I peeked slyly at him out of the corner of my eyes and looked down at our hands. His flesh touching mine sent shivers down my spine when our physical beings first encountered each other, and it didn’t stop. His fingers were laced between mine, and it was so flawless that I couldn’t even tell anymore which fingers were mine and which were his. I had lost all feeling except for the feeling of absolute reverie.

The next thing I knew, he was walking me to my door. I looked down at my feet as we walked. The purple shoes I had dawned were brand new and shining with the unspoken fervor of life – new life. They pinched at my toes, and I could feel the blisters that had formed hours ago on my heels and toes. I knew very well what my feet would look like when I took them off, but for now they were pretty – they were beyond pretty, they were gorgeous. They were so beautiful they could be compared to Cinderella’s glass slipper.

Jack’s hand touched my arm. Our bodies were closer now. “Sophia, I had a wonderful time with you tonight” I smiled, as cunning and sweet as I could muster “I did too, Jack. Thank you for a wonderful evening”

The beautiful half smile brimmed on his face, as if he were saying to the world that he, Jack Branston, was so inexplicably wonderful and whole that putting effort into a full blown smile was too beyond him. I looked into his beautiful dark and shining eyes. I felt myself begin to melt. I knew the second that his eyes met mine, that my heart would be fixed upon those eyes for the rest of my life. It was clear that those beautiful eyes would forever be watching me. I looked down to recover from the intense wave of emotion that had splashed over me, but with the gentlest curve of his pointer finger, he lifted my chin up, level with his, and starred down deeply into my eyes. I could feel the notions of my heart pour out into his hands, and every inkling of a dream I ever had became his and only his. I was transfixed, intoxicated in his gaze, his simple gaze, and if that weren’t enough, his face began to draw mine nearer to his. His eyes searched mine with intensity I’d never know, and just as the perfection of the moment had peaked, he kissed me.

And my whole world tumbled around me.

Everything I was once was, everything I could ever be was suddenly nothing, and the one thing I became was Jack’s lips, and Jack’s eyes, and Jack’s arms wrapping around my malleable body. I didn’t even want anything else. Then, Jack let go. Our lips parted, and he stared, once again, deeply into my eyes. He knew. Jack knew it all. His mouth molded into that cunning little half smile he donned so often, and which I was becoming so fond of, kissed my forehead, and whispered in my ear, “Goodnight, Sophia”

Then it was engine roars, and headlights, the sound of tires crushing the fragments of dirt and dust on the pavement, tail lights turning the sidewalks red, and then nothing but the blueness of the night.

The Memory and the Moon

It’s an eerie feeling, driving down the lonely streets of towns I’ve walked in, that I’ve driven by a thousand times before.

It’s late at night, and with the exception of a few shop owners, closing up, or bar hoppers, it is empty and deserted. I drive slowly. I drive as if I may disturb this incredible peace, this rest that seems to take hold upon the town I’ve only known to bustle about.

I am aware of everything around me on these nights. Of the creaking the train makes as I drive along, next to its tracks, of the flickering of the lamp. I notice the features on the face of the man standing on the corner, smoking a cigarette, waiting to walk back into the bar he left. I can guess his entire life story. It’s always at the tip of my tongue.

Sometimes, as I drive down these lonely streets, I feel as though I’m a time continuum, I feel like I’m stuck between here, and the future, and the past all at once.

As if everything that seemed to make my life make sense was utterly and shamefully gone.

I drive past the high-school. I had been by it only a few hours earlier, kids laughing, standing on the corner, running, pushing, kissing, lying down on the grass, enjoying the sun.

It’s empty now, and all that’s left is the broken down Oldsmobile parked in the far corner in front of the school, the one that’s been there for the past few days, absently awaiting its fate.

The same kids would return the very next day, completely unaware of my presence, that only six hours before, a little Chevy Cavalier had crept past. They would never think about me.

There are a dozen parking spaces, tennis courts, a football field, and then the road goes on.

