tired.

I just keep splintering off pieces, you know? Hurling myself into the next romantic adventure because I can't get out of my head that tiny flicker of hope that one of these times it's going to click and there will be a chemical reaction, a massive explosion, and when the smoke clears, it will be me and one of these men, slightly singed, but upright and together on the scorched earth. 

I just keep doing it. Whether is lasts a minute or an evening or a few weeks or longer, I just take a big swig of air and dive in to the gaping gash of all things unsure and unsteady. 

And maybe I'm a little reckless with my heart, but I've had to live through the repercussions time and again, so I know what I'm in for. I do it anyway. I'm open and I do it anyway. 

But you know what? I'm weary. I feel fragmented. Bent. I'm tired of being the brave one. Just once, I'd like to know what it feels like to be touched in a way that the other person's caress is an answer instead of a question. "Yes." It will say. "Yes. I get it. It's you, it's you." Not, "What if? What if there is someone better? This feels good right now, but is this what I want? Is this what you want? Do you really want me? Is this what we both want? What if there is something better?" 

I demand to be the 'something better' in the narrative of my own life. I've got enough questions of my own, I want some answers. 

And maybe it's me, you know. Maybe I need to step back and take a few calm breaths instead of one harrowing gasp between endeavors. I bounce from hurt to hurt like I'm unaffected, but I feel it building something and I don't want to be a broken person that takes a leap because it's just another way of going through the motions. 

God.

Because this shouldn't feel like going through the motions, I don't think. Maybe for some people, but not for me. 

I'm just tired, you know? Tired of everything sort of falling into place and then I look around and realize how much hasn't really fallen into place. I don't really expect it to, but how do I take steps in the right direction? I'm tired of sex being a way to hurt your friends or strangers or anyone who gives a damn. And I'm just really over holding my head high and pretending I don't care who is having sex with whom and who is actually fucking me over. I don't want to be the bigger person. I want to throw a public fit in the middle a crowded area. But I won't. I don't think I have it in me. There's only so much peace I can disturb.

And it's a good life, but god damn. My heart hurts. For no one in particular, and I think that's the problem. If it was one person, I could get a hold on it. Harness energy from it. Use it to fuel something inside me that burns and strives and moves forward. I'm so good when I've got something on which to focus. But it's not one person, not this time. It's this whirlwind of leaves that's surrounded me and I'm spinning around and around and there's no hope in catching any of them, of gaining any semblance of control. 

But I'm tired of spinning. I'm done with it for now.

On "Gone for Good."

I'm really the queen of leaving people hanging, huh? Yeesh.

 

I guess I should elaborate on what happened with Gone for Good guy.

 

So, he WASN'T gone for good!!!

 

However, he DID lie that night when he said he was too sick for company. Which is awesome because then I found out about it really awkwardly and didn't know how to deal with it- Because since I wasn't hanging out with him as planned, I decided to return the lawn furniture I had borrowed from some dear friends. They weren't home when I got there, so I called to let them know their stuff was back in their garage. And they invited me for a beer! At the brewery! So, I'm bummy and hemming and hawwing about it because I got canceled on and I could really use a beer so I start to lean toward going, but then I foolishly say, 'Who all is there?"

 

AND GUESS WHO WAS THERE WITH THEM?! Yes. That guy. Missoula is a small town, you guys. So much for the 'Self-imposed exile because I'm such horrible company right now."

Anyway. I get a sick feeling in my stomach and I DO NOT GO. Because I feel a tad bit hurt from this and I really don't want a confrontation and also our apparently mutual friends don't know we're kind of seeing one another, so I don't want to make anyone feel weird.
 

So.

I don't say anything to him. For two days. Because I honestly have never had anything like this happen to me before. Either people just don't lie to me or I never catch them. But, I OF FUCKING COURSE run into him at the brewery that Friday when I'm there with my ya-ya sisterhood of roommates. The girls spot him, so I get all anxious and try to avoid him.

 

Anyway, that plan fails. He comes up from behind when I'm alone standing at the bar for a beer, and taps me on the shoulder. I stiffen immediately because of course I just KNOW this is happening and turn to see that, yes, my worst nightmare has come true. I now have to have a fucking conversation with this ASSHOLE liar. In public. So I turn and nonchalantly say "You're looking healthy." Because I couldn't think of anything else to say. To which he looks slightly confused, because he's still obviously pretty sick judging from his sickly ass appearance. But I'm not even concerned with his health at this point.

 

So anyway, I make a few niceties with him and kind of abruptly say "I'm going to find my friends."

And walk away.

Which I do find my friends and we're hanging out and having a good time. And then I see him standing around by himself looking lonely and start to feel kind of bad. I have NO IDEA WHY, because who goes to a fucking brewery by themselves? But whatever. I go back over and start talking to him and eventually invite him to join me at another bar, all the while making pithy bullshit comments like "I'm not going to force you to hang out with me."

 

blah blah blah other stuff happens that isn't exciting.

 

Okay guys, here's the part where I FINALLY confront him about being a lying jerk!:

 

I'm sitting on my bike, about to ride next to him to another bar. And I stop. And I sit there. And I'm like, "I'm only going to say this once. But I fucking know you lied and I hate having to bring this up because it makes me feel like a creepy stalker, because I'm not a creepy stalker! And if you don't want hang out with me, just tell me! OKAY? And also, what the fuck is wrong with you, why did you lie?"

 

To which he's very apologetic and says he's sorry that he's an asshole and he knew that I knew and didn't know how to bring it up. Blahdy blah, cry me a river, give me another chance, etc etc.

SO I'm like. "Alright dude, you just blew your freebie really early on. That's all you get. Let's never speak of this again. Like, never."

 

Which he seems pretty grateful about and I'm really grateful too because being confrontational is exhausting.

 

So we get to the bar and of course my friend C points at him from across the room and hollers "I'm going to killlllll youuuuuuuuuu."

 

But she doesn't. And thus begins the next three weeks of him making me meals, being really thoughtful, not cringing when he sees me in sweatpants and glasses, and sleeping over at my house/me sleeping at his.

So I start to get kind of comfortable and start to actually like/care about this person.

 

Until he informs me he's not over this ex girlfriend.

 

And he's gone.

 

Gone for good.

thwarted!

Okay dudes. I'm at office hours right now because I foolishly scheduled two additional hours to be chained to campus after my last class on wednesday. Dear future self: Don't do this again. 

I won't do it again. 

But basically here I am with another hour left and the hallway is practically deserted. Like, zero high heel click walk-bys in the last 20 or so minutes. Maybe one or two soft hippie shoe walk-bys. That's not enough walk-bys to keep me occupado with people watching. 

