In the past 48 hours, I have had eight Diet Cokes, two tacos, watched 10 episodes of "Psych," bought new Vans, wrote seven thank you notes, went rock climbing, fell asleep reading scriptures, and talked to myself far too often. — On par with a someone in a padded room, weaving a basket, actually. (Seriously? Talk about the life. I've always wanted a padded room. Oh the possibilities.)

That's what happens when you're in Provo during Christmas break. This town is dead. Indeed, maybe the reason I've been holed up in my apartment for the past two days is because every time I poke my head out the door, I imagine zombies hobbling across the parking lot and the smell of rotting flesh wafting up the three flights of stairs that I have yet to knock out to prevent unwelcome visitors.

I'm going out tonight though, the threat of demon spawn or not. (I really wanted to work in something about "damned if I do" right here, but it just didn't flow. You know, because zombies are damned souls. ... Nevermind.)

I'm going out because it's New Year's Eve and this is the first year in my 24 that I'm not working, sick, or spending it with family. I get the impression that people dress up for this holiday? Glitter, am I right? Yeah. No. I'm wearing my Vans.

New Year. New Year. I also get the impression that people make goals for this holiday? (Wow, that is so accurate: They make them for the holiday and by the time they come out of their alcohol-induced coma, the goals have gone the way of 8-Track players and the guillotine. Although, I'm brainstorming ways to bring the guillotine back. I think crime rates would drop with the that hanging over their heads. Literally.)

Goals. That was the point of this post. (Really, it was.)

I don't have any.

I have plans though. And the goals? Well, if they come, I'll start them then. I have several others in the works, because who says you need a date to improve your life? (As in, a calendar date. Let's not get into relationships right now.)

Plans for 2012:

January - 
Climb a 10c
Buy Cath a sweet birthday present

February - 

March - 
Run the Rex Lee 5K or 10K

April - 
Go somewhere. Canada?

May - July

August - 

Let's be honest, I mainly wanted to write my plans so I could type "Disneyland" and "Europe."

Anyway, I should probably go down another Diet Coke and head off to the party that will either be mad-fun or an awkward, wall-hugging experience. It's up to me, yes?

See ya 2011.

... Prime number. Don't like them prime numbers.


"You're ... endearing."

"Endearing?" His head protruded out of his neck like that of a senile pigeon. "What does that mean?"

Her head snapped back, chin into neck, mouth pulled downward in a combination of confusion and embarrassment. "It, well, it was intended as a complement. But, well ... "

Swarmed with self-doubt and lost in the ever-impossible arena of the spoken word, she stopped. Seeking relief, she looked at her hands, her feet, back to her hands, then to the man across the road awkwardly getting balloons out of a blue hatchback.

He stared at the side of her head, his mouth gaping slightly. He resembled a freshly killed deer: Silent. Ugly.

"Endearing makes me sound like a child." The dead deer spoke.

Finding her words again, her eyes shot up and over, taking her head with her to face him square-on.

"A child? Yes, I suppose that would be a better description of you after all." Her face began to warm. "Endearing implies adoration, desire — love, even." Her voice began to rise. "Endearing implies kindness. Child-like, well, that can imply an array of things, from the best to the most base. And you —you — you are ..."

She could not say it. She wanted to hate him, to be rid of him, at this moment more than any other, but something was lodged in her chest. It tugged as he walked with her. Tore when he walked away. And kept her, always, from escaping that inexplicable aura that seeped out of his skin and encapsulated the surrounding space.

With her silence came his victory. He shut his mouth, retracted his frame and with a smug chuckle slid his hands into his pockets. "You get so defensive over the silliest things. So I'm a child. I've been called worse."

They began to walk again, he invisibly tugging her along. A rebuttal grew, filling the area behind her eyes and nose. The words pounded inside her face, punching and scratching to be let out. She could not allow it, for if she did, the words would tumble out, jumbled and pathetic.

When she said the original word, he heard a set of nine letters meaning naivety. What she meant was something quite different.

Ah, because it was not just a word.

It was a being. One she sought. Not unlike a soulmate, but not the same. It was what she had hoped he would be. But labeling him as such did not make it so.

It was not just a word, and he was neither the word nor the embodiment of it. He was just a man. A man strapped with self-made blinders to what his world could be. He had once been endearing because of a mysterious intrigue that piqued her interest. He was now a repulsive, maggot-ridden carcass of arrogance and self-righteous delusions.

Turning abruptly, she dislodged the metaphor from her chest. A gasp wisped past her lips as she walked away. He didn't stop, he didn't notice. And although she pretended not to care, she did.

But it was better this way.