The tall, newly leaved tree’s bend gracefully over the road, creating a tunnel of light, of magic, and also of darkness. The few streetlights scattered sparsely on the road sides reflect the light that bounces off the lake behind the million dollar homes I pass every day.

There is no one on this road, behind me, ahead of me, no one waiting to turn in front of me. There is no nice old woman, absent mindedly cutting me off in traffic, only to drive something like fifteen miles under the speed limit, frustrating me to no end. Even still, I find myself wanting to drive somewhat like fifteen miles under the speed limit, because if I crashed now, it seemed as though no one would ever find me, hurt, unconscious, maybe even dead on the road side. No one would ever know I had even been there. I would fold into the landscape, and into the tree’s that curved over the street.

Still, I find myself accelerating. I push down on the gas peddle, aimlessly driving down this forlorn road, knowing the way home by instinct. I pass block after block of beautifully dressed homes, all standing silently on their little hills, carefully cradling their inhabitants, who are probably sound asleep on their soft beds. I think about the people in those big houses. I think about the million dollar paintings they must most certainly own. I think about the entertainment centers, and the games. I wonder if maybe some have not yet fallen asleep. Maybe even at these wee hours of the morning, there might be someone, sitting up in their office, leaning against an expensive chair specifically positioned to custom the curve of their back. Maybe they wonder if the people in the cars passing on the road below even give a moment’s thought to them, sitting all alone in their lonely office, in their million dollar home, their multi thousand dollar cars parked in the drive way.

I wish for a fleeting moment that they would know that I thought about them, as I drove past, as I wondered what life would be like tomorrow, in the wake of every memory strewn across this broken road.

Of the times we sat in this car together, following the gentle curve of the road, singing “Leila” by Eric Clapton loud and strong, because I had insisted on hearing it over and over again. I thought of the time I was scared to drive this way, because there were too many one way streets, and I was so worried about irritating someone driving, and even still, we drove this way. I sat rigid in the driver’s seat, waiting for another car to plow into mine, anticipating an accident that would end my life. I swore when we arrived safely at our destination that I would never ever take that way again, and you would just have to cope with us taking the long way home.

I wished that you could see me now, and know that this is the way I take home every single time. I don’t even think to go another way. It is my graceful defiance to everything you instilled in me.

I thought of the time, at the end, when you followed me home. The time I was falling asleep at the wheel, swerving off the road, and quickly jolting back on track.

You had called my cell phone, I had ignored it. All I wanted was to go home, and burry myself in my covers, in my pillow, and forget the entire world. I didn’t want to eat, I didn’t want to wake up, I didn’t want to laugh or see things ever again. All I wanted was to fall asleep, and never wake up, and only dream of things the way they were, long ago, when things were good, and we laughed, and loved, and never even raised our voices.

I wanted to be caught in it, even if it wasn’t real. I wanted to stay lost in my disillusionment for the rest of my life.

And if I stayed driving on this curving street, then that wouldn’t happen.

I remember hitting rock bottom. I remember pushing you into your car, and sitting on the driveway, sobbing, crying, holding myself and rocking.

Rocking, soothing myself, trying to make my heart stop pounding, and trying to soothe away the panic attacks that came in swift rushing waves. Horrible waves, like storms, that washed me away, that were drowning me.

I look back into the review mirror, remembering seeing your headlights, driving slowly behind mine, echoing the turns of my steering wheel.

There is nothing in my review mirror now, just blackness, just the red glow of my headlights reflecting off the signs that say “Stay off shoulder”, or “MPH: 30”

I like it better this way. I like being alone on the dark street, knowing that tomorrow I’ll wake up, and it will be a brand new day to live and love, and laugh and cry, and get angry at, and take joy in. I like not feeling utterly lost and desperate on this old, dark, winding street. On this tunnel that seems to be leading me slowly on to my future, to moving on, to being new.

My car eases upward. I push harder on the gas, inching the wheels up towards the bridge that covers the Dupage River. I think about the kids that sat on the banks, fishing for Cod, or Bluegills only a few hours ago. How every day, without fail, the same three little boys would ride their bikes, sturdy and dependable down the river, to go fishing, to catch fish they can’t eat. The river is far too dirty, anyway.