I just took a break to put on pandora and I gotta say, I know there's cooler internet music players out now, but I'm old school. Except that I really wanted to listen to Coldplay the other day, you know, for nostalgia's sake, but they kept playing the WORST Coldplay songs. The worst. And then it was like an orgy of Maroon five and The Fray, and then, cherry-on-top, U FUCKING 2. So I gave up and switched the station. I guess the only Coldplay I'll be listening to is on itunes. 

I have such a miserable life. I know. Give me five minutes and I can complain about anything. Even free music. 

Just kidding. I seriously don't complain much in real life anymore. My life is fucking sweet. 

Also, I just want to say that this summer was really the season of getting rather chubby for me, so IMAGINE MY RELIEF when I FINALLY found a perfect pair of dark wash skinny stretch jeans last night and they were only like 45 dollars. That's unheard of for me. I mean, when I'm not eating carbs and bacon like they're going out of style and drinking beer like it's the only beverage option, it's fine. But when I get chubby, outfitting this booty is a serious project. So that was a bright spot. 

Now onto new business. Boy business. Because obviously that's muy importante compared to my actual career that takes up the majority of my waking hours. 

So last Thursday this boy texted me to see if I was going out that night. To which i was delighted and probs grinned like a crazy person, because he's pretty cute, and I've been nonchalantly lusting for a hot minute. Anyway, I try to be all cool and reply 'Probably, you?' to which he's like 'Lookin' like it.'

Which is infinitely annoying, because come on and ask me to meet you already, Jesus H Roosevelt Christ, dude. Plus I really wasn't planning on going out. AT ALL. I'm a grad student, I have shit to do. I have responsibilities. But you know, I'm also highly susceptible to distraction. And nice beards.

Anyway, we kind of go back and forth, but not really to my satisfaction and so I'm finally like, 'Think Sara. You know where he is going to end up, just round up some friends and be there having a killer time without him when he gets there and stop checking your GD phone for a text that isn't coming." Entrapment, it's all the rage right now.

So, conveniently, two of my friends were at said bar, having a beer. I stop by and what do you fucking know, 15 minutes in it goes down like a brilliantly executed plan. He comes up and taps me on the shoulder and away we go. 

Anyway, what happened is a different story for another time, but it was a better than decent time. Dude is chaperoning a field trip in the woods for the weekend and I've got a life, so I don't think about it tooooooooo much for a next two days, until Sunday when I get 'I'm just going to be honest and direct and say I'd like to see you again.' via text. Which obviously, I prefer phone calls because I'm an adult female, but you know, still:

ZING!! 

Super zing, you guys. 

So then on Monday we make plans to hang out tonight. Two days in advance? Wow, that's almost like a date. But you know, I'm not being pushy. It's just my nature, you know. BAHAHA. RIght. So I'm trying to go against my character completely and just play it by ear. Which is easy for me any time except when it involves a male that I'm starting to like and I don't know if he likes me back.

So I'm pretty psyched. And maybeeeee letting myself like this guy a little. 

BUT THEN TODAY. Disaster strikes!

I get a text saying he's ridiculously sick. 

Now. I'm not trying to be dramatic, but DAMN IT TO HELL. MAN UP MAN, I WOULD. Right? RIGHT? I don't know, maybe he's really ill and I'm being a total bitch, which isn't even outside the realm of possibility. Or probability. 

So what do you think? Is this guy legit sick or has he realized I'm actually a neurotic weirdo? And if so, why is that such a problem?

In case you were wondering, which I hope you were, I offered to deliver soup. Like a caretaker. Like a wholesome, caring, human being. 

He declined. 

What do you think, is he gone for good? 

Okay. It's almost time, I'm escaping the walls of academia for another night. BYEEEEEE. 

what it's like when you're the romantic of your friend group.

When you're the romantic one in your friend group, the people you love most, your best friends, will roll their eyes at you a lot.

Maybe you're not the most rational, or you're always watching sappy movies just for the happy endings. You send beautiful quotes to people at random times to lift spirits or just because the words touched you. Words are always touching you. The way the light is moving can touch you. The way the leaves move in autumn has made you tear up, inexplicably. The way two people, completely unaware of you, look at each other can make you weep. You want to map star charts of potential soul mates.  You're constantly preoccupied with one person or multiple people at the same time, on a constant loop of awareness of their existence and how amazing they are. And then, almost instantly, you're caught, snagged, on someone else. When you're the romantic of the group, sometimes you even give yourself emotional whiplash. 

Your friends will shoot each other glances as you beg them to drive by that guy's house one more time, just to see if he's home, not that you really care. (You do) They will sometimes, affectionately, think you are legitimately crazy, but they will also count on you to give their dip-shit partners one more chance many, many times because you are the one person who still believes there is hope for them yet. And really, isn't everyone a dip shit, sometimes? You believe in second chances, that given the chance, people can and do change. You believe in the light inside, in the chemistry that overcomes. You believe in the ability to reform and the power of love. You believe in, if not the perfect one for all of us, then at least the right one. 

You're eager to take in the late-night stories of past heartbreak and what it taught. You believe that heartbreak is meant to teach, and even when you're hurting, you take some strange and sometimes sick comfort in learning. You'll poke at the pain like a half healed scab you can't stop ripping off. You dwell, oh my, do you dwell. When someone hurts you, you'll write at them for years and years and you won't be able to stop yourself from being reminded. Someday you'll get better at being reminded quietly, you hate to burden your friends. You'll dream of them less and less, and though sort of relieved, you'll miss them even more in their absence from even your subconscious. 

When you're the romantic in your group of friends, you believe in the integrity of souls and in minimum compromise with maximum returns when the moment is finally right. 

You believe that yes, someday, the time will finally be right. When you're the romantic, you believe in timing and love at first sight.

When you are the romantic in your friend group, you might smoke a lot of cigarettes and drink a lot of beer/wine/gin and on the back porch, worrying constantly about the state of your friends' hearts. Sometimes listening, sometimes alone. You can't help it, you feel like your heart is sick with some disease whenever love takes a sharp turn. It's a personal affront upon you, although it doesn't do either of you one bit of good to feel that way. 

You wait. You find yourself waiting a lot, with baited breath. Waiting for the right one. For the golden hour, when the light is just right and the crash is riddled with explosions, with fireworks. You set scenes and believe in the power of dialogue. You know you don't feel love in your heart, you feel it in your guts.

When you're the romantic, it is up to you to keep the faith, to believe. You know what I mean. You'll be sitting around with your friends, maybe having a few cocktails and all of the sudden it's an assault on love. It's all, "There are no good ones." And "Love isn't real." Or at least, "It will never last." Lasting love is a figment, a myth, a disney story. And you're the one who speaks up in love's defense. You're the one who is vehement in her honor and insists against all evidence. That. Love. Can. Last.

When you're the romantic of the group, you don't always realize that groups even need romantics because sometimes, sometimes, in that rare moment of doubt, your belief will waver slightly. And in those moments, you can count on the rest of your friends to remind you. That love is real and you're a crucial part in the chemistry of the group. And that maybe you feel like your head is in the clouds at times, but really, you're a warrior. And believing in love, being a romantic, means never losing sight of that. 

quality over quantity?

