Apparently I was on drugs in the 7th grade.

I cleaned out my closet at home tonight. I don't know where to begin.

I knew it was going to be a special adventure when I pulled out a journal that I had kept maaany years ago pretending to be a rather unfortunate woman named Annie May Austen, who, at the age of 17, was pregnant with her second child, and whose young husband had died tragically of a drug overdose. I don't know why I even knew what that was. I watched a lot of talk shows which probably explains why I thought 17 was an acceptable age to have two children at. Because it was rather commonplace on Maury. Also, I named my two children Aaron Archibald Austen and Ellie May Austen. AND, after my husband died, changed my name back to my maiden name (Austen) because I was offended by his death. I was offended by many things. "About my husband dying of a drug overdose," I wrote. "It makes sad. And also offended."

I don't think I knew the meaning of that word.

"Mrs. Willis," I wrote to my fifth grade teacher in my pragmatic poem "SPAM" after she had given us all samplings of SPAM to teach us to be inspired to write by even the most mundane object, "what the heck is SPAM? Because you said it was meat, but it isn't. I'm offended that you gave me this. And the kid next to me ate his. Isn't that gross? That's gross, Mrs. Willis." Besides the obvious fact that I was born to be a poet, I was beginning to notice a trend. Everything in the world offended me.

"DO NOT OPEN THIS JOURNAL," I wrote in the "belongs to" space of said journal. "It has an alarm. You can't see it, but it's there, and if you open it, it'll go off, but only so I can hear it, and I will be offended. And hit you."

I don't know who is responsible for getting me off this talk-show-super-guest path, but I can't decide whether you ruined me or saved me.

Because on one hand, I appreciate not being a mother of children named Aaron Archibald and Ellie May. But on the other hand, I'd be famous on youtube.

It's hard to say. 

Quote of the Day, brought to you by the Textbook Buy-Back Cashier

Cashier: Hey, this book is worth four dollars!

Sara: Great!

C: This one is worth five!

S: Yaay.

C: This one is seventy-five cents!

S: Okay.

C: This one is two dollars!

S:...Uh-huh.

C: This is one is four dollars!

S: You're going to do this for all of them, aren't you?

C: I went to high school with a girl who spelled her name like yours, all weirdly without an h. She was really religious. She told me I was born with Original Sin.

S: I can't tell if you're on drugs or if this is just how you are.

C: I told her, "That's not fair! I didn't do anything!"

S: I sort of hope it's drugs.

C: Hey! This one is five dollars!

You should definitely spend three hours doing this when you have finals.

At the beginning of the semester, I bought a card of fourteen hair elastics, wagering that I would lose about half of them. And then lost all of them. Except for this stretched out, begging me to put it out of its misery, getting tangled in my hair because it's worn so thin one. It broke yesterday. Since my keys had gone missing at the same time, I decided it might be time to organize my room.

You know, now that I'm moving out of it in a week.

I cleaned out every drawer and organized things into categorized, gallon-sized ziplock bags, leaving just what I would need to get me through the week. I found my keys in the bottom of a Trader Joe's bag. 

And I found 23 hair elastics. For my card of fourteen.

Have I stolen a bunch, or are they reproducing?

Rawr.

So I lost my Ikea virginity over the weekend.

I was so unprepared. 

I was under the impression that it was a Swedish version of Bed, Bath, and Beyond. It was not.

Sara: I--what do I do?

Casey: This is the showroom. Here, take a big yellow bag. We'll wander through the rooms and you can look at everything and design an imaginary apartment while we pick sheets.

S: What's happened to my senses? Why do they feel like Disneyland?

C: That's called sensory overload. It's to be expected.

S: I LOVE IT HERE. I NEVER WANT TO LEAVE IT.

C: Petal, this is only your first time. Let's not get carried away.

S: WE SHOULD DO THIS EVERY WEEKEND. 

C: Sara--

S: LOOK. A RESTAURANT.

C: Oh, Sara.

This came on the heels of a mini-carnival in which there were bouncy houses shaped like ships. With SLIDES inside. 

It was a weekend of much joy.

And now it's finals week.

Never has there been such a cruel trick played on my mind. Except for when I was little and Jurassic Park came out, and I thought it was a documentary, and that dinosaurs were alive again. And then they weren't. That was pretty mean, too.

A Brief Conversation Between Victoria and an Innocent, By-Standing History Major

Unsuspecting History Major: Victoria, you're a history major, aren't you?

Victoria: Yes. Why?

UHM: I can't decide which classes to take next semester.

V: Which are you considering?

UHM: History of the Vikings, for one.

V: Oh, I took that class. We dressed up as vikings and had a feast.

UHM: Wow, really? 

V: Yes. The feast is half your grade.

UHM: Great! Definitely taking that one. How about History of Pirates?

V: Another good one. We hijacked a ship and pirated about the Atlantic.

UHM: You--wait...really?

V: ...

UHM: *suspicious*

V: Yes?

UHM:...Awesome.

V: Yes.

*plants flag*

I appreciate frankness. In high school, I had a crush on a boy named Alex, and I was baffled by the way he treated me. He  sometimes told me I was cute, and he sometimes sent me texts that said things like, "Do you like fire?" Needless to say, I couldn't tell if he A) had a crush on me, too, or B) had heard I would be a good accomplice in starting a forest fire.

Sara: I'm just going to ask him if he likes me.

Friends: No.

S: No? Why? 

F: It will scare him off.

S: Really? Wow. He's really going to need to grow a backbone before we embark on our life of crime.

F:...What?

In my experience, even frankness is too subtle for some people.

S: Did you send me a text asking if I liked fire?

Alex: Yeah. I have a fire-pit in my backyard, and I wanted to invite you over to make S'mores.