I think about turning and avoiding the stop light. I think about the last time I sat on the dark corner, all alone, feeling like the light would never turn from red to green, feeling that at any second, that one bad man we’d always been warned about would come crashing through my windows, ready to do a horrible thing to me right there on the corner of Crescent and St. Charles Rd.

I decide to avoid the stop light, turning down a street with no street lamps at all.

I quicken my speed just a bit, thinking about the darkness encompassing me and my car, the only shed of light being the glowing numbers on my dashboard, giving me readings of gas, miles per hour, and the temperature of my engine.

I check them often, making sure I never get too close to running out of gas, or my engine overheating. I’ve learned my lessons well, driving this little green Chevrolet down the roads of the Chicago Suburbs, often finding myself stranded in some parking lot I had pushed my broken down car into to get it out of the way.

It’s one more measure to keep my life in line, to keep me from sinking, to keep me above water. I love knowing that I’m responsible for the well being of myself, and that if my tire were to pop, I would jack up my car and change it myself, or if I had left my lights on and my battery had died, I could jump my car with the jumper cables I had stored in the trunk, readily awaiting the incident that could potentially occur in the near future.

I was prepared for anything. I wish you could’ve seen how serenely and calmly I could handle a disaster these days. I never dissolved into tears. My voice never grew shrill.

I wish I could’ve proven that you were so wrong about me. I see now what you had turned me into.

I turned down the familiar streets so close to home, so close to my warm bed, to the silent hum of my computer running, sitting on my lap, as I checked my email after a long day.

It was a rhythm, something I could do with my eyes closed. Left here, right there, stop at that stop sign, then turn left again, another right, look for the driveway, for the silver van and yellow truck. I knew it by heart. I knew the scent, the feeling of knowing I was always almost home.

Passing the neighbors house’s, I remember riding my bike as fast as my legs would let me spin the peddles, turning quickly into driveways of friends, ringing the door-bell, “Can Melanie play?”

“Sorry sweet-heart, she’s not home yet”

“Ok, I’ll come by later”

Turning down my street, I see the faint tracing of my name in the sidewalk next to my hand print and the date of when the village poured all new sidewalks down our street, and all of the kids ran down the end of the block to make our imprint on the world. My hand still fit in the indent, though barely, as I had wiggled it around to make room for years to come. I checked every time I passed, vividly remembering the feeling of the cool cement on my hand, of the rush of adrenaline at the possibility of being caught by some police officer, or maybe even the president. I remembered the feeling of being scolded by mother after she had found the cement stained clothes bundled up in the corner of my room. Looking back, I can remember the little glint of pleasure in her eye, that her daughter had indeed left her imprint on the world, at the end of our block, on Broadview street, when she was ten years old.

I pull into the driveway, hearing the grinding of pavement under my tires, feeling the resistance of my brakes as I rolled to a stop and put it in park, seeing my lights go off and hearing the engine click as I turned the keys and shut off the car.

I open the car door, push in the lock, and walk to the back door. Clink, goes the gate latch as I open it to let myself in. Quietly, I try and close it, as to not wake my family.

I shuffle silently, turn around, and there, floating over the tree’s, is the yellowing, beautiful, peaceful and stirring full moon. I stand for a second, taking in the scent of the cool night air, smack dab in the middle of May. The moon is staring out at me, daring me to run, and enticing me to jump. I realize that my drive back to my house had truly been a journey home, and all I had to do was grab it, take it, run with it, wildly through the night, breathlessly in the air, never stopping and never looking back.

I turn to the back door. I remember when we installed it.

Our old one, like the one we have now, was a sliding door, big picture windows.

It creaked, and would get stuck, allowing for us to squeeze through a tiny crack to get outside. It soon became very evident that we needed a new one when old faithful had refused to close at all. The very next day, there it was, clean, shining, glittering in the morning sun. It was all we could do to contain our excitement of having something new, something to brag about to the whole neighborhood, about the new door we have.