I've been meeting a lot of men lately. Really, like everywhere I go, I'm meeting men and talking to men and flirting with men and getting asked out by men. It's been great for my confidence level. I even met a man at the community bike shop yesterday when I stopped by to have someone help me fix a wobbly wheel. I ended up staying there through two torrential downpours, multiple cups of coffee, and several repairs. Just talking to him and letting him help me fix my bike. Slash he pretty much fixed it because it turns out I'm not as savvy as I though. Afterward, I invited him to my house for a beer and he, surprisingly enough, took me up on the offer. But then things got weird. Because said man, we'll call him Bike Doctor, overstayed his welcome and then proceeded to barrage me with several phone calls and drunken voice messages for the remainder of the evening. Now I wish he didn't know my phone number, much less where I live. 

Which leads me to wonder. Are we all just scraping ourselves together enough to hide the crazy for a minimal period of time until the other person is reasonably invested? I don't personally think I do this, but maybe I do. Maybe I put out a facade to hook a person and then upon further review I'm a total whack-job.  Shit. What if I'm that person that people wish didn't know where they live? No. I'm reasonably sure I'm not. 

I mean, come the fuck on though. I've had enough witty banter to fill a season of Gilmore Girls this summer. Real life doesn't have NEARLY as much clever banter, and yet here I am getting served puns and returning with perfectly-inflected come-backs. And as nice as it is, I'm no closer to finding a man who is actually quality. Apparently banter doesn't equal quality. As much as I love banter. Part of it, I'm sure, is because I'm not really looking for a man. However, it would be nice to know that if I was, some quality ones would be out there. And yeah, The Professor was quality in many ways, but he was also self-absorbed and aloof. So maybe those just aren't qualities for me. 

I don't really know where this is going. Honestly, school started back up this week, and as excited as I am to get started again, I've got a pretty bad attitude about summer being over. But I guess better it be over before it has a chance to go sour. Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length, right? 

I mean, it's still hot as the dickens and the days are still long, but real life has managed to wrap her sticky fingers around my ankles and drag me back into reality's arms. Really, it's good. I knew it was coming. I'm back to blow drying my hair every day and actually taking care with my outfits instead of just doing a sniff check/shrug combo with whatever is closest to me on the floor. Part of me is grateful to rinse off the crusty layer of summer carelessness and put my professional adult layer back on. 

Did I mention that I am the teaching assistant for my department this year?

Yeah. 

But really, this post is about quality over quantity. Summer was a time of quantity for meeting men. But now I'm busy and harried and no longer going to be satisfied with quantity. I'm gearing up for a dry spell. Quality, here I come. Maybe?

goodbye summer, goodbye professor. how i hate to see him leave, but love to watch him go.

from the belly of the draft pile.

Sometimes I think we can't help ourselves. We're not equipped for it. Not all the time. Maybe not ever.

We're in this bag of fluid and solid sloshing together and the only thing that keeps us moving is a piece of flesh behind our eyes. It's not enough. Reason escapes. We strive to be rational. To not hurt those we love. To not love those who hurt us. But we're not set up to be that way all the time.

We fail.

And it's gorgeous when we fail.

It hurts like hell, but it's lovely.

I'm impulsive. This is no surprise to anyone who has ever met me. I do these things I do on a moment to moment basis and I work with the margins and errors when they come up.

But this also means I have to be calculating. There's a certain math that goes into being a free spirit or a leaf in the wind or a person on the edge. I have all these things, these people, this career, this life, that I need to keep and hold onto. Finding a balance between my nature and a way to sustain my life and relationships is nothing short of ridiculous.

That's not what I mean.

I mean. Some nights we can't help ourselves. We don't have the strength to fight the magnetism.


So let's keep doing this because right now. I want to continue to be swept over with confusion. I want it to lap over my fingers and toes and up to the roots in my hair follicles. I'm soaking in it, bathing. Confusion isn't a period at the end of a sentence, it's the dot dot dot. I'm not really into finality right this minute. I'm not really into finality...

I think I see myself as bossy because I'm impatient. I think I see myself as impatient because I have no impulse control.

But that's not important right now.

I don't know how this happened, but it did. I'm falling falling falling falling for you. I'll deny it to the death. I'll fight it to the death.

I just like the feeling of being out of control. It's out of my hands. I'm just letting myself go in any direction, every direction. And you're not stopping me. You're not doing anything to help this, to discourage me. And really, I'm in no place. And really, when is there a better place? Show me steadier footing and I'll laugh in your face. Give me your hand and I'll take it.

You know. You know, you might not actually know. It's nothing drastic, not yet. Not like the way I get with others when my mind gets stuck on a one track loop and it's constant. It's not constant. I just want you to touch me with your mouth. I just want a sign.

But we can keep doing this, really. The anticipation is almost as enjoyable to me as the impact.

Let's fall in love, even if it's impractical. Lets not worry about the logistics of it, or the timing. Let's not worry who might care that we're together. Let's just do it. Let's fall in love.

I might already love you, you know that? I might already be arriving at the station, hanging off the train with one hand, waving vigorously with the other. Probably, I already love you a little. But I think I want to love you a lot. And I want you to love me a lot too.

It's summer, you know. It's the perfect time to collide into something exhilarating. It's the best season to scrape your knees and bruise your heart. Winter is for licking your wounds. Summer is for losing your mind.

Let's be reckless. How about if we fall headlong into something vast and never mourn when it's over? I would like it if we spun until we were all so dizzy that we fell down.

Down down down down.


We won't be young forever, so why would we slow down now? I can be so logical when it comes to the tick tock of the clock, the inevitable turning of the pages. I want to us to squeeze every last drop of living out of each instant, and then pluck the next one clear out of the sky. We can stretch so far when we work together.

Let's change so constantly that we look like fluid. Let's be mermaids one moment and mountain lions the next. I can't commit to any one form. I won't. I want to laugh and cry at the same time. To eat and drink like a queen but live like a pauper.


I think we should collide hard and never look back when we part ways. Just because something is fleeting doesn't make it any less powerful. Maybe the short length of its stay helps it pack an extra punch. What if tomorrow comes and I never see you again. Let's let each moment pack a momentous punch. Let us both throw blows and each of them to say love me love me love me love me even if it's only for the length of the impact.

more of this scandinavian nonsense.

I guess I could finish/continue to tell the story about the Scandinavian now.

 

Where did I leave off? Oh yeah, I show up monstrously hungover and late to the WRONG PLACE with a friend in tow to a first date. Really setting myself up for a second date on this one.

