It's been approximately 28 hours since Schmett and I parted ways and I still can't get this kiss out of my head. I mean, sure it was a little sloppy, he used a little too much tongue and the licking was...weird. But still...wow! Okay, I know! "It was just a dream, no need to get so worked up about it, jeez!" I know. Maybe something like this seems mundane for all of you out there in cyberspace who have people kissing them all of the time. I am not so lucky. It's been a while since I've kissed someone. I mean quite. a. long. while. Like 3 years. (deep breath) There...I said it.

Normally, this kind of confession would drive me to a quart of Blueberry Dream ice cream and a Law & Order marathon. However, as I was thinking about this last night I realized that it's actually kind of exciting. It's been 3 years since I've been kissed. By all rules of logic, my next kiss is gonna be the best damn kiss of my life! Yes, I can hear you screaming into your computers "That's not necessarily true!" and I think I heard someone yell "there are many factors which you must consider!" But I am sticking to my original assessment. Even if my next kiss were with Flava Flav with all his gold teeth poking me in the gums, it would be the best kiss ever. Let me explain myself...

• Best piece of pizza I've ever had--pizza hut pizza after fasting for 32 hours with my youth group
• Best shower I've ever taken--after a weekend of camping at the Winfield Lake
• Best Poop I've ever taken--After a week at summer camp (I wasn't gonna be the one responsible for stinking up the cabin)

This logic is irrefutable. Do not attempt to refute it.

The Man of my Dreams

I am standing around somewhere (Barnes & Noble I think) with a bunch of hoochie looking girls. We are all excited about something, though I don't know what. In walks this guy I have a huge crush on. We'll call him Schmett Schmichaels to protect his anonymity. So Schmett walks around behind a large cardboard wall and sits down. I am told that it is my turn to talk to Schmett and I only have a few minutes. I walk around the cardboard wall (which is painted to look like a brick wall) and find myself face to face with Schmett. We exchange hellos and I ask him to autograph the picture that just appeared in my hand. He obliges and we chat happily for a few minutes. I tell him how I would like to photoshop a picture of my brother's head on a picture of his body. He thinks that is hillarious and tells me so. I hear the angry grumbles of the girls on the other side of the wall and tell Schmett that I should go so the others don't get angry. He tells me not to go and we begin to kiss. He tells me that he would like to see me again. I ask him if that would be okay even though I'm not on his show "schmock of Love." He tells me that he could get in trouble but that it doesn't matter because he is in love with me. I use the sharpie that just appeared in my hand and attempt to write my phone number on my hand, but Schmett keeps licking it off. I giggle, "Schmett, quit it!" and we share a glass of lemonade.

Dear Nigerian man in my math class,

It was very sweet of you to come and sit by me, thus saving me from the hostile looks and grumpy grumbles of the woman on my right. You are very friendly and I appreciate that; however, I feel I should tell you...I can't understand what you are saying. I mean, I catch bits and pieces but for the most part I just smile and say "Oh, uh-huh." This is similar to the response my 2 year-old niece gets when she breaks off mid-sentence and starts giggling "A dow dow dow dow dow." This makes me feel bad. You are not a toddler; you are a grown man. You are just a grown man with a funny accent who talks way too fast, often at inappropriate times. I mean I'd love to discuss kidnapping all the strip club owners and marooning them on a dessert island, but must we discuss it now? While I'm desperately trying to learn how to solve compound inequalities? (That will be on our test next week, by the way) Besides, all your whispering makes me feel like one of the bad girls. You know, the ones who would pass notes in Sunday School and sneak off during church to apply more lipgloss. I don't much like that feeling. So, while I am sure you have only the best of intentions, perhaps you might tone it down a little. Thanks.

My 8 year-old self trying her hand at a crime novel.

A Helpful Stranger

It was a dark still night. Mindy Camden never liked driving at night but between paying the bills and buying groceries she could not afford to argue with shifts. Now Mindy didn't have much money. She had enough to pay rent, buy groceries and support herself, But she drove a cheap little car that allways seemed to break down and lived in a trailer that looked pretty sad. Still, she made do with what she had and allways kept hope that one day she would have a better life.

As Mindy was driving Home she heard the familiar clicking of the engine which meant the car was going to break down. Now this was easy to fix but it was late and she was in a dangerous part of town. So Mindy sat there and waited for almost an hour worrying about what might happen to her. For it was almost 11:00 pm and the gangs and pickpockets would be out soon. Just as Mindy was about to give up She heard a truck becoming nearer and nearer

*That is all I have written down, though I do recall how the story ends. Let's just say the helpful stranger turns out to be not so helpful and more murdererish (if you hadn't already guessed that) I was apparently also considering the title "Cries of Help" as it is scribbled at the top of the page. I think I made the right choice.

Agh, Not another "First Post!"

I know, I know...That first post is always so obnoxious. "Hi, I'm new here..." blah blah, yuck!

No, there will be no first post on this blog. I mean it.