“This one doesn’t stick, and it doesn’t make any noise when we open it”

It had never occurred to me that maybe every one else had a door like that, and that we might’ve been the weird ones.

I step in the house, on the hard wood floor I’ve scrubbed a thousand times. I grab the golden handle, cool to my touch, and I pull, gently, and slowly. I hear the door touch the frame, and I flip the latch to lock it.

I look out at the moon again, still offering out its hand. The crystal moon, floating in the dark, starry sky, was blaring out one last chance that I might take it up on its offer.

I stand there, perfectly aware that this moon, this beautiful and full and wonderful moon would always be inviting me, day after day after day, until the end of the world. I smile to myself, then turn to walk up the stairs, six of them, turn right down the short little upstairs hall, turn the handle on my bedroom door, and climb into bed.

Out my window, I see the moon, grinning, knowingly at me.

Maybe tomorrow, Moon. Maybe tomorrow.

The Perfect Stranger

Just for the record, this actually isn't about anyone in particular - I just have a lot of stupid things going on in my brain.

But if you'd like to whisk me away on the corner of Main and Crescent in Glen Ellyn, and resemble a young Cary Grant, then by all means, be my guest.

---------

Perfect Stranger,

I saw you today. You were walking in Glen Ellyn, and I was on my home from work, ready to pull into Starbucks for a quick caffeine boost. My car was at a stand-still, and I looked to the side, and saw a red hat bobbing up and down the street. I looked down, and instantly, I knew it was you.

I circled the block. I couldn’t find a parking space. I circled again. I found one. I rushed out of my car, ran down the block, around the corner, desperate to catch you, all the while thinking up some story as to why I was running. I was meeting someone. No, because then I couldn’t talk to you. It was starting to drizzle. Yes. I didn’t want to get caught in the rain. It was starting to drizzle. There it was, my simple story, perfectly believable. You would’ve never known that I had in actuality been running to catch up to you.

Book by the binding in my hand, I circled the corner, and looked down the street both ways. There I stood, breathless, cheeks flushed, anticipating a by chance encounter with the one person in the world I could say “I was just thinking about you!” and mean it. I lost you. I missed you. You were gone.

The irony of it, was the only thirty minutes before, I sat in the tennis lounge at Wheaton Sports Center, thinking of all the times I had gone to see him play tennis there. Of the first time I watched him play, and how I went upstairs, yet couldn’t find him, and stood and pretended to be interested in games that I didn’t understand, pretending to not be thinking solely of him, and how suddenly, as if I was knocked out of trance, there he was, next to me. He was golden, Stranger, simply golden, glowing from a victory that had taken place just minutes before. His smile was radiant, he was beaming down on me, simply gleaming that he had caught me by surprise. It was his simplest pleasure to have me, his very own, to sit and watch him play a game he loved.

I thought of how handsome he was to me, and how much I loved the sight of him, and his gently tanned skin, his dark eyes gazing into mine. I remember it like it was yesterday.

For him, only two years ago, even more than that, Stranger, I was breathless.

And there I stood, on the corner of Main and Crescent, in downtown Glen Ellyn, breathless, for you, expecting a man to round a corner in whom never would.

You shake me, Stranger. You chill me to the bone. Your stature, your humanity, your very likeness is royalty to me. You are passionate gentleness, and I can’t shake you, because you are shaking me.

I was still, the wind swirling my hair about my face, the gentle tingle still left in my cheeks, the tingle of excitement, of anticipation, of a little fear, too. On a lonely street corner, on a rainy day, people passing left and right. I stood dejected.

I clung to my paper back copy of The Other Boleyn Girl. I was deep into the plot of Kings and Queens. I imagined for a fleeting moment, that you were king, and I was your queen, and we ruled over all the land of ours, of our hearts.

I rummaged in my pocket for a few dollars, strolled down the street, as to not to make my feet idle, and found the Starbucks. It was my last hope. Maybe you had strolled down to Starbucks. You didn’t. You wouldn’t.