 

The Scandinavian walks up with his adorable dog and the sun is shining too damn brightly and I am nursing an iced coffee at a picnic table, probably drooling all over myself and one-eyeing it. He is looking SIGNIFICANTLY less worse for the wear. In fact, he had a drum lesson prior to our 10 am coffee date. As in, he was taking the lesson. And he even teaches drums! It boggles the mind, you guys, people pursuing a lifetime of learning.

 

Anyway, I know I'm gushing over this guy and stuff, but I just want to come out and say that I fully know he will probs have a dipshit side. They all have dipshit sides, which is what makes life interesting. BUT right now I see no dipshit side- so there's that. I'm gonna ride the rose-colored glasses ship all the way to the bottom of the sea.

 

The rest of this post is basically going to be me praising the man for being witty, interesting, engaging, and just plain involved in life. Which is good.

 

He grabs himself a cup of coffee and grabs me (and Brigit) to-go containers for our coffee and we decide to take a walk on the trail that runs next to the river. It's kind of a lazy get-to-know-you conversation. Which is strange, because in the bars that I've been talking to men in all summer, that part of the conversation is usually frenzied and shouted over loud music. Or just drunk. It was pretty nice to not have to fit myself into a thirty second drunken sales pitch. After about a half hour of walking, we've looped back kind of to where Brigit and I parked, so she decides to split off and head home. 

 

I can handle this on my own, I am an adult. I can fully handle this. Honestly, it was pretty nice to have her there for the first thirty minutes, though. Get me settled in and stuff. 

 

The Scandinavian and I continue walking and it's kind of like a real date. You know, he actually compliments my glasses and jokingly messes with me a bit and asks me semi-important questions, like why I want to become a therapist. With follow-up questions. FOLLOW UP QUESTIONS. You know, when a person cares about what you're saying and pays attention to the answers enough to ask more questions. INSANITY! Plus we're walking side by side which kind of takes the pressure off of weird forced eye contact and stuff. I don't know, when I'm hungover I can barely function, so having a solid activity, like walking, it was good for me.

I feel like I should be drawing less attention to how hungover I was, because it makes me look like a fucking loser, but seriously, it was bad. Just not enough sleep and too many G&T's. I had no business being in public.  Every now and then, ya gotta cut loose. I just choose Tuesday nights. Whatever.

 

Did I mention that this man is also tall? I'm a sucker for height, you guys. I'm a tall gal, if you count 5' 9'' as tall, which I do. I'm sick of these short straws impeding on my shoe choices and RUINING my dreams of having to look UP into the face I'm smooching- like in the movies. I DESERVE THAT AT LEAST, IT'S WHAT I WAS PROMISED BY DISNEY. IT IS MY AMERICAN RIGHT.

Whew.

 

Anyway, we end up walking so long that lunch and music in the park is happening (I know, Missoula is the coolest city ever, we have music and food trucks at the park every Wednesday lunch time in the summer.) So we go sit and listen to the music for a while and we also go sit by the river and wade and let his dog swim and just generally end up hanging out for like three hours. It's amazing you guys, I didn't even feel awkward. Plus, he found a way to compliment my hips without sounding like a creep. Not an easy task. I think our sense of humors just kind of clicked because it was very easy to be around him.

 

Basically, the Scandinavian is a really interesting person and he actually LIVES HERE and he's actually in my age and maturity bracket, which if you know me, you know I've struggled with in the past. I'm just saying, it's really hard not to get excited about this one.

 

Potential red flags? This guy runs marathons. I leisurely stroll up mountainsides. This guy mountain bikes. I am barely coordinated enough to ride my bike around town. So the fact that he probably DEFINITELY has a better body than I do also makes me a tad bit nervous. But whatever. I'm awesome and I'd totally make up for it in charm. Except he also owns his own business and home while I'm over here spending my last four dollars on PBR.... so our priorities may not be the same. I'm just gonna go with it. I mean, I'm in grad school, I kind of have my shit together, right?

 

At the end of our walk, we hugged goodbye and he reminded me that he'd be out of town for two weeks, but that I'd definitely be hearing from him when he got back. And that's all of the deets I'm going to share from this date. Just know, the conversation was good and I'm glad I didn't blow him off.

 

And then I did something I NEVER do, which is that I texted him that night, thanking him for a great time and that I was looking forward to hearing from him when he got back. I don't usually do the follow-up (EVER) but I guess I actually like this guy, so I did. Plus the sobriety factor of our date pretty much secured that he was definitely going to remember who I was, so I figured that was safe.  And I felt like an idiot when I hit send, but he was all "I had a great time too! I look forward to doing it again when I get back!" skdjfl;aksjdf;laksudf;ksjdfklajsdfklajsdlkfjasd;flkjal;ksjdf zomg you guys.

 

THIS IS NOT REAL LIFE.

 

I mean, it is real life, but I've been out of the dating pool so long that I don't even know the rules anymore. 

 

Anyway, I heard from him intermittently while he was gone, mostly sending funny pictures and wittisisms. I think this coming Wednesday would be two weeks, but he texted me last night to see what I was doing this week.

 

Sooooooooooooooo. I guess he's back in town and he didn't forget about me? That's cool. He wants me to come over and swim in the pool at the house he's watching for friends and play kickball with he and his friends in their league. Isn't that preposterous? ACTIVITIES. FRIENDS. BAZINGA! He's mostly likely a robot. Or bad in bed. Or both. Right?

 

SO I'm just going to lay back and wait for the other shoe to drop. But I mean, really.

Did I mention that he's a musician?

Fuck. I am in trouble.

things fall right into my lap sometimes.

An update on the hobo spider situation: There is no situation to note as of now. We haven't seen anymore, thankfully. I'll be fog bombing again this weekend just to make sure any demon seeds weren't hanging out in their pods waiting to hatch when we last bombed.

Now for the real story.

Something strange happened the other night and I'm about to tell you all about it. I am at the bar, watching an awesome funk band, grooving my booty off, and having a killer time. I notice my drink is empty, so I step up to the bar to order another gin and tonic. The guy to my right has been sitting there since before I walked up, so when the bartender gives me the 'I'm listening' nod, I motion to the dude and say 'He actually got here first.' So dude orders his drink and thanks me, looking at me like I'm a crazy person for letting him go first. And I'm basically like, "Whatever, it's the right thing to do, he probably just didn't see you." Then I order my drink, which quickly arrives, and I dance away into the crowd and think nothing of it.

A few minutes later, I decide to step outside for some air (to pollute my lungs with smoke, obvi). Strangely enough, I step into the alley and no one else is out there, which is kind of a nice change of pace from the sweatfest inside. Actually, there is one other person outside and it just happens to be dude from the bar. So we look at each other and smile and are both kind of like, "Oh, look who it is." Nods of recognition are exchanged.

And of course, I'm a freak, so I ask him if he has a lighter in a British accent.

AND HE ANSWERS IN A BRITISH ACCENT.

