Pirates of the world, UNITE!

Funny story: we all know the guys who lived in this house before me were jerks, this much we know is true. Last Spring they stole the fraternity letters from campus and stashed them in the backyard, where they also stashed any dirty dishes they didn't want to clean. This wouldn't have been so ironic (the letters have all been stolen and vandalized before), except that last year... I MADE the TKE letters. Funny I should move into the house previously occupied by the losers who still my handiwork. (note: I didn't make them alone, TKE paid for them, Tim Jr. cut the wood and Nate and Mikey helped me paint.)

Well, last year when I lived on Merrick Street, I, thrower of great parties (it's true), asked Sarah if I could fly her pirate flag on our fifty foot flag pole (instead of the Texas flag) as a banner to the awesomeness of our fiesta.

Within three days, the pirate flag was gone, charmingly replaced... with a sock. Zack's forensic sleuthing determined that the sock was of male orient, previously owned by someone with cats.

Ah, the plot thickens.

This morning when the girls dragged the big trashcan to the curb, what did they find? Sarah's much abused pirate flag daggling out of the trash can. Not only were these guys so awesome that they stole the TKE letters and our pirate flag, they're so awesome that they didn't take out their own trash for more than A YEAR. I wonder if they realize that the dilution in their gene pools will have their genetic lines wiped out within two generations. And the masses cheered.

FYI: They live on Robinson street now. Hide your lawn ornements.

I got friends in low places...

Want an interesting experience? Go back and read your boyfriend/girlfriends yearbooks, especially their pre-highschool yearbooks. It's amazing how people stay the same. Tim's favorite food, as far as I can tell, is still pizza. He was voted most kind, most likely to become president of the united states and basketball allstar (though this may have had something to do with the fact that he was 8-feet tall in fifth grade). His favorite song was "I've Got Friends in Low Places," which explains the loud-singing, dancing spectical from Trina's wedding when the song came on. He predicted that at 25, he would be living on the moon. To him, being a grown up meant finishing college.

I find all of this enthralling, I suppose, because I've read my own fifth-grade year book so many times. I thought that at 25 I'd be living in a studio apartment, selling paintings, probably of myself. I too was 8 feet tall (okay, 5'2"), voted most artistic. In sixth grade I got "The Bohemian Award," probably for creative misbehaviour more than anything. Though this may be because I tried to get my P.E. teacher fired. This really has nothing to do with what's going on in my life at this point, I suppose, except one thing:

Ever since I got to college I always heard this little voice that said: "You don't do things this way... why are you changing?" It was as though I could actually feel my thought process changing. Yesterday I woke up and I realized I don't hear that voice anymore. That's the one thing.

Walking across campus I noticed that, while it used to be common, I no longer point out in what ways Centenary, or Shreveport, is different from home (colorado!). I don't ask questions about it anymore... I just love it. In the sappiest, grossest, wettest kisses sort of way... I sort of just plummeted into Centenary and I couldn't possible love it more.

In "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" the narrator says that it's not the things that are easy, or habitual, those things are moot, it's the things which are only come by after a series of fortuities. Evergreen lost my FAFSA, I went to Centenary, where I didn't want to go because of the proliferation of Greeks on Campus. My best friends turn out to be TKEs, one of whom is a kid (tim) who had no intention of joining a fraternity. I thought he was a republican. He thought I hated him. Now, no thanks to myfifth-grade predictions (thanks a lot fifth grade), entirely due to a string of fortuities (Whooooo! Fortuities!), I'm here.

And we're having a party on Tuesday. And if you read this live journal (still) even after all that exciting france stuff is done... you're invited. Consider this your invitaton. Bring an Hors D'ouvre (i.e. a tiny food).

If all this seems a bit too deep to you: Chris Comeaux has the thought process of a sandwich, wherein he likes penguins. Though if penguins could speak they would say they loved sandwiches.

And

Everytime an Education Major comes in to the bookstore I try to picture them as my teacher and imagine which subjects they want to teach to which grades. None of them look like my P.E. Teacher.

The barefoot Bride's Maid

Between then (see below) and now (see right here), there's been one marriage, four states, two houses and a bookstore's worth of "what's up?"

Before you get excited and start looking through your old mail for a bypassed invitation, the marriage wasn't mine, and I didn't catch the bouquet. I'll leave that for the excitable folks. Rather, my best friend and adopted sister, formerly known as Trina the Bunny, is now one "Mrs. Hobbs." And despite much pre-ceremony calamity and skinny dipping, the wedding was the blast of blasts. Having pretty much already discussed her life plans with God, Trina wanted to focus not-so-much on one of those long, tedious, tear-jerking ceremonies, and went straight for the "pretty decorations, lots o' love, and a big, sexy party" philosophy.

I'm relatively certain that in the four days preceeding 4:00 p.m. on August 8th, everyone was just hoping the tents wouldn't fall over, simultaniously crushing the pastor and the cake, or some other equally horrible mishap, but then we bride's maids saw that Trina was more stunning than she has probably ever looked in her entire life, not because of the hair and the dress, but because she was so utterly overjoyed. The general expression of "meh, we're totally fine" that followed was the relief of a lifetime.

And then we got in the car and drove to Shreveport. Anti-climactic, yes? Not too much so. In all honestly, living in one's own house, within walking distance of one's own friends, at a school like Centenary... well, that might as well be the new American Dream.

Moving in was a disaster, finding enough money to pay the bills is a distaster, modifying schedules is a disaster, praying that I won't destroy the college newspaper beyond belief is a disaster, the bookstore (in all its disoriented glory) is its own disaster of biblical proportions... but in all honesty, I'd rather be here than anywhere else on earth right now.

We're having a Tiny Foods Party; you should come.