Category Archives: Merriments

TV, Music, and other entertainments

And now, I guess she’s on crack.

Sometimes, it’s just so hard to explain things to a little kid. Like the time that Mommy got presents every month, even when it wasn’t her birthday.

That one ended up with SpiderMan having new “Gentle Glide with the Best Leak Protection” pewers, if you can imagine that. If you can’t, here is an image I drew of it.

Spiderman and his Playtex Pew-er.

Spiderman and his Playtex Pew-er.

So, the Boo and I were hanging out with LEGO MIXELs, which is his latest craze, the book I’m reading, and Pitch Perfect. We have the soundtrack for Pitch Perfect, so Boo was basically singing along to everything. It’s awesome. I keep telling him that when he gets older, we’re totally going to bombard my choir director with THREE GENERATIONS OF HOYER in the same choir.

Off topic.

So, Anna Kendrick goes to sing the cup song…

…and Boo looks up at me with this inquisitive stare and is all:

Hey Mommy, why do girls wear shirts with that line?

And I look at Anna Kendrick, and I look at her gray shirt with no lines and I look at Boo, and I’m like…what line?

So he walks up to the TV and he points.

Right. To the cleavage.

Boo: Girls wear shirts like right there.

Me: Well.

Boo: See, the line? Girls’ shirts are right there, and they have boobs and there’s like a line.

Me: Well.

Boo: Boys don’t have it. Cuz I sing Agonyand I don’t have a line.

And then he started singing Agony, and got totally distracted, and I texted furiously to people that Boo had just questioned cleavage, and how do you explain cleavage to a six year old?!

Fast Forward to the next day.

We’re at the dinner table, and enjoying a nice dinner, and Boo looks at me, super serious.

Hey Mommy, you’re wearing a Pitch Perfect shirt today!

And I look down, because I i’m pretty sure I don’t OWN a Pitch Perfect shirt.

But yeah. He was totally right.

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when bad TV happens to good people

It’s finally acting like Spring outside, which means that the snow might be gone, but it’s windy and rainy and chilly outside. Considering what happened the last time Poof and I ventured outside in the wind, we’ve been taking to staying indoors. I head over to her place with coffee for everyone, and we chill out, watch TV, and partake in whatever is on TV that morning.

Today, commentary as follows:

L.A.: You know, that one douchebag is really starting to grow on me.

Poof: Kanye?

L.A.: No, I know who he is. I mean the dad douchebag.

Poof: Bruce Jenner?

L.A.: No, no. The douchebag that’s a dad.

Poof: Bruce Jenner?

L.A.: The dad that’s married to one of the daughters.

Poof: Which daughter?

L.A.: Lord Douchebag.

Poof: OH. Scott.

L.A.: YES.

Poof: I mean, you really just can’t go around saying “that douchebag” with this show. I mean, it IS the Kardashians.

Untitled

 

Let them eat timbits! and other things I’d say as a benevolent Queen.

Once upon a time, on a blog far away, Poof wrote a story that would be one of those stories. Everyone has those stories — the ones they tell over and over because they’re just that good.

I love to tell the Zamboni tale, or the time that my Dad accidentally left my sister and me at a gas station, or the time that VS parallel parked my car on the curb. Because the point was that the car was all in the space.

These are the stories that are still funny, or if they aren’t, then I either probably hate you or love you, depending if you’re still laughing.

I went onto timehop today, and came to the realization that there was a story that had gone untold. Two years ago today, I would give up doughnuts. Specifically, cake doughnut holes.

In real life, I tell this all the time: whenever the JumboTron gets mentioned or someone offers me a doughnut hole and thinks I’m completely cracked out because who does not like a tiny hole made of doughnut?

This is the story of the Doughnut Queen

JumboTron

Once upon a time, Poof and I made plans to go to a hockey game. We had a group of girls, a ridiculous amount of Sharpie’d posters saying phrases that probably shouldn’t be allowed around children, and a hotel room for the night. We had the capacity for ridiculous things to happen.

Hotchtics at the Game!

Hotchtics at the Game!