This is how I know I've found a keeper, people. When a man answers me in a strange fake accent from the get-go and accepts that I speak in fake accents the majority of the time. So I look at him and kind of widen my eyes a little bit and say, "Oh, so now we should probably have a conversation, huh?"

To which he replies in the affirmative and we proceed to have a very entertaining and banter-laden chat. We'll now refer to him as the Scandinavian.

A few minutes into the talk, he is like "Can you just hold on for seriously like thirty seconds? Just, I really, REALLY have to pee. Very, very badly.  Can you please just wait here for a minute and just be here when I get back? I will be really fast. Like, super fast."

Now normally, I'd be like, yeahhhhhhhhhhh, no. It was nice to meet you, but I've got friends inside and the band is on and maybe I'll see you around. And then I'd be on my merry way. BUT THE BRITISH ACCENT HAD ME HOOKED. Obviously. So INSTEAD, I  tell him that I'll hang out for a second. And so there I am, standing in an alley by myself outside of a concert, waiting for the Scandinavian. Who, to his credit, is an incredibly fast pisser.

Anyway he gets back thirty seconds later and sees I'm still milling around outside, waiting for him, and he's like "WHEW. You're still here."

So we dive back into our conversation and I'm thinking to myself, "Why is this dude talking to me? I'm dressed like a boy, I haven't washed my hair in days, and I am sweaty." Not attractive. Meanwhile, he's like 6'3", handsome, and really interesting. The math does not add up here. But I'm going with it. Plus I'm already a little buzzed, so my social anxiety is at a minimum for any and all handsome strangers.

Suddenly, this guy looks at me and says, I SHIT YOU NOT, "I'm enjoying this. I really like talking to you. I think I want to keep talking to you. Do you want to get coffee in the morning?"

HOLD UP, because things like this do not happen to me. 

I'm a bit befuddled at this point because it seems that generally the guys I meet just try to go ahead and take me home when I'm good and drunk and not really bother with my superior intellect the next morning. Not that I go home with them, just that seems to be where most conversations lead by the end of the evening.

So I say yes, because this is novel and intriguing. I just met a man at a bar and he's not trying to sleep with me immediately. Yowza. He gives me his phone number and we make plans regarding where to meet and I text him my number and then we keep talking until my friend Courtney wanders out to see where the hell I've been for the past half an hour. At that point I bid this new fella adieu and head back in to the concert. Where I proceed to get stupendously drunk.

I then wisely ride my bicycle home, to my new house, and get pretty famously lost. I'm talking OUT LOUD to myself pep-talk style, peddling around the darkened streets of Missoula at 2 am, trying to find the place I've lived for approximately 36 hours without the luxury of night vision. Luckily, I did have my head lamp. I must have looked like a straight up loon. Or just awesome. Possible a cross between the two. By the time I finally manage to locate the alley that will take me to my back door, I am wound up tighter than a drum and it is nearly three in the morning. And I'm supposed to meet this dude at ten. So I really need to get some shut eye.

But the moment I crawl into bed, I hear my roommate Brigit, park her bike on the deck. So I go out and we get to chatting about our evenings and start drinking more beers.... until 430 rolls around and I'm like "Shit, I'm going to look strung out as fuck tomorrow, I should have been in bed four hours ago." And I stumble to bed and sleep like the dead.

Naturally, I wake up at 9:45 the next morning, looking frighteningly akin to a crackhead who just stuck their finger into an electrical socket. And I smell homeless. Killer.

Isn't it just like me to blow it with the first guy in a while who actually wants to see me in the light of day before he ever actually sees me in the light of day? Yes. It's just like me.

Anyway. I decide there is no way that in 15 minutes I can make myself presentable and get to where I'm going because my car is still parked downtown and I need to go retrieve it before I get more parking tickets. So I decide I'm going to try to reschedule coffee for a time when I am less hung-over, more well-rested, and appropriately groomed. When I look at my phone, I see that the Scandinavian texted me to say "Good Morning!" at 9:15.


HE TEXTED AT 9:15 to make sure I knew he was serious about this whole coffee ordeal. At this point, I'm feeling so awful that I almost wish I WOULD have just gone home with the guy. Not really. Okay, almost. Anyway, this happens:

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

This person held me accountable for plans that I made?! Who does that? No one tells me no! No one EVER tells me no when I cancel with them! And this person, just, just, just straight up said NO, we are not rescheduling, you're going to show up because I want to see you and I'll accept you in any state that you come in today. At least that's how I read that.

Which, guys, I really, really like. Sometimes I need someone to call me on my bullshit. So I throw on a dress and brush my teeth and get Brigit to drive me downtown to retrieve my wayward vessel. Note that I do not put in my contacts, apply makeup, or bother to brush my hair. There is simply no time.

And then I show up at the wrong place, with Brigit in tow for support, because apparently I haven't done enough to sabotage this date. Yes. I bring a friend for moral support/protection/because I'm a child. Right. So,  I'm sitting outside of the coffee shop that I think I blurrily remember us agreeing upon the night before and I text that I'm outside after sitting there for like ten minutes. Because I was only eight minutes late, which was a major feat and I don't want to look later than I already was. He replies "No, you're not." And then asks me if I went to the wrong place, which I quickly realize I have done. He tells me to stay put and moments later he and his adorable dog come walking toward me.

And oh my god, does he look good.

Beyond mortified, you guys. Beyond. To infinity and beyond. I want to die. But instead I stick around and talk to him and we decide to go for a walk by the river...

I'll finish this little dandy later.

holy hobo! aaaaand a new home!

We've moved. It's done. All but the unpacking, which is going to be a major process and basically means it's not done. But our stuff, that's actually in and around the new house. And I slept in my own bed in my own room last night, so that's progress.

Yesterday morning before we signed the lease, we somehow already had a set of keys so we went into the house to check things out. Aubrey and I creep into the basement and are greeted by several HUGE hobo spiders. Now, I am not what you would call a squeamish person, but I busted my ass right out of there. Lickety motherfucking split. Fast, screaming and waving my hands. I burst up the stairs and out of the backdoor and I'm dramatically heavy breathing, laughing hysterically, and screaming in HORROR at the same time. This combination is not me in what most would recognize as my best state. In that moment am in utter shock that we are literally ABOUT to move into this poisonous-spider infested house.


Anyway, I swing the door open and run out or the building like a lunatic and nearly collide with a very wealthy-looking little man. Okay, he wasn't really that little, and he was wearing a baseball cap, but he was staring at me with an air about him, looking very quizzical and a little alarmed. An introduction just seemed kind of moot in that moment, so I instead exclaimed to him at the top of my lungs, still wringing my hands "We just saw a REALLY large hobo spider!!!!!!" Like, as an explanation for how fucking ridiculous I was acting. I'm not even scared by spiders, but these creatures are not spiders, they're like rodent-scorpions who attack.