I bought an iced latte. I sipped it as I walked, frustrated down the street.

I imagined the day, when I would fly around the corner, unknowingly into you arms, and have you swing me around in sheer delight to have me, your own, basking in your joy. You would fold me into the creases of your body, you would wrap me up with your love, on that lonely street corner in Glen Ellyn, with people all around, watching our beautiful love blossom. Watching what I have waited for happen before my eyes. There, Stranger, in that moment, I would be breathless, cheeks tingling, tears brimming. Perhaps, then, we would stroll, hand in hand, down to Starbucks together. Perhaps we would both be holding a book by the binding, and perhaps we would read them together, sipping our iced latte’s, our feet touching under the table, in the simple bliss of knowing we were ours. Perhaps, then, I would not feel so dejected, so hopeless, that my only love had slipped away, because I could not find a parking space.

I walked back slowly, eyes peeled, one last glint of hope that I might still see you, that my every dream might come true, and that we’d tell our great grandchildren how our love had awoken on a simple street corner. I never saw you stranger, but as I found my car, parked around the corner, there was yours, parked right next to mine.

I hadn’t seen it before, in my rush to find you.

I couldn’t help thinking of a someday, we might have our cars parked like this, on a little driveway, of a little house where we’d cherish each other and be each other’s own, and each other’s lover, and each other’s companion forever. A day when we might be husband and wife. I couldn’t help but grin a little at the thought of your red Toyota next to my green Cavalier.

As I rode home, I realized something. I fell in love with you long ago. I fell in love with a guy who's smile warmed by entire being, and who's every word I waited upon with anticipation and hunger. I fell in love with your quick looks and your countenance.

I was in love with a boy I’d never known, a man I hardly knew, a family I had heard of. I am in love with you. I have decided this. I can’t shake you. You play my game too well. I’ve met my match in you, Stranger, and I don’t want the chase anymore. All I want is you.

I’ve been hurt, and broken, and torn to pieces. I’m filthy, rotten, sinful, and sick. I want arms that are safe and know exactly how firm to hold me, so I will not break, but will feel secure in them. I want hands that I trust, that can go anywhere, and I am confident they will not falter. I want eyes I can look into, and know the deepest desires are each others

I am scared, Stranger. I am scared you will not love me despite my rottenness. I am scared you will turn from me, as you are. You are turning from me even now. You have already turned.

I want to be wind-whisked, breathless, pink cheeked, starry eyed, and mad with love for you.

Again, I find us here, the only way I can have you, in a letter I will never send, at midnight. Perfect stranger, you are indeed perfect in every way. In fact, it is even your imperfection that makes you perfect.

I am much too smart for this, my perfect stranger. Must too smart to be whisked away by a man I hardly know.

Perfect stranger, please tell me your real name.

Your's, Forever,

Breathless

Blood

You broke my heart. You shattered me into a million tiny little pieces. You took me in your arms then crushed me and you knew it.

But it’s ok, because I’m tough. I’ve got thick skin, and you can break me, but you can’t ruin me all together. Even in pieces I’m still me.

So I’m good. I’m almost back together. I’m healing, it’s good.

Then you come back. YOU COME BACK. Can you believe that? You come back! You come back because you don’t want to be the bad guy. You want everyone to love even when you hurt them. Guess what buddy? There’s no such thing as second chances with me. I don’t hand out cards. You’re out of luck. You’re still the bad guy in my book. You still come back and tear off little pieces of my heart, so you’re still the bad guy, but it’s ok. I can roll with the punches. I can take it.

So you go, and I’m good, and the little pieces are coming back. I’m starting to find the missing parts. It’s good, and I’m getting there.

I’m starting to see things for what they are and you for who you were and especially who you aren’t. I’m starting to build a life that you can’t rip away. The foundations are being laid, and you’re no where in sight, so I have no worries. You’re dead to me. You died to me a long time ago. I live my life pretending that some tragic accident happened about a year ago to you, and you died, oh so sad, but now it’s ok because you’re gone and all that’s left are the memories. You don’t come back.