In true form, Poof and I began our day overly excited and exposed to social media.

Twitter: where all things good and wonderful happen.

After all, ever since she and I had both ridden the great bright ice cleaner that is the Zamboni, I’d been crazy gung ho to have Zambattle 2012 happen. Who doesn’t want to see two girls strapped to the top of Zambonis with light sabers battling it out?

zamboni war

That question was clearly rhetorical. Because not long after Poof and I had begun our early morning banter, we had received notification from “the social media guy”.

20120226-144208.jpg

Everyone likes the idea of a Light Saber Zamboni Battle. Except apparently, safety regulations and the like – which meant that on this day, we might not be able to Zambattle, but we would be fighting on a completely different battlefield.

Baked Goods.

@AyronattheWings offered us in exchange for our light sabers and souls, a Timbit eating contest. It sounded simple enough. Here is a box of doughnut holes.

Eat.

Compete.

Win.

Thus, we accepted.

Fast Forward.

It’s the first intermission. Poof and I have spent the first intermission trash talking each other about our eating abilities and downing whalebones. We’d been approached at the beginning of the game, and we knew that at some point during the intermission, someone would come fetch us for our shining moment of infamy.

The exact phrase was they’ll come for you.

Doughnut holes should never sound so ominous.

We’re standing in front of a camera with a woman brandishing a microphone. We’re wearing Tim Horton’s shirts that were given to us, because everyone also loves free advertising. We’re movie star waving to our adoring fans as the woman tells the crowd that we’ll have one minute to eat as many doughnut holes as possible.

Start the clock.

20120226-145932.jpg

Within the first three seconds, things go bad. Bitches gave us powdered sugar. Poof and I both had the strategy of shove as much into your mouth as possible [insert jokes here] because we only have one minute.

We had one minute. We did not have enzymes.

My mouth is full of powdered sugar and cinnamon and doughnut and I have no saliva left.

It’s like the Sahara Desert in here, and I. Cannot. Swallow. [insert more jokes here].

I glance at Poof. She’s looking at me. There are tears in my eyes and I don’t know if they’re from laughing or crying. The woman with the microphone is still counting down and I’m debating if it’s acceptable to drink alcohol on the JumboTron because my whalebone is RIGHT next to me and liquid would be perfection right about now.

Poof eats another doughnut hole. I debate which I hate more – losing or doughnuts, and losing wins. The next doughnut hole was a terrible idea.

Poof and I make eye contact again and a combination of laughter, doughnuts, booze, and peer pressure overload my senses. I hold the box up to my face — more free advertising for Tim Horton’s — and pray to the hockey gods.

For the love of all things holy, please don’t let me throw up on the big screen at a Red Wings game.

And then, in the best display of multi-tasking I’ve ever done, I managed to swallow [jokes], not choke, dodge a doughnut hole thrown at me by Poof, and not throw up on the Joe Louis Arena version of national TV.

They count the remaining doughnut holes. I have two. Poof have four.

I’m simultaneously thrilled and nauseous. I’m both proud of myself and mentally swearing that I’ll never eat another doughnut again. The arena is cheering at the spectacle of it all and I scream out,

“I AM YOUR DOUGHNUT QUEEN.”

As I celebrate, the woman gives me my prize.

It’s a gift card.

For doughnuts.

20120226-150303.jpg

The rug really tied the room together.

Boo: I think I’m going to call Papa “Dude.”

Me: I think you’re going to call your Papa “Papa.”

Boo: But he’s a dude!

Me: He’s your grandpa. Call him Papa.

Boo: FINE. Then you can call me “Dude.”

Me: I’ll call you “Dude” when you’re old enough to watch and appreciate The Big Lebowski.

Boo: What?

Me: That rug really tied the room together.

Boo: We don’t have a rug.

Me: Maybe we should get one.

Boo: You got it, Dude.

Me: …

Boo: Mommy. You got it, Mommy.

Jack and Jill went up the hill and then slid down it on the other side on a board and were given a gold medal for their efforts.