Whatever.  By the way, I'm putting a picture of one of these monsters at the end of this, so let's just move past my feeble attempts at explaining them, because you'll see for yourself and you'll be equally or perhaps exponentially more horrified than if I just describe it to you.

Anyway, I greet mystery guy with the fact that we just saw an enormous spider, and basically forget the fact that we're not even really supposed to be in the house AT ALL since we haven't signed a lease yet, and my Aubrey may or may not have (totally did) sort of kind of squatted there the night before. Aubrey suddenly emerges from the belly of the house and the guy just looks back and and forth between us and says "Um. Hi, I am the owner of the house. And every house in MIssoula has hobos, so that's just to be expected." And then he looks at my expectantly, like it's my turn to introduce myself and then APOLOGIZE for being freaked out by pest infestations.

To which I'm like, oh shit, we shouldn't even be here and Aubrey's boyfriend totally clogged the toilet yesterday. Because we have boundary issues and were homeless and basically squatted in this man's HOME illegally.

So I play it off real cool. And I'm like "Yeah, we're moving in today. We're just about to go sign the lease actually. They just let us throw some of our things in the garage early and we had the key so we thought we'd take a teeny little looksee."


In the meantime, there is an air mattress set up in the living room and someone has CLEARLY been staying there.

And the guy is like, "Well, I didn't realize they have already rented the place. I really shouldn't even be here if you guys are moved in. I am not supposed to be here when there are tennants here, I am just going to call the property management company."

PANIC SWEAT. On my part.

Because shit. If he tells them we're just gallivanting around inside, squatting ove rnight, and clogging toilets, they're totally not going to lease us this place. AND WE NEED TO RENT THIS PLACE. WE ARE DESPERATE AND HOMELESS AT THIS POINT OK.

So I'm quickly like, "NO NO NO,  head on in there, guy. We're not moved in yet, except our stuff in the garage, go on in and check things out. We totally fell in the love with the house from the first time we saw it by the way, you did a great job on the remodel. Go ahead and check things out inside, I think we're copacetic. We were just headed on our way over there anyway to sign the lease, so no big deal, just COME ON IN."

At this point he opens the door to the garage and see that we haven't "Moved a couple of our things into the garage." In fact, ALL of all three of our shit is in the garage. The garage is loaded to the gills. So that's interesting. Then we all just stand there awkwardly for the moment.


Did I mention that I didn't sleep the night before? I didn't sleep the night before. Not one wink. I tossed and turned for about four hours and then I gave up. So I've been awake for 36 hours and I'm the kind of delirious that's a teeter-totter between laughing hysterically and weeping uncontrollably and my best-laid plans are about to crumble under me. I'm shaking out of exhaustion and look a goddamn wreck and I'm barely holding it together and finally, blessedly, this dude just decides he's going to go check things out and not call the property company. We really played our way super cool out of that one.

So Aubrey and I go and sit in her car in the alley and wait for him to come out of the house. And she's freaking out and I'm thinking we averted disaster, when suddenly she reminds me about the air mattress et al in the living room, which I had COMPLETELY forgotten about. So we're both freaking out kind of, but kind of playing it cool too, because we don't want to be visibally guilty/panicking when bro-dude comes out of HIS house, which we are trying to make OUR house. So we sit there for fucking ever (like four minutes, maybe less) and he comes out and approaches our car and he's like. "SOMEONE POOPED IN THE BASEMENT BATHROOM AND IT'S CLOGGED AND IT'S NASTY."

And this is the moment when the teeter-totter headed straight to hysterical laughter for me. THANKFULLY, Aubrey, bless her angelic and cool-minded soul,  just nods all nonchalantly and is like "Oh, okay. Yeah, that IS gross. We'll be sure to let the property management company know when we get over there. We're on our way there now." Never once betraying the fact that HER OWN boyfriend was the one who clogged the toilet. While squatting. Illegally. In the house this man owns.

But then we all went over the lease and pretty much signed away our souls. First, though, Aubrey and I drove our happy asses right on over to the hardware store and basically bought every form of extermination product known to man. There are so many chemicals pulsing through the basement of our house, anything living down there has likely grown extra limbs, IF it isn't yet dead. We bombed, trapped, and sprinkled a multitude of different spider-killing items. Needless to say, sighting have grown sparse since we took matters into our own hands. VICTORY IS OURS.

Then we  moved all our shit into the house and ate pizza and drank beer and just generally began to feel a whole lot better about life. It was the dark before the dawn. DAWN IS COME.

All hail the new house. Come on over if you find yourself in Missoula.

delirious.

I haven't given much of a life update lately, so here are some bullet points.

-This is the best summer of my life. Easily. Every day here is the best day of my life. 

-I am moving in approximately seven days. To where? I have no idea. With whom? My two dear friends A and B. And a giant black dog named Stella. Say hello to family sing-a -longs, cuddle puddles, and riotous dinner parties. If we find a place. If not we'll be homeless, or squatting. Three therapists under one roof. Aye Ca-rumba.

-July has been a shit show. SHIT. SHOW. I have no idea why my body hasn't just completely shut down. I'm loving it. Minus the sleeping a total of ten hours in a span of five days. That shit's got to end. Luckily I clocked about ten hours of sleep last night, so I'm basically recharged for the week.

-I am LOVING my current summer school class. It's Family Counseling and it makes me never want to do individual counseling again because so much of what people struggle with in themselves is directly related to the issues in their families of origin. Oh, the webs we weave.

-I bought myself a Thermarest for my birthday because there was one on sale for $55 on Steep&Cheap. I am SOOOOO excited for my next backpacking trip. Mostly because I have been near freezing every other trip this summer. Comfort is going to be oh so lovely.

-My best friend C is back in Montana. Hello heart happiness. I'm having palpations just thinking about it. She just gets me and now we're together again. Heyo!

-I went to see the Heartless Bastards on Saturday night. Which means they were sold out and I snuck in. FO FREE. Huzzah. The show was amazing. If you haven't heard any of their stuff, you owe it to yourself to check them out. Right now.

-I'm having a fling. We'll call the him The Professor, because, well, he has his PhD ( In Radical Economics. Hi HO Marxist!!!!!) and teaches at a college. Not my college, which means that he left today.  It's been fun and it's not serious which is perfect because I am in no place to actually be dating another human yet. He's handsome and tall and does all these extreme things like surfing and mountain biking and fly fishing. The other night we played scrabble and fell asleep watching a movie. Other nights we double date with his best friend and my girlfriend B and get riotously drunk while having heated debates about our ideological differences. A girl could get used to this. Alas, all good things must end, so this fun had a shelf life. Unless..... Stay tuned.

- I've taken to riding my bike pretty much everywhere. And spending afternoons at the beach. I'm basically a filthy, dirty, deliriously happy person. I'll take it. 

to no one, anymore.