But you do. You still come back, but this time you’re a coward and you run, and I’m the strong one. I’m the one with dignity. I hold my head up high and you can’t stop looking because I’m strong, and you’re weak. I’m a pillar of rock, and you’re the waves and the sand and you shift and change but I stay the same and I’m unshakable and I’m solid. You can’t break me this time. You come back, and you try to chip away at me, but I chip away at you. So you leave, and all is well and I’m good because I’m strong, I’m a pillar, and you don’t phase me, since you’re dead. How can a dead man faze anyone? He’s dead.

Then you’re gone, and you’re gone for so long. You leave and I don’t even think about you. I can barely remember you. I have to think really hard because you’re dead, and the dead are forgotten – especially the dead who did nothing but hurt. They are easily forgotten.

But then you’re gone for so long, that people start saying your name. They know that you aren’t dead. They know that you’re somewhere out there, even if I refuse to live in that reality that you’re alive in. Soon, people aren’t just saying your name; they’re screaming it all around me. They’re shaking me with it, and it’s resounding in my entire being because it’s so loud. Something’s up. Someone has resurrected you from your death. So I can’t pretend anymore, people won’t let me. I fight, and I refuse to believe it, but you’re alive. You’re alive again.

And once again, you come back. This time, you bring the thing that resurrected you – you bring her. And once again, I’m shattered. Once again, you’re picking off the chipping pieces of my heart. You come back to show me that you’re better. You come back to rub my nose in it, to show me your crap and make me smell it and make me roll around in it in my own home. It’s sick, and I’m angry. I’m fuming. Then suddenly I’m going a million miles an hour and I keep going faster, but it’s not because I can’t stop, it’s because I don’t want to. I don’t want to stop because this time I really want you dead. I want you gone forever. I never want you back, and so my goal is to roll over you and annihilate your very existence. I want to go back and erase your presence in the world because someone resurrected you, and if someone resurrected you, then you need to be gone forever. Your memory shouldn’t even be intact. You don’t deserve it.

I hold my head high and firm, and I smile and laugh and you’d never know. I act as if you’re invisible all while plotting your demise.

So c’mon! C’mon baby! I’ve still got blood left to bleed! I’m not finished yet! Why don’t you just drain me completely! Knock down the towers! Make it final. Make it real. You’re sick selfishness almost killed me once, but you couldn’t take me down. You’re nothing! You couldn’t even take ME down! You call yourself a man? Go ahead! Do it. Just do it. I’ve still got blood left to bleed! It’s coursing through my veins right now as we speak. The thickness of it, the warmth, it’s calling you a LIAR. It’s calling you a COWARD. If your intent is to kill me then shoot me through the brain and DO IT. DO IT LIKE A MAN. I want you to do it. See, I’m better than you. I can die with dignity. I can hold my head high through the whole process. I’ll never show a sign of weakness. You’d never know it. I’d never give you that satisfaction. You on the other hand will go screaming through the night, blood staining everyone and everything that you pass, coiling into a ball and humiliating yourself because I’m more of a man than you’ll ever be and I’m not even a man.

So c’mon baby! Even after ALL of that. Even after the breaking and the building and the breaking and the building you can’t take me down? You had chance after chance and baby, I’m still an open target. I’m still here waiting for you to take me down, but you can’t do it. You never can. You never will. See, no matter what you do or say to me, no matter how many times you cut me and how many times you break me in how ever many pieces you can, it’s never ever, not even for a minute going to change the fact that

I’ve still got blood left to bleed.

Beauty from ashes.