*Note from the blogger — prior to publishing this post, a similar post of similar occurances was posted over at Waste Of Heels, a fabulous blog written by the incomparable-even-though-she’s-cheering-for-Canada-today-Lady B. This basically means that she’s me, but in Canada, and you should be reading her post too.

If you live in Michigan, you’re supposed to do winter-y things. Depending on your level of skill, this means sledding, or tubing, or snowman building, or if you’re truly talented, properly cleaning off your car so as to not be that douchebag that drives down the road with it flying off the roof at other motorists.

From the hilarious blogography.com. If you haven’t read that blog, you’ve got issues.

Now, I’m not saying that I don’t have winter activity skills…I’ve successfully built a number of snowmen in my time, and gone sledding and tubing while growing up, and there was this one time when my Girl Scout troop decided it would be an awesome idea to go cross country skiing, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t fall then.

Here am I. In a tube. Getting pulled up a mountain.

Here am I. In a tube. Getting pulled up a mountain.

…but if you haven’t noticed, sometimes I am occasionally…accident prone.

I saw my friend TomSelleck recently, and our conversation went like so:

Him: So do you have any new bruises?

(The answer is no.)

So, when my friend Arrington texted me that he wanted to go snowboarding for his birthday, I was all…

Laura Thought Bubble

I’ve been snowboarding exactly three four times in my life (now including the recent birthday festivities).

The last time I went, while attempting to figure out this “tow rope,” I fell.

That’s right.

Not coming down the mountain, but attempting to go up the damn thing. I fall within the first seconds of holding on to this rope, and since we had decided to try snowboarding on Christmas Eve, the place was basically deserted. No one was around to give me advice or maybe tell me,

DO NOT CONTINUE TO HOLD ONTO THE TOW ROPE.

Which means that I made it up the mountain. Hanging on for dear life to this rope. On my ass.

I showed up to Cannonsburg thinking we’d have a nice klatch of the high school crew, CoSi and FunSized to maybe be as skillful as I am and chuckle the whole way [potentially on my backside] down  the mountain.

It turned out to be Arrington, his girlfriend (who brought her own skis), and me.

FaceBook

Arrington attempted to walk me through the basics of everything so I wouldn’t make a complete ass out of myself, and I actually made it down various hills of various sizes without too much bodily harm or embarrassment.

The Typical “Run” of L.A. down a Mountain on a Board

Start at top of hill. Congratulate self on making it up the mountain on the murderous rope of towing without falling. Strap foot in.

Arrington tells me to make sure that some foot that does something is either in front or in back because that’s the foot I can use for like steering or bracing myself or something like that. There is silent acknowledgement that I do not know how to steer.

Point snowboard down mountain because that seems like a pretty reasonable choice. Began sliding down mountain. Realize that I’m standing and not falling and try to keep my gleeful “sqee” noises to a minimum. I figure a deadpan face will make it look like I know what I’m doing.

The "I'm probably going to hurt myself and laugh about it when the bruises go away" face

The “I’m probably going to hurt myself and laugh about it when the bruises go away” face

Do a sort of turn to keep heading down mountain. Realize that snow seems to help with steering in the fact that it is making me go ways that I don’t think I was choosing to go. Pray that people know to get out of my way. Arrington tells me to use my back leg as a rudder to steer. I think rudders steer boats. This makes sense until another turn makes my back leg my front leg and I realize that I might not have full control of all my limbs and debate what I can blame this on when I inevitably crash.

Probably a spider bite. Paralyzed left leg. Have no control over it.

Realize I’m going incredibly fast. Arrington basically walks up to me because his normal speed is my fast and tells me ways to lean to slow down.

I lean. I slow down. It’s extremely effective. I remind myself to not forget the slowing down part.

Still going fast. Kind of freaking out. Realize that slowing down does not mean stopping and that the end of the mountain is getting close.

Lean. Lean. Lean. Lean. LEAN. LEANING.

Sit down on mountain. Stop. Am reminded of roller blading around my neighborhood as a youth, when I just jumped in the grass and hugged a tree to stop.