I want you to call me. Or text me. Or show up at my house. That's what I want.

I want you to feel so compelled to be near me, to touch me and talk to me, that you find me. You sniff me out in the air and somehow know what direction to go to get to me. 

I want to feel challenged by you and I want you to make me feel beautiful. At the same time. I want to feel confused and safe and wary in the same instant and for you to feel the same way. But to reach toward me anyway. I want to be burned and blistered by you and then have you rub aloe onto my wounds. I want it to somehow feel like a constant contradiction and only make sense to me and you.

I want to be able to touch you whenever I want, but secretly, because I don't want anyone else to know how desperate I am to feel your skin. How desperate I am to make sure that you're real and within my proximity. To test the texture and and heat of you.

I want to lose you at parties. I want to be having a conversation with someone interesting and attractive and to catch your eye across the room and I want us to have a look for each other that means "I can't stand you so far away from me, lets meet up in five minutes in that hidden corner and run our fingers and tongues all over one another and then let's lose each other until we give this look this way again."

I want it to be tawdry, and I know it will be. I know it will be explicit in a way that is new to me. I don't care. I want to feel like I'm falling right now. I want to be falling into nothing. I don't want to float, I want to plummet. I want that feeling in my stomach when gravity hits you hard because you're in a long drop. I want to feel nervous to see you in the instants prior to your arrival and I want you to pat my behind and whisper something stupid in my ear like "Nice shades," and then talk to everyone else before you come back and really say hello to me. Because that's how you are and I like the way you are. You can ignore me initially, but I will use the sheer force of my will to draw you to me, trust. 

I want to lie on blankets in the grass at parks and watch you smile when you talk and admire how handsome you are, even if your legs are too skinny. I want to argue back and forth sarcastically and get flustered and raise my voice and live in that place that never has to be too serious, because there are many things in my life that are serious enough. And I want to see you pet dogs that wander our way and speak to them like they're human children, and then watch you lose interest in them and discard them like a human child would do, because that is just the way that you are. 

I want to lie with you in bed with the windows open and no clothes on in afternoon light and to make a tent out of the sheets. That is when I will really look at you. That is when I will really feel safe to openly stare, when we're lying there under a tent of legs and light fabric and no one else is around to see. I don't want anyone to know the depth of my adoration for you, I couldn't bear it. It's important to me to keep this private, you see. 

I want you to make me food, entire meals, and I want you to feed them to me in bed with your hands, even though the thought of that is actually kind of disgusting. I want disastrous spills, where we both jump up and rip the blankets off of the bed as fast as we can and then laugh hysterically because it doesn't really matter and anyway we're a couple of naked assholes with sticky, soggy, blankets. And then I want us to sit on the bare mattress and finish eating. And when we accidentally fall asleep half-sitting-up, I want to wake with a crick in my neck, but I won't dare move because I'm resting my head on your bare chest and it's a perfect moment. Yes. That is something that I want. 

I want it to feel dangerous and risky sometimes. I want to sometimes be mad at you for being distant and acting too cool just so that I can be relieved when you do something unexpected and nice or say my name the way that I like it to be said. In just the right tone of voice. In love, I can be very forgiving, but it doesn't even have to be love, I don't need that. I only care about magnetism right now. I want to be pulled. I want to pull you as hard as I can without you even realizing it. You're already pulling me. 

I want to watch you when you're busy. You're a very busy person. Always creating an atmosphere or starting a riot or bringing cohesion to the group of people who are thrown together randomly. I want to see you being busy and make whatever task you've set your mind to more difficult, on purpose. And I want you to act or actually be annoyed by it, but to want me anyway. I want to be the person who makes being the way you are harder and easier at the same time. I don't want to save you, I never want that to be my job, but I do want to make you want to be better. More than better, though, I want you to be happier. It sounds noble to say that, but I'm not trying to be noble, I just have no use for more unhappy people. I want you to be happier, selfishly, for me. Okay, part of it is true, I do want to be the person that makes you happier. I do want to be partially responsible for the swing in your step. You've got a good step.

I want to ignore your habits and stew about them in private. I want to worry in my own way without you knowing it. I want to be withholding sometimes because the things you do are sometimes foreign and scary to me and I want you to know that you scare me without drawing attention to it. You can make it up to me some way other than changing. I don't want you to change. I don't want to be held responsible for you feeling as if you need to be more responsible. Responsibility is a bitch, anyway.

But, I do want to make you do things you probably never do, like play scrabble or watch movies. I bet you never watch movies. I bet you don't have the attention span for it. But I want to try to make you watch a movie and act annoyed when you talk through the whole thing or try to get my attention. I'll act like I'm ignoring you and really focus on the movie and then you'll pull out the big guns and reach into my underwear and I'll sigh and roll my eyes and give you my attention reluctantly, but I'll be elated that you even want it. 

I want you to teach me how to fly fish or teach me one of your other hobbies and I want to be a natural at it because you're not a patient person and neither am I. I want to be good at the things you are good at, and I want you to be impressed by it. I don't need you to act impressed, though. I just need you to want to be around me. To need to be around me. Not all the time, just when I want you to be. I want you to have your own life, I want to get to keep my own life and all my freedom. I think we're a lot alike in that regard.

I don't want to be a burden to you. I know you throw out dead weight quickly. I will be light and breezy, I promise. 

I just want so much.

27.

Yesterday was my birthday. It was an absolutely stellar day, and I am now 27 years of age. I've got some plans for 27, but you know, I think the past year deserves a little tip of my hat. So here we go.

26, man. 26 was a great year. You know, all that growth and stuff I did. I moved to Montana with stars in my eyes and she took me in and gave me a home in this valley of five mountain ranges. No place has ever felt quite this way for me before, and I'm grateful for the risk I took and the homesickness that sometimes washes over me for the ones I left trailing in the rear-view. They're still part of me, and I miss them, but 26 showed me that out of sight does not mean out of mind or heart. 

26 helped me learn how to cry again, as much for joy as for sadness, and gave me these interesting people with beautiful souls who have become my family. 26 made me realize how important community is to me, and it also unearthed more mysteries about myself than I'll probably ever be able to solve. I've been more free to own myself than ever before, uninhibited by expectations of those who have known me as I clawed my way into becoming an actual person. Some people don't need that kind of distance to own themselves, but I did, and that's okay. 

I broke up with my best friend during my 26th year, after trying to hold us together for eight months of living apart across the country. It's a loss like nothing I've ever experienced, but I'm learning from it, too. How you can love a person and not be able to be with them. How grief can look different for everyone, and how I avoid it by refusing to let myself be alone when I'm sad. Even when being alone might be just what I need. I'm not there yet, if peace is a destination, but I can at least call myself on my own bullshit a little more, rather than depending on someone (everyone) else to do that for me. 

