I hereby forbid you to propose on Christmas. Do you hear me, Mr. Chester? Forbid. I'll say no. That is not a threat. That is a promise.  How about when the weather is particularly horrible and nothing special is going on? January 23?

Love,
Chess

PS. Don't even think about Valentine's Day.


(No offense to the host of friends (including my BFF) who got engaged in the last two days. Congratulations to you all!!)

Remember how I said I was on a quest to restore the funny? Because it's gone, gone, gooone?

I've been feeling weird this holiday season. Like the excitement isn't there. Well, it's not. Not in the way it used to be. I guess we're all grown up now at my house, so the excitement is more of a quiet kind. Not the loud, rambunctious, raucous, "Oh my gosh, wake up, wake up, it's CHRISTMAS!" kind of crazy anymore. And grown up things are on my mind these days, and I don't quite know what to do with that new development, because "I want always to be a girl and have fun," and I guess I know I can't.

But last night, I turned over in my sleep and smacked my forehead so hard against the wall that I woke up. And burst out laughing before immediately falling asleep again. Or maybe I passed out. I'll never know....

Either way,

I've missed you. Sorry that I've been sleeping lots. You must understand that I didn't sleep much the last couple of weeks. But... I got my first and last 4.0 in college!! I'm kinda proud of myself. And now I'm done with school. What do I do now? Someone find me a job. Quick!

Whenever someone asked me what I was going to be when I grew up, I said, "A graduate." But now that has happened, and I don't have an answer to the question anymore. I don't know what I want to do. My routine as a student is gone. I feel like nothing is waiting for me now. Or maybe everything is waiting for me now. But I feel kinda lost. And dismal. (When I used to be happy and hilarious.)

I'm on a quest to restore the sunshine and the funny in my life. I feel like I've forgotten how because so many unfunny, not-nice things have happened lately. I need a new attitude, but I don't know where to find one. So maybe we could make this a collaborative effort?

Can you tell me what you do to have a good time these days? What songs you like to dance to? Your happy movie? Your favorite childhood cartoon? Your favorite snack or treat? Your favorite book? Julie Andrews says that if I think of my favorite things, then I won't feel so bad, but my favorite things aren't working so well, and you are some of my favorite people, so it couldn't hurt to try your favorite things, right?

Please help!

But I am done.

If all goes well, I will be a college graduate at the end of this week.

1. Completed a semester-long portfolio for my humanities fashion class 
2. Wrote three critical analysis essays totaling nineteen pages
3. Worked
4. Met a boy (who is roomie's boy-that-she's-dating's roomie)
5. Was flirted with more in less than a week than I have all my years combined
6. Friday night with my besties
7. Babysat 
8. Spent all day Saturday with besties and with boy
9. Spent all day Sunday with besties and with boy
10. Refused to cuddle with boy (no such thing when it's the first time we watch a movie), but he still played with my hair
11. Went to first non-Sunday church activity (FHE) on Monday where I saw boy
12. Last meeting for mentoring :-(
13. Spent rest of Monday night finishing first essay
14. Spent all of Tuesday morning and afternoon writing second essay and all of the evening with boy
15. Finished third essay on Wednesday morning
16. Freaked out because I was aaaaalll DONE
17. Worked
18. Ate dinner
19. Boy texts me all night tonight, and corners me into telling him whether or not I like him, and when I say I'm open to the idea, he makes me answer yes or no, so I am brave and say yes (even though it's not really true and I'm shaking from head to foot from being put on the spot) and ask if it's mutual, and he says, no, I just want to be friends. Sigh. Slightly bummed. Not surprised since he is a big, fat flirt. Really relieved there was no cuddling to regret. Really annoyed that he popped up in my life to frazzle me during finals week. 
20. Why is it ALWAYS finals week?
21. Good grief, why did he flirt so much?
22. What is wrong with boys?
23. Too bad he was really, really cute
24. Watched S.W.A.T.
25. Got ready for bed
26. Blogging about how I am drained
27. Stupid boy is texting me during his graveyard shift at work
28. I. HATE. TEXTING.

That is all that stands between me and my B.S. in English.