When I saw this secret on the Postsecret.com myspace page, my heart completely melted. Let me elaborate:

Once upon a time, there was a Jewish carpenter and a young woman. They were engaged to be married. One day, an angel of God came to the woman in a dream and told her that she was pregnant with the Son of God. As time went on, it became very clear that she indeed WAS pregnant. Now, of course this is a very tall tale at face value, so her fiancé, the carpenter was not too happy when he found out about the womna's condition, and was planning to quietly divorce her. He thought that she had slept with another man. Then one night, an angel came to the carpenter also, telling him that the child that the young woman was pregnant with was indeed conceived of a virgin birth. It was the son of God, the messiah, the redeemer of the world.
Time went by, and King Herod called for a census to be taken of all of Israel, so the carpenter and the woman, now married went to the town of the carpenter's birth, Nazareth. In Nazareth, the young woman went into labor, but because of the census, there was not a place in the entire town for them to sleep. They went from door to door, constantly being turned away, until one inn-keeper offered them the stable in which the animals slept.
The carpenter, who's name was Joseph, took his young wife, who's name was Mary, to have the baby in the stable amongst animals and hay, and the baby was named Jesus.

I love this Post Secret, because to me, this is the essence of finding the beauty in the brokenness. This person was planning on killing themselves with the very seeds that made her mother's garden beautiful. In the same way, Jesus came from a lineage of prostitutes and adulteresses. He was born in a stable, with donkeys and pigs watching. The mother of Jesus herself was presumed to be a dirty whore who slept around.
In the same way that the seeds that should've been this person's demise made their mother's garden beautiful, Jesus, the son of God, who was born from a broken and sinful people in all His perfection, later bore the burdens of the entire world, died on a cross, conquered death, and rose three days later. He did this to save us from our sin.

This gives me hope. I do a lot of things that aren't pleasing to God. I screw up every single day. I'm broken. Seeds of poison are planted inside of my heart every single day, and they hurt, but from those seeds, Jesus grows beautiful flowers. He takes the broken in my life, and makes it beautiful.
He makes beauty from ashes.

I Have A Serious Disease Called Procrastination...

My name is Aubree. I am a Freshman at the College of Dupage. I like to wait until the last second to do projects so that I'm completely overwhelmed. The thing is, I know I will be overwhelmed when I start to procrastinate, but I can't help it. I know that right at this very moment, I am not being bogged down with homework which I find pointless. For example, I have a five page research paper due that is supposedly on a short story that I've read in Intro to Lit. Unfortunately, my professor is extremely unclear on what I'm supposed to write in that paper. All he says is that it must be in MLA format. So, I go on Ratemyprofessor.com (because I'm nerdy like that) and I read from like, six people that the dude like, marks points off stuff but doesn't say why he marked it off, and then he'll mark you down for not including something in the paper in which he never specified you including. I also read that from like, 3 people that he completely out of the blue would accuse them of plagiarism. Um, in case you haven't checked recently, that can get you kicked out of school. PLAGIARISM! So yeah, now I'm like, about to sprout hives all over my body, but I'd rather be on my blog typing about it when it would probably be much more productive to start researching this paper. Right now, I am thanking God for double-space. For some strange reason, there are some people at COD (**cough**studentactivities**cough**) who apparently don't give a rip about the students and their needs. Like, today, I drove all the way to the COD library to start researching this stupid paper. So I get there, and I'm all ready, and this stupid kid is having an argument with his girlfriend on the telephone in what is SUPPOSED to be the silent section. I would've walked over there and smacked him. Unfortunately, I'm scared of big men, because I am weak.
So then I get on the computer to do some research, and I'm like, oh this is great, I found some articles, but then I need to find some books and I can't find the flipping book and I'm afraid of the librarians and it was night time and I don't know. For some strange reason I felt stupid. So, I left concluding that I could do the same research from the COD library home page that I could at home. The other thing really is that I didn't feel like finding out where the printers were. Plus...a Starbucks Cafe Americano was calling my name. Ok, the truth is I just got bored.