Did that on purpose, guys. I’m at the bottom of the mountain, guys. I didn’t even really fall, guys.

this was from the time that I went up the mountain on my ass, because I did not take a photo this time of me on a board because all my limbs were busy trying to keep myself from falling.

this was from the time that I went up the mountain on my ass, because I did not take a photo this time of me on a board because all my limbs were busy trying to keep myself from falling.

VD.

I did a project on St. Valentine once for my 10th grade religion class. My teacher was a nun, and gave me an A- for seeming completely nonplussed about St. Valentine’s martyrdom.

“Are you happy about this Saint, Laura? He dies.

I wish I had a picture of this nun, complete with sound recording, to show you exactly how distressed she was by my attitude. It ever so perfectly sums up how I am towards Valentine’s day.

I wouldn’t be too surprised too, if St. Valentine was in the same boat as me on today’s culture though — chocolate and hearts and OHMIGOD, I DIED FOR MY RELIGION and all.

Here, in no particular order are my favorite Valentine’s tales of my life, thus far.

 

1. My first Valentine.

My seventh grade boyfriend and I fostered a great love, that spanned two skating parties, my first kiss, and approximately five months. That’s basically marriage, guys. Love and marriage, Catholic school style. The relationship did pass by a Valentine’s day, which meant we gave each other gifts and stuff — I actually don’t remember what I gave him – color me shocked, as usually I remember everything.

It was probably like…a rhyming poem, typed in size 12, impact font.

But he gave me chocolate and a card. It was very nice, and I remember opening it up, all excited and….

Dear Seventh Grade L.A.,

Seventh grade words of like love and stuff.

From, Seventh Grade Boyfriend

Granted, he drew hearts around the word “from.”

 

2. When records are broken instead of hearts.

During my splurge of “I don’t know why social media keeps letting me win things,” NeighborGirl and I entered a Red Wings Wing[wo]man contest. 

Goose and Maverick.

Goose and Maverick.

We submitted why we should be allowed to watch hockey on Valentine’s Day.

Men are good at disappointing. There are the men that don’t call, the men that won’t stop calling, and the men that don’t appreciate you. That’s why we want to spend our Valentine’s Day with the Red Wings, the men who have never really let us down. 98 new potentials couldn’t hurt either. This Valentine’s Day, we don’t want chocolates, roses, or even a candlelit dinner. We want cold beer, rowdy fans, and a Red Wings victory. The only red we want to see is blood on the ice.

Which we won, along with a bunch of other single people, which meant that we were watching hockey on Valentine’s Day. This was actually a wonderful Valentine’s Day.

 

3. Anonymous.

High school really did more of the same thing that middle school did. Holidays would come around and we would send candy to each other to support like…athletics and stuff. I’m not actually sure where the money we spent went. Except the bon bons. If you bought bon bons, you were definitely supporting the Latin Club and the Latin teacher’s probable drinking habit because my latin class was definitely a reason to drink.

By this point of life, I had realized that I was really socially awkward, and had no idea how I’d managed to straggle successfully through my formative years thus far. I was single probably because of all those things, and maybe because I once tried to make a utility belt out of crushed velvet and the back pockets out of a pair of jeans to carry my pens and TI-83 in.

This utility belt was actually made out of my Halloween 1999 "punk rock" costume.

This utility belt was actually made out of my Halloween 1999 “punk rock” costume.

Weird little L.A.

Imagine my surprise then, and the surprise of my girl friends, when I received a candy-gram.

To L.A.

From: ???

Instead of a message, this person drew an arrow, pointing to the computer printed bear saying Happy Valentine’s Day. We never did find out who sent that one.

 

4. Nothing says I love you like a text message.

Because the college version of me was so romantic, I chose to send my love not by flowers or candy, but by text.

This was college L.A. You're probably less surprised that I texted Happy Valentine's now.

This was college L.A. You’re probably less surprised that I texted Happy Valentine’s now. Please note that I am wearing an NES wristband and have a flip phone clipped to my pocket.

In honor of the holiday, I sent this text off:

Happy Valentine’s Day! I love you!

The response:

Who’s number is this?