And believe you me, it will be a lot of BS.

This is my last finals week ever.

If you are, please stretch this week out by a couple days, because I've been so, so tired, and I slept more than I should have, and I haven't finished all the papers I need to write. And it's scaring me. If you can't extend my week, maybe, just help me stay awake. That would be cool of you. Don't you want to be cool, God? Maybe you're not into that sort of thing. After all, I'm writing a paper on a poem where you are portrayed as a Mastiff and also Tyrannical. Silly Emily Dickinson. I don't think she realized that you really are a nice dude.

Did you know that Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret is a real book? Furthermore, did you know that it's totally fine that I'm using it for my blog post because—surprise—my first name is Margaret? This is not a lie. Chess is a nickname for my middle name. But this is not a post about my names. We'll save that for another day.

Court told me that I haven't posted in a week. FALSE. If she were really a fan of this blog, she would know I haven't posted in exactly two weeks. (Sheesh.) This is not my fault. This is the fault of Dead Week (the week before finals). Dead Week is anything but dead. The "dead" part comes from the semi-catatonic state that you suffer from trying to do everything all at once and not having enough time to do it. So give me a break. But, I will post. I miss this blog. I miss you readers. I lost one of you this week and it made me sad. Tell all your friends that I really am hilarious sometimes and it's worth it to stick around.

But this is not a post about me being hilarious and really wanting to have 200 followers. That's just being selfish. This is a post about my hilarious friend Courtney and my home away from home. Or what used to be my home away from home. I was hardly ever there this semester, but I guess it's fitting because it just wasn't looking and feeling like home. And I'll tell you why.

Ol' Ray B. West. Ol' Rabies. The building that houses the English department. The building that will soon send me on my way into the real world. (NO. DON'T MAKE ME GO.) It underwent a horrible makeover this summer. The person overseeing production was a genius (and I use the word "genius" lightly) who thought that it would be a great idea if they painted each floor a new glaring neon color so that we would know where to go. Maybe FCHD and Elementary Ed. majors need color coding to figure things out, but—surprise—English majors know how to read. We don't need nasty colors that don't go with brick and tweed. And hello? "1" at the beginning of a room number means the first floor and "2" means the second. How difficult is that?

But I was content not to complain, because I knew, at least, that our nasty plaid couch in the bathroom was still safe from the grubby hands of modernists. However, my confidence was shattered several weeks ago, when Court arrived in Crumbumble's class, all six glorious feet of her soaked in awesome sauce and sprinkled in sparkling coolness (if you can't tell, I want to be like her when I grow up), and she told me in horrified tones that "our couch has been taken away!!!"

I shrieked and almost died, "Is NOTHING SACRED anymore?" You don't understand. That couch was a sanctuary. You never touched it with bare hands. In fact, you didn't touch it at all. Who knew what diseases that thing was housing? But it ensured the safety of your backpack. You could tinkle in peace, knowing that good ol' plaid couch was cradling your backpack until you came out of the stall once again.

And then, if that wasn't enough to put me in the worst mood ever (and I was furious), she hit me with even more horrible news. See, had this been last year, I would've known before she told me, but I only had the one class this time, and I never stuck around afterwards.

She said, "Have you seen the study area?" And I breathed out a low, "Nooooo..."

To my disgust, she told me that they had replaced the three plaid couches with a few plastic rolling chairs grouped around the empty space that used to have a beat-up old coffee table with old poetry magazines stacked on top. Yet another beloved spot desecrated. It was the quintessential English-majory looking and feeling place on our entire campus. The couches didn't match anything or each other, and that coffee table was the sorriest looking thing ever. But you see, they matched us.

That was where we all gathered to moan about our papers. That was where we all crammed together to review for tests and tell stories. That was where we would sneak in a nap after pulling an all-nighter because we procrastinated writing. Those couches, as Court eloquently put it, "formed themselves perfectly to the curves of our bodies."

How do plastic chairs replace the camaraderie, the laughter, the stolen hours of sleep, the sneaking glances at cute boys across the way? They can't, that's what!!


Amen, Courtney, mah sister. Amen.