And now, I'm going to complain about the fact that last night it was Tuesday...which on Tuesday nights I go to Campus Crusade bible study. Usually, I just stay at school because it's easier and I study or something. But I hadn't showered and I felt nasty and I decided to go home and shower and come back to school. So, I do that and stuff, and I'm walking in the lower level of the SRC, and this huge guy...I mean HUGE, totally ugly, has this nasty looking beard is walking towards me. So I glanced at him, and he's like penetrating me with his eyes he's staring so hard at me. So, I smiled at him because I felt awkward and I also this one time I read this thing about this person who committed suicide and left a suicide note that said they went out and thought "If someone smiles at me, I won't die" and no one smiled at them for like, 4 hours straight and so they killed themselves so I smile at people sometimes in case they're on their way to kill themselves. So anyway, it's not a big smile, it definitely is not a "come hither" smile that I give this guy, but none the less, fatty scuz ball must have gotten a boost of self confidence because he gives me the updown...THE UPDOWN...and he says "How you doin'?" I sneered at him and walked away.

1. Are you aware of who I am? I am the queen. The. Freaking. Queen. You do not speak to me unless I say so, heck, you don't even LOOK at me unless I say so. I am not an object. I am not a piece of meat. If you come anywhere within a 20 foot radius of me, I will get out my pepper spray and get you right in the eyes, and then, I will knee you in the balls. I don't know you, and I don't like you. So shut up, and keep your freaking eyes to yourself you pervert.
2. Have I mentioned that I have two brothers, and a boyfriend in the Irish mob? Yeah, and if they find out that you spoke to me, let alone LOOKED at me, they will have no problem cutting your throat. Don't believe me? Well, I do understand that, but the thing is, it's not exactly something that you should bet your life on. I wouldn't risk it.

Ok, not really, but it's a good story.

So now that I'm done talking about nothing to avoid starting research on this paper, I think I'll just conclude by saying that I hate people who when driving have the gall to pull out in front of you, cutting you off, but then won't drive any faster than 25 miles per hour in a 40 mile per hour zone.

Thank you. Goodnight.

I Am A Woman Obsessed.

It was a cool afternoon in the beginning of October when a craving came upon me. It was one I had felt before. Yes, once this sensation, this innate desire for something terrible crept into this malleable little brain of mine, it could not be pushed out. It is indeed highly unquenchable, and on this particular afternoon, as I felt the familiar desire open its tiny little hands and grab a hold of me, I at once became a woman possessed. Suddenly, all the things I had planned in that time slot, every productive notion I had in my head was temporarily put off until I could satisfy this longing that resides in the pit of my very being. Promptly and efficiently, I put the key into the ignition of my car, threw it into reverse, cursed at the woman with the shopping cart walking behind me, and sped off into the direction of that which has haunted me for years now. I pulled out of the Jewel Osco parking lot on Geneva in Wheaton, checked in vain for traffic, then pulled across the street, cutting off many an angry Wheatonite mom in the process and felt the relaxation spread about my body. Yes, I had accomplished it, I had done it. I pulled into the drive through and heard the ever glorious sound of the minimum wage employee resounding through the speakers. “Hello! Welcome to Arby’s! May I take your order?”

My love for Arby’s started at an age that was not too young, but not old either. I remember very clearly the very first day I entered into the grease-ridden doors and smelled the magnificent scent of roast beef, sliced thin, joyously being readied to serve to eager, hungry customers such as myself. A roast beef and cheddar sandwich, curly fries and a soft drink were placed in front of me. I eyed this curious creation with wonder and uncertainty as it sat there before me, simply begging me to delve into its majestic deliciousness. Little did I know, the first bite would send me into a deep love, no, obsession that would follow me for the rest of my life. The cheesiness of the cheddar – the meatiness of the beef, it wasn’t comprehendible. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it! Yes, that monumental day when I entered into six dollar beef, cheddar, and curly fry heaven, the day when my McNugget™ and Frosty™ world was turned upside down, that day will go down forever in history as the day that defined my childhood. The day that I stopped being a girl, and became a woman. I became a cheddar stuffed, beef bulged, grease gorged, heck of a woman, on that day of all days.

So yes, I am coming out. I am writing in order to relieve myself of my best kept secret. The one that tells all that I, Aubree E. Redmond, am madly in love with you, Arby’s, and want to tell the whole world! I want to shout it on the highest mountain top! Arby’s, you complete me.