 

5. Finally,  I’d like to direct your attention to Valentine’s conversation with my sister, VS.

“I’m going out with some girls for Valentine’s Day.” VS tells me.

“That’s always so depressing,” I lament.

“No, it’s empowering,” VS argues.

“Oh yes,” I say. “A toast to our empty vaginas!”

VS shrugs this off. “We’ll put chocolate in them.”

 

Happy Valentine’s Day!

the thankful post

I read Camie over at Wild Spirit all the time (favorite blog alert)…

…and one of my favorite things that she does is her happy list posts. Things that make her happy on a day to day basis, which is something I don’t do enough in my life — acknowledging how good I have it. So, in honor of the amount of turkey and potatoes and pie I’ll be eating tomorrow, I decided to put together

.a thankful list.

Because I am really, really, thankful for a lot of crap.

1. the Boowho gives me a reason, everyday, to keep going, to be a better person, to be the best person I can be for him, for his life.

Tada, it's a giant hole.

2. Coffee, and the Keurig machine that my mother donated to my office so I won’t spend as much on coffee.

3. Singing. Singing with my Dad. Snapchatting Car-aoke to GoldDust and Poof. My out of tune guitar. Music of all sorts.

Concert Singing with the Paternal

Concert Singing with the Paternal

4. the amazing, astounding, irreplaceable group of ladies: Alto, CoSi, FunSized, GoldDust, Poof, and SoccerGirlfor being the best supporting, texting, BFFing, shopping, coffee-ing, snapchatting group of girls I have the privilege to know and love.

All dressed up

5. Writing. Journals and blogs and letters and tweets and everything that gets me out of my head and onto something that listens and responds and accepts.

6. Photos, cameras, snapchat, and the DSLR my sister gave me that I don’t know how to use, and the giant arsenal of memories that I have because of all those things. Mainly the memories, because of all the other things on the list. But it’s nice to have a tangible memory too.

7. That family group of peoplethat I appreciate more and more the older I get — how lucky I am to have a loving, weird, dysfunctioning functional family.

8. Soccer. I don’t even care anymore that I’m not really that good, and probably definitely never will be. I have fun playing, and I have amazing friends that have come out of this team and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

9. this $1 zit stuff that actually really works. It’s make up of some sort. It kind of stings. But it totally works. Yay, working! Yay, clear skin!

10. Snow, and winter, and the whole, yay, magical season. I should be like this year round – more appreciative and thankful for everything around me. I really should, and I mean to be. But ugh, you guys. The snow falls, and it’s all magical and beautiful and shiny and I don’t even mind  that I live in Michigan and everyone, and I mean everyone drives like a chatchnugget. DON’T EVEN MIND. Michigan, you’re gorgeous.

 

On that note. Here’s to an excellent and overstuffed Thanksgiving tomorrow, for whoever and however everyone is celebrating.

Oh. But.

-1. Christmas Music. I am not thankful for Christmas music until after Thanksgiving is over.

Mawwiage: what bwings us togetha today.

A few years ago, on another blog, Poof and I wrote about how our friends MC Hammer and Judy Jetson would one day find a way to be together and be in love. Apparently, we’re ESP(N), because on Saturday, they did it.

Mr. and Mrs. theArena!

Mr. and Mrs. theArena!

As with all other weddings I’ve ever been to, or been in, or stalked on facebook later, I’ve come out on the other side of things with a few things:

1. The Hangover.

…which is really okay, because it meant in the great battle of Go Big or Go Home, we did good.

You can't even hardly tell because we're classy.

You can’t even hardly tell how ridiculous we were because we’re classy.

2. Another gem to add to my 27 Dresses collection. 

Poof and I in our Wedding Best.

Poof and I in our Wedding Best.

The short bridesmaid dress was the best thing ever invented for weddings. Similar to when I head out for a random night out on the town, I’m all gonna dance all night.

This is a hell of a lot easier when you can wiggle around a little bit.

SoccerGirl and I strike my favorite pose: the Koala. This was made possible by the knee length b-maid dress.

SoccerGirl and I strike my favorite pose: the Koala.
This was made possible by the knee length b-maid dress.