There's a song by The Weepies that goes, "They're in love. Where am I?" When I first heard it, I thought, "Yes! Exactly. That's precisely how I feel." But truth be told, my thoughts most days are more along the lines of, "I'm bored with my life. Who wants to join forces and make things more exciting?"

I think I have a skewed perception of dating and marriage.

Also, I found a piece of writing from a while ago where I started about finances and after a paragraph, ended it with, "Screw you, marriage." It must've been a rough day.

And here's a poem I found near that piece:

by e. gosney

Climb out of bed.
Climb into clothes.
Climb onto my chair.
For eight hours.

Climb around conversations.
And hide.

Climb through another mediocre meal. 
And then up a wall.
Literally, if you must know.
Metaphorically if you must not.

On life.
Live on. 


December is the month of family newsletters, of seeing old friends, of awkward family Christmas parties. It's the time when people catch up on each others lives and pretend to care as they talk about their son-the-soccer-player, and their daughter-the-math-genius. It is a time for bragging, but in such a way that no one is called out for being obnoxious, but that's exactly what everyone is secretly thinking about everyone else.

So what do I brag about? No husband. No kids. No blockbuster career. Nothing to invoke those feelings of, "Gosh she's obnoxious," from anyone. More likely I get pity, which just won't do.

So I'm a church calling-dropper.

You know, like name-dropping. "I met Elder Nelson in the airport." "Oh yeah? Pres. Eyring came to my FHE." "No way. Well Pres. Monson AND Pres. Uchtdorf came to my house for dinner last week and complimented my crescent rolls."

(Not to brag, but I DID shake Elder Scott's hand when I was 14. Just saying.)

So, I decided to mention my calling when put in situations where I feel the need to compete for the "Who's Life is of More Worth" award. This mostly happens with semi-friends and old acquaintances that I run into at the grocery store, bridal showers, donating blood — you know, the regular hangouts. "Oh, fun, you're celebrating your two-and-three-quarter month wedding anniversary? That's nice. I would've come to your party, but I was in a meeting with the Stake Presidency because I'm the Relief Society president. Yeah, being the Relief Society president can make things busy, but I love being the Relief Society president. It's the best. You know, being the Relief Society president."

That's right, I've got something to brag about too, Miss My-Life-Is-Seemingly-So-Perfect-With-My-Perfectly-Curled-Hair-and-Perfect-Engineer-Husband-with-a-Perfect-1988-Toyota-Camry-and-No-Student-Loan-Debt.


I've only done it a couple times so far, but it seems effective. I mean, everyone gets married, but how many people are Relief Society president? ... Yeah, that's what I thought.

I'll have to try it out when I get released and called as Ward Greeter. "It's a tough job," I'll say, "But someone's got to do it." And then they'll be all like, "... Wow, my life is crap."

That's the goal: Boost yourself up by devaluing others.



There is no cure like laughter. Hard, loud, gasping-for-air kind of laughter. Tears clouding your vision, jaw hurting, body shaking.

It kind of sounds like hysterically crying, doesn't it?

But laughter is, well, better. To state the obvious.

Crying has it's place. But laughter? Laughter is always acceptable.

(Well, not always, but you get the idea.)

I always seem to laugh harder after crying. I laugh truer. My body, purged of sadness, has nothing to expel except joy.

And there's so much to be joyful about.


Sometimes you put hand sanitizer on your weather-cracked hands.

Sometimes flights are canceled. Twice.

Sometimes Diet Coke doesn't cure the headache.

Sometimes relationships end before they begin.

And, well, that's just how life is.

But hand sanitizer still disinfects.

You still get to where you're going. Eventually.

Diet Coke still tastes good. Headache or not.

And there is always that hope for the future.

To try again. To find someone new. To carry on.

And to laugh.

It doesn't take away the blow to the chest. The gasping as self-deprecating thoughts run rampant in my head. That frustration that no matter how hard I try, it's just not enough.

No, those things are still there. But that hope, it allows breath between the blows.

The gasps turn to laughter, bringing rational thought.

And amidst the beating-my-head-against-a-brick-wall frustration, I know someday it will be enough.


It's my birthday tomorrow. The big 24. I'm glad. 23 is a prime number, and prime numbers have always scared me.

I listened to a song recently, and I could've sworn it was by Jamie Cullum, and he talks about being 23. I wanted to post the lyrics, because as I listened they were so comically true. But now I can't find the song, and although I'd be tempted to write what is so comically true at age 23 in my own words, it's late. And it'll still be true at 24.

Life is good, you know?

(It seems I haven't always been scared of prime numbers, judging from last year's post about turning 23.)