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I’ve moved out for the first time.

I was terrified at first. I knew about a month in advance that I was moving, but it didn’t seem real till the last week in my parents’ place. All I could think was, “This is my last Sunday* here.” (*insert day of the week, meal, event, etc.) I thought I was moving on Saturday, and then on Thursday, my roommate-to-be told me my room was ready for me and I should move in that day.

So I did.

I felt a little bad at first; I felt like I needed to have a big last night with the ‘rents, for some reason. Some ceremonial thing that would seal the deal that I’m on my own now. Kind of how graduation solidifies the fact that you’re done with school, and a funeral sets in stone (almost literally) that someone you know is dead.

I didn’t get my graduation from my parents’ house, though. Just a swift move-in and dinner at Red Robin with my new roommates.

It’s been four days since I moved in, and I’m loving it. There’s not much difference from my little basement room at my parents’ (besides the fact that I share this attic room and there’s a light outside my window and i share a bathroom with my two best friends and I buy my own groceries), but now I feel grown-up. I can’t help saying “my roommate” as often as possible. I love telling my family “I have to go home now.” I use the phrase “my parents’ house” as often as possible.

But I’m still nostalgic. I’m going to miss being a little kid, with no cares in the world. I find myself terrified to think about the next 80 years: “What am I going to do with myself?”

And so, I’ve decided to go to school. Starting in January, I will be a pre-communications major. Maybe I really am growing up.

Thank you, moving out. 

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(There will be a thousand blogs about Valentine’s day, mark my word.)

Most single people hate Valentine’s Day. A lot of them celebrate S.A.D. (Single Awareness Day) to make themselves feel better. Most go out and get drunk. I, however, choose to do none of these, but treat Valentine’s day as a normal day (besides the fact that I will probably get a lot more in tips at the restaurant).

I am going to go to work, come home, and go to a play with my friends. I am going to ignore the fact that everywhere I turn will be an ugly couple or a cute couple or a new couple or an old couple (Geez, I sound like Dr. Seuss), showing each other their love and appreciation for each other on this very special day. I will push out of my mind thoughts of past boyfriends or future boyfriends. I won’t waste a second wondering what others are doing.

(Side note: I don’t want to do the research, but if I’m not mistaken, St. Valentine loved everybody, and not just his significant other. I think that Valentine’s day should be a day to tell everyone you love each other, instead of buying the cliche boquet of roses and heart-shaped box of chocolates.)

But to why I don’t hate V-day. (Calling it V-day makes me giggle. I always want to call it V.J.-day, which should be celebrated more.) If I was in a relationship, I would love how romantic this day is. I would be excited. I’m happy for all those girls who are wetting themselves in anticipation, for all those guys who are vomiting under the pressure. I’m sure Valentine’s Day is a major stepping stone for most couples, and I think that my fellow Singles who hate Valentine’s Day are just bitter and lonely.

By the way, this whole blog is a lie. Tomorrow, I will be bitter, I will be cranky, I will be wondering what my exes are doing, and I will get good tips, by George! I’m just trying to convince myself that I’m not one of those types.

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Last night I was supposed to go to the Mika concert. I got home at 4:30, took a shower, got ready, and then waited for Mary to show up so we could drive up to the concert. We finally left around 6:30 (the concert was supposed to start at 7) and got in line around 7:12.

At 8:30, we were still in line.

What happened was this: Supposedly, Mika left his sound equipment in the last place he performed, so he was going to perform a 45 minute acoustic show, or we could get a third of our money back. Either way, we had to wait in line.

We waited, waited, waited, waited… And finally gave up. Both of us were wearing tights and short skirts, and our toes were falling off from the cold. (I was all for paying some guy to keep me warm, mind you.) We decided it wasn’t worth waiting in line forever for $10 or a 45-minute acoustic show. (Mary decided more than I did.)

We left, and drove to the nearest mall, where we bought normal people clothes (pants, sweaters, shirts instead of leggings, fishnet tights, silky dresses). Then we went to Smith’s to get pizza. While we were there, there we these black guys that kept checking us out. I thought they were pretty cute, but Mary thought them hitting on us was creepy. After we left Smith’s, we were at a stop light, and those guys were in the car next to us! They rolled down their window and gave us one of their numbers (which I still have, but haven’t used).

We went to Amber’s apartment, where we talked, listened to music, and ate our pizza, then watched half of Phantom of the Opera. Mary and I decided to leave at 2 in the morning, and when we did, we discovered that it was impossible to get my car out of the parking spot where we left it. Amber lives on a really steep hill, and I parked dangerously close to a car in front of me, and my car wouldn’t go backwards. It took us a good 45 minutes (in which two guys walked past and just commented on our predicament, instead of helping. thanks guys.) but we got out using cardboard, wood, sand, and our bodies.

That was my night.

By the way, I wish I woulda stayed at the concert. Pbbbth.

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Another celebrity! (All right, so President Hinckley wasn’t a celebrity, but I am LDS, so he’s well known by my “people,” all right?)

I’m so happy for him. He has been away from his wife for, what is it, four years? He once said, “She was the woman of my dreams. Now she is the woman in my dreams.” What a sweetie.

He was an amazing man, and he did so much good. I can’t really feel sad, because he was old and he really missed his wife. I was shocked when I heard it, but not as much as I was when I heard about Heath Ledger. I explain this as Heath was young and Prez Hinckley was old. It was his time to go.

I can’t even remember having another prophet. I remember praying for President Hunter when I was living in Hawaii, but that was a long time ago. This is going to be so weird, but I’m excited to see what changes President Monson will bring!

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Heath Ledger’s dead.

(Well, duh, Janeal, you say.)

Celebrities have died. Celebrities die all the time! That one model chick died a few years ago (or was it more recent?), and it didn’t faze me at all. In fact, I had no idea who she was. (You can see how much I normally care.) But Heath Ledger was the first celebrity I actually respected to kick the bucket. When I read the news, I was shocked. I stared at my computer screen—with the cliche, mouth-half-open expression we have all come to know and love—for a full thirty seconds before I could really react.

My reaction: running through the house, screaming for my sister. “SuzanneHeathLedgerisdeadhediedofadrugoverdoseinMaryKateOlsen’sapartment!” (For at that time, that’s what silly MSN told me.) She was slightly shocked (I gotta invest in a thesaurus to find another word for shocked), but not as so as I was. My mother had no idea who we were talking about, which appalled me at the time (heyyy, appalled, that’s new), but now I’m okay with it.

Most people’s reactions: Shrugging. “Welp, at least he finished filming Batman.” Which, I agree, is a good thing (and he is super creepy in it. have you seen the preview?), but that’s sad that people don’t care. Actually, I take that back. I didn’t give a snip about that one actress chick.

This blog is basically  just rambling.

BY THE WAY, I wonder if Maggie Gyllenhaal, on the set of The Dark Knight, ever asked Heath Ledger if her brother was a good kisser.

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