The chaos of my life has swelled and also ebbed in the past year. I'm half-way through training for a career that feels more like a journey of life's work than a commute and a time clock. Some days I spring out of bed in awe of my new skills and others I hide under the covers and doubt every conversation I'll ever have as a counselor. And then, no matter what, I try harder anyway. I am the most dogged person I know at times, which means I'm can be unhealthily competitive, but also that pain and fear can't paralyze me. I prefer to build the little dwelling that houses my soul directly in the middle of the chaos. I know that now, and I can make it work. 

26, yeah, 26 was one doozy of a year. I'm bruised and battered by the wind and the blows life has thrown, but I'm also sun-tanned and smiling. I'm surrounded by music and laughter and plumes of smoke from the tip of my cigarettes and the near-constant campfires I sit around. Even some occasional humiliation. Okay, more than occasional. It's all part of the story. I just hope 27 can keep up. 

backpacking. 

birthday boating. yowza. 

These people are all ridiculously talented at playing music. I mostly just hang out.

girl gone bad. part 2: a half-assed conclusion.

I know I have a part two to write regarding my run-in with the law, but let's face it, I'm not always good with finishing things. The long and the short of it is basically that the judge joked around with me, gave me the smallest fine possible, and told me that I can get the speeding ticket taken off of my record all together in December because I seem like a good driver and 'We don't like to treat all drivers the same.' Which seems a tad strange (racist/unfair), but I'm not complaining because it has benefited me in this instance even though the woman in front of me in line had pretty much the same issue and she got the fuck fined right out of her. That doesn't sound right. She had to pay a lot of money. Also, the judge just glanced at my insurance card and was all "This really isn't legit, but I am just going to believe you that you have insurance because you seem like you have it together.'

Ha, sucker.

Aaaaaaanywho. I call my dad afterward and I'm like "Dad, I need to have the insurance people send me a better card, they told me my shit wasn't valid.' And then I'm like, 'Did you renew my policy? They haven't done that direct debit thingy for my payment for a couple of months.'

Turns out he DIDN'T renew my policy because I'm almost 27 years old and I need to learn how to handle my own shit.

So I actually don't even have insurance.

But the judge just BELIEVED me that I did.

So, I'm basically above the law.

Not really.

But kinda.

I was going to write something else, but that took a turn and got strangely longer than I anticipated.

So that's it. Bye bye.

girl gone bad. part one.

I recently had my first brush with the law. Well I mean, not really my FIRST brush with the law, but basically my first brush with the law since I stopped peeing all willy-nilly in public and shouting at strangers when I'm drunk and driving my car too fast. Not at the same time. I'm an idiot, but not the drunk driving kind. That shit is seriously idiotic. I live in Montana now, the speed limit is like 75, I really don't need to go faster than that. Plus my car REALLY doesn't like being pushed faster than that. I don't like to test her, she's getting old and rickety. 

Anyway, this particular brush with the law occurred one morning as I'm crossing the bridge over the Clark Fork River, which bisects Missoula. It's a very popular bridge, and I have hella bad luck with it. I've even run out of gas on it before. I loathe the thing. Anyway, I'm all hungover and trying to make it to the gas station AND make it to work on time AND talk to my friend Erin about my epic previous evening. So I'm not really paying attention to my speedometer. I roll into the gas station, totally oblivious, and when I look up, I've got Johnny Fucking Law behind me with his lights flashing like a bad disco party. 

And I'm like "Shit," because obviously. 

So Johnny saunters up to my window, which is parked at a gas pump at this point and requests the usual. So I grab my license no problem and then I open my glove box to grab my insurance card and registration.... and all I have in there is like an entire deck of Cranium playing cards. I'm not kidding. Cranium. What the fucking fuck, right? 

Anyway, I direct my attention back at the officer and I'm all apologetic and kind of panicking because I honestly have no idea what happens to people who don't have that shit with them and on the ready. I've never to my knowledge not had this shit on the ready, except now I realize I haven't had it for at least ten months, so that's responsible of me. 

Anyway, Johnny takes my ID and tells me I can go ahead and pump gas while he runs my plates. Which I realize as he's walking back to his motorcycle are FUCKING EXPIRED. In this moment I begin to have an existential CRISIS because what the hell is wrong with me? My new plate, that my father so kindly renewed for me, is sitting on the table in my fucking breakfast nook with all my unopened bills and other important documents that I've chosen to ignore up to this point. 

I am officially failing at being an adult. FAILING. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars. 

Whatever. 

So Johnny Law heads back up to my window and at this point I'm SUPER glad I showered that morning and didn't reek of booze for this chance encounter with law enforcement. He explains to me that I was going 37 miles an hour in a 25 zone on the bridge, which is super uncool.  He also tells me that he's just giving me a warning for the registration being expired and for not having my insurance card handy.

So I'm like thank jeebus, whew, so glad I'm not getting carted off to jail this morning. What a relief, I am not even mad about the ticket, I'm just glad they don't throw you in jail these days for failing to be an adult at age 26. 

And then I start my car and go on my merry way to work. 

BUT WAIT. 

This is the part where I reveal just HOW FAR behind the learning curve I actually am, you guys. 

Because in glorious Montana, you only get two weeks to get your shit together and pay your tickets. Since I'm me though, I don't even look at the damn thing again for THREE WEEKS. 

Whoopsie pooooooopsies. 

I realize that little gem of knowledge and I'm once again like, "Shit." So I decide to walk my happy ass right down to the municipal office, which I found out is where you pay tickets thanks to google, and I prepare to just handle this in person. You know, be like "I just realized this is a teensy bit overdue so I just stopped by in person to take care of it to prove I'm really sorry and appeal to your soft side with my sad apologetic look, kthanksbye." And then just bounce. 

But when I get there, a very curt woman who someone has unfortunately placed in a position of some moderate amount of power just looks sourly at the insurance card I place in her grabby little hands and shakes her head. She's really hung up on the fact that there is no date provided on my insurance card. And I'm like "What do you want me to do, this is what they sent me in my packet? That's the only fucking card I have, lady." Only without the curse words or attitude. And then I offer to CALL MY AGENT and have them fax over a letter of proof of insurance since my card is apparently inadequate. 

But no. Bridge troll with too much power decides she doesn't want to deal with me. So she says "I'm just going to send you in to talk to the judge. Courtroom two around the corner."

At this point, I am actually dumbfounded. 

I am not a criminal. I don't fucking stand in front of judges and wait to be bitch slapped by the long arm of the law. I'm just a simple girl for the Midwest who says 'Yes, Sir" to authority figures and has the decency to look away when I roll my eyes at them. I don't belong in here with these petty criminals at municipal court! This is an abomination!

So I walk in and take my seat and there are only like three people in front of my waiting for their judgement to be handed down, which is nice. But it also allows my some time to develop a serious sweat problem, a serious tremble, and some seriously clammy hands. 

To be continued....