3. Preparation is the key to success.

Poof and I headed out to Target on a mission a few days before the wedding. We’d learned from prior experiences that you should always be prepared, like the boy scouts say, lest you end up in a situation like this one:

November 2k10 — Poof and Captain’s Wedding

We’d forgotten about making mimosas for the morning of, as we got hair and make up and such done. Therefore, I ended up in a sketchy area of town, in a sketchy party store, dressed up in UGG boots and a guava bridesmaid dress with a flower in my hair.

Man at the counter: …are you in the right place?

Me: Do you have champagne and orange juice?

Man at the counter: …yes.

Me: then this is the right place.

Therefore. Outdoor photos in November in a strapless dress?

Be prepared

Five inch heels and dancing all night?

Be Prepared 2

4. Knowledge is Power.

After theAsian’s wedding a few summers ago, I learned that you should always bring flats to dance in, because you do not want to be the barefoot girl that goes home with black bottomed feet. Either you’re drunk in your sink, washing your feet off at 2 am, or you’re waking up the next morning hating yourself because you have to change your sheets with a hangover. You don’t like fitted sheets? Try them with the hangover on. This marriage was no exception to the new knowledge rule.

Bartender: Didn’t you just get a drink?

Me: I finished it.

Bartender: That fast?

Me: Some spilled.

Bartender: How much of it?

Me: It was an exciting song. I need a lid for my next drink.

Bartender: I can get you a sippy cup.

Me: …

Bartender: …

Me: …

Bartender: I’m totally kidding.

Me: …but could you really?

Bartender: Why not?

I switched to beer after that, because I didn’t want to be the girl on the dance floor with the kiddie cup.

BUT.

You know what was in my wedding present from SoccerGirl?

This was drink 3 of the day. Weddings mean day drinking and love.

This was drink 3 of the day, in my big girl sippy cup. Weddings mean day drinking and love.

Lesson taken from this wedding. Grown up sippy cups mean fun for everyone.

5. What you don’t remember, the camera will.

83 photos from Poof. 91 from me. 15 from my actual camera which I forgot to use after I recruited my groomsman to carry it for me at the reception.

Love, Marriage, Glowsticks.

Love, Marriage, Glowsticks.

Photographic Memory, basically.

MAWWIAGE, guys. MAWWIAGE IS WHAT BWINGS US TOGETHA TODAY. Technically, it brought us together Saturday, but y’know.

All the best, friends.

the quintessential halloween post.

When I was in the seventh grade, my classmate Katie hosted a Halloween party. It was for the entire class (boy/girl/gasp), and I had the genius idea to go as a punk rocker. Mind you, I was a 12 year old Catholic School girl. This meant that my idea of a punk rocker was a crushed velvet orange dress, orange colored hair spray, and the highest heels I owned (which meant I borrowed my sister’s three inch silver shoes, similar to what Judy Jetson probably rocked on a good day).  I even tried to mohawk my hair with the colored hair spray, but it’s fine Asian quality wouldn’t have it, and I ended up looking like I had stuck a fork into an electrical outlet and then set off an exploding ink pack.

Halloween 1999

Halloween 1999 probably looked something like this.

Then I showed up to the party, in all my orange glory. Half the girls were dressed like Britney Spears’, ala the Hit me Baby, one more time era. The other half was dressed up like poodle skirt girls. It was like the prepubescent female version of West Side Story. And I was dressed like an angry orange punk rocker fox.

I’ve never cared much for Halloween after that.

11 months out of the year, I’ll be excited-ish for Halloween.

I can be a butterfly.

I can be Daria.

I can be a parallelogram.

I can be a sexy parallelogram.

 

I’ve even passed the great divide of I’m going to be a lush in short-shorts for Halloween because that’s what girls do into the I’m going to be as unique and original as I possibly can be for Halloween because Halloween is a giant Pinterest campaign.

But then October comes around, and then the day off comes around, and I’ve got all these ideas that I’ve never actually gotten around to executing because I’m so dead set that Halloween will probably not be that great anyway. THIS YEAR, GUYS. THIS YEAR, I’M GOING TO GO AS A CATCH-22.