S: OH. I didn't respond to it because I thought you were criminally-minded. You can invite me some other time. I love S'mores. And I also have a crush on you. Good combo!

*two weeks later*

S: Are you ever going to ask me out?

A: Wait, what? You'd go out with me?

S:...I sort of thought that was obvious after telling you I liked you.

A: I thought you were joking!

At this point in my long, wisdomous life, passive aggressiveness is my least favorite thing. You can imagine that I was somewhat stunned to find myself engaged in a long, drawn-out, passive aggressive war, then. The concealed, subtly expressed hatred my nemesis and I have for each other was discovered the first day we met in math class. He was sitting a few rows to my left. I was chatting quietly with Casey. Our ears perked up when he started discussing our college, and said, "I haven't met a girl who goes there who's actually intelligent."

Sara: *glares*

Opponent: *feels it*

S: *keeps glaring*

O: *ignores it*

S: You realize girls from the college are in this class.

O: It occurs to me, yes.

S: Well, then.

O: Well.

And thus our romance began. Things got more heated when he transferred into one of my English classes. Aside from one full-blown argument in which neither of us looked at each other while we insulted each other from across the classroom, we've generally pretended the other doesn't exist. Actually, we had one impromptu staring contest. But other than that, nothing. Until today.

Today our English teacher was gone, but had left a video for us to watch. Since he informed us in advance that he wouldn't be there and that there wouldn't be a sign-in sheet, there was an astounding turn-out of three. I was the first one there. My arch-nemesis, looking especially size zero today in his skinny jeans and oversized shirt, walked through the door next. When he saw I was the only other one there, he was so overcome with joy, he hardly knew how to express it.

O: Are you fucking kidding me?

S: Yes. This is all a joke. 

O: No one else is going to show up, are they?

S: Aside from the girl who's supposed to bring the video, no.

We eyed each other, and then he took our You Aren't Even Here Right Now policy to new heights.

O: Are you in my math class?

S: I don't know. What math are you in?

O: Ninety.

S: Oh. Yeah. You sit in front of me, don't you?

O: I don't know.

S: Hm.

After a few moments, I heard him mutter something.

S: Are you speaking?

O: Yes.

S: Oh. I couldn't quite tell.

O: I said, "Nice to meet you." *sticks out hand*

S: *eyes warily*

O: I have no idea what your name is.

S: *shakes hand* It's Sara.

O: Great.

We didn't say anything else to each other, and we ignored each other on the way out of the room. 

But is it just me, or did I just totally win whatever argument we were having?

This must be how sugar cookies feel all the time.

My energy level is through the roof today. And I live on the bottom floor of a three-story building. It has to go a long way to get to the roof. The reasons for this, I believe, are two-fold:

Fold One: Following my erratic, ADD post yesterday about INTENSITY and LITERATURE and ACCIDENTALLY HARMING PEOPLE, my English class this morning had a class-long discussion about what makes literature valuable or worthy of anthologizing, and why do we read the things we read, and why do we enjoy them or dismiss them, and why is it easier to say why a piece is bad than to explain what makes it good, and if our civilization ended, and a new species found our planet and exactly one piece of literature remained here, would we rather they find Paradise Lost, or Harry Potter? And it reminded me, yet again, why I love this major, and why it's okay if I fail math. And now I am ALIVE with PASSION that needs CAPS.

Fold Two: I had coffee for breakfast.

I have been very productive since I replaced my blood with caffeine (and PASSION). I caught up on all my correspondences (facebook wall posts), I went on a walk, I did my Italian homework, and ate some white bean and basil hummus with naan bread and watched an episode of House. When that was done, and Casey was busy, I had to find something else to do. So I went on a quest to find the answer to a question I've had for weeks.

What are the lyrics to Erika Jo's "I Break Things"?

First of all, if you haven't heard this song, go listen to it now. I don't care how you manage it. But this song is a work of genius, and I would be doing you a disservice if I didn't tell you so.

Second of all, WHAT ARE THE LYRICS? Casey and I have been singing it for weeks, very loudly, while driving on our various Errands of Importance to find ice cream, or hummus, or grilled cheese(s), or french fries. The lyrics are very straightforward and awesome until one indiscernible line.

Casey: What is a nanvil?

Sara: I don't know. It sounds like a prescription medicine for headaches.

C: Why is it in this song?

S: Nanvils are in this song?

C: Yeah. She goes, "You say I'm nothing you can't handle. You're tougher than a nanvil."

S:...I think she's saying, "an anvil."

C: Oh. Yeah. That makes more sense.

Except then we stopped to think about it, and being tougher than an anvil actually doesn't make sense. Heavier than an anvil? Sure. More likely to fall on a cartoon character's head than an anvil? Okay. But tougher? We think not. 

We started rewinding the song so we could listen to that line over and over again.

C: Enamel? Is it saying enamel? That would make sense!

S: But I hear a "v" sound! Listen. *rewinds*

C: I hear it, too. But...what would a "v" be doing there? *rewinds*

S: Canville? Is she saying Canville? Is that like a really tough city? That would make sense, too. *rewinds*

C: Is "inanvil" a word? Maybe that whole phrase is just one word. *rewinds*

S: Ganvil?

C: That sounds like Gandalf.

S: THAT WOULD MAKE SENSE! HE'S TOUGH!

C: Except that it wouldn't.

S: Right, except for that. *rewinds*

I know country songs don't always really care about the sense thing so much, but seriously. What is this line? I've been trying to figure it out for, like, half an hour. It's nearly pathetic.

And maybe Nanvil is an extra-strength medicine, and E.Jo is tougher on headaches than they are.

Help me. Or tell me you've horribly misheard songs, too.