Instagrammed to Perfection. Hello, Sailor! Thanks to @hey_itsjenna for suiting me up.

Halloween Last Year, my thighs and I went as a sailor, courtesy of the House of Poof.

Case in point – last year, I borrowed a costume from Poof because I just could not decide on anything. I headed to Bottom40 with Alto, and while I, as always, had a wonderful Bottom40-y time with her, there were some random females that for whatever reason (Probably because I officially was wearing no pants) did not care for me, and essentially knocked every drink I had out of my hands. A few went onto Alto. Most went on to me. 

Happy Halloween, bitches.

So, here we are. It’s Halloween. 

This year…I’m going to be a Pikachu.

Or maybe a little pony.

Or possibly Mulan.

The Little Mermaid.

Texts with GoldDust about I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO BE EVER.

Texts with GoldDust about I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO BE EVER.

I’m being a Pika-LittlePony-Snowflake. So far.

I’ll keep you posted. Happy Halloween, kids.

Oh, yeah. This happened once.

Oh, yeah. This happened once.

Basically, my journals are my horcruxes, but not really.

If you haven’t read Harry Potter, you might wanna go the fuck away. One, because WHY NOT?! Two, because there’s sort of spoilers in here. Like seriously. Come back when you finish the series.

I’m such a pack rat, guys. Seriously. I save fucking everything.

I have all of the Blue and Whites from when I was in high school (that’s my high school newspaper). I have old corsages from dances. I have wristbands from particularly memorable nights out. I have ticket stubs. I have the chapstick of the guitarist from Sanctus Real from a concert I went to in high school.

I’m not kidding. And that is so fucking creepy. I’m embarrassed that I’m not kidding.

Among all the hubbub that I keep though, there is something that if you know me, I mean really, really know me, then you know I have these.

Journals. Scads and Scads and Scads of journals.

“It’s not a diary. Diaries lock. 12 year old girls keep diaries. This is a journal.”

That was my excuse to people, who thought it was strange that I was a 14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21, etc year old, carrying around a blank book to scribble in. We’ll see how you feel if I ever publish these beauties. Mostly, I just always wanted to be writing. Short stories, poetry, gossip, crush of the year/week/day/hour/minute when someone brushed me on the stairs. My 3rd period Honors English III teacher was THRILLED that I was always writing, although I think she wouldn’t have been as enthralled if she’d read some of what I’d written.

i’m trying not to think of you now

but i’m wringing out the towel

and every drop drips your name

and your face

and god

i wish the sun would dry you out

drive you out

drive me in and love me

(excerpt from a poem from 2003)

But I couldn’t stop. Years later, I look at these journals, and I’m not quite sure what to do with them. Do I want to get rid of them? No. Would you? It’s a pile of reminders of who I was, or who I was when I didn’t know who I was, or just memories of times and changes and people that I might lose otherwise.

But other than that? It’s a pile of books gathering dust under my bed.

Until.

I was reading Harry Potter, for the 210394823 time. Because it’s Harry Potter, and that’s what you do.

So, I’m reading HP, and I’m crying, and I’m trying not to drip my tears on my book, because I totally turned down a night of underage drinking in college to get the damn thing at midnight, when my friend Mohawk texts me.

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Like any 20 something folks that grew up in the mind of J.K. Rowling, we begin discussion of the book. He, of course, brings up the second best Headmaster in the history of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Snape. Snape. Severus Snape.

Which would be well and good until…

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And now we come full circle.

Journals.

Not just gathering dust under the bed. But useful when needed to one up someone in a debate on if or if not you considered Severus Snape to be a very, very bad man, or else you know…

Boom.

Boom. Courtesy of like journal…#34 or something.

I’ve never been so thrilled to have kept these books all these years.

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P.S. Dear J.K. Rowling,

If you happen to write another 7 books, could they maybe be about Sirius going through Hogwarts? Or James, or Remus, or Lily? I’ll settle for anyone except for Wormtail, cuz douchecanoe.

XO,

L.A.