The Jewish new year, Rosh Hashanah, was over a month ago. We are now well into the Jewish year 5769, but I was a little busy on the actual day itself (as well as Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Simchat Torah, and all the other holidays that have happened in the last month), so I’ve decided to observe it today. Happy Rosh Hashanah (Obsvd)!

The two traditions my mom taught me to practice for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are Tashlich and Fall cleaning. Tashlich is sort of a mix between confession and Pooh Sticks. It’s an amazing way of acknowledging your faults and mistakes and then moving on after they float away. The metaphor is beautiful and my mom and I usually leave the river laughing through tears, talking about how we each threw in a huge piece for my brother but an even bigger piece for the entire carton of ice cream we shared the night before.

I didn’t make time for Tashlich this year, but I took care of the Fall cleaning today. It’s sort of like Tashlich for the apartment/car/office. My mom usually tries to clean out her closet as well, but that’s a huge undertaking. Today at work, I cleaned my entire cubicle and updated all of my files. I filed away all of the paperwork from my big event last month and emptied my recycling bin. Tonight, Brian and I cleaned our respective bathrooms, he cleaned the kitchen (he’s the best), and I cleaned my room. I also did the winter/summer clothing switch. And although I only dealt with a small piece of my life and the clutter that surrounds me, I feel much better.

I’m hopeful that tomorrow will bring more change and begin the long road to cleaning up the White House. If I do Tashlich this weekend like I plan to, I’ll throw in a whole loaf for George W.

My hometown was home to a surprising number of Mormon families, considering it wasn’t located in either Utah or Arizona. One of my close friends in high school happened to be LDS, and she invited me to church with her once. In hindsight, I’m glad I didn’t tell my parents I was going beforehand.

For those of you who’ve never attended Mormon services before, here’s all you need to know: Since they don’t drink wine, the “crackers and juice” portion of the service includes individual paper water cups. After the group service, everyone breaks into groups based on age and gender. I was placed in the “Young Women’s” group.

In this particular meeting of this group, two 30-something women talked to a dozen high school girls about making decisions based on their beliefs. They talked about establishing your “agency”, so that when an opportunity presents itself in your life (at the time, I took this to mean, your friends ask you to smoke weed, or your boyfriend asks you if you want to have sex), you compare the issue to your agency, or list of beliefs, and find out how you feel. The idea really appealed to me. It’s like a dichotomous key for making decisions. Excuse me, time out. How do I feel about this? Let me check with my agency… Oh, nope. I don’t believe in premarital sex. Sorry! I’m terrible at making decisions as it is – I can’t even pick a brand of peanut butter at the grocery store. This seemed like the best solution EVER!

But something I learned in “my whole long life,” as I used to say when I was little, is that it’s more respectable to make the decision on a case-by-case basis. Then you can take into consideration all of the information you have (or don’t), and make an educated decision. For instance, smoking weed in middle school didn’t seem like a good idea, so I didn’t. Smoking weed when I was 18? Seemed about right. And it was. But if I’d decided when I was 15 at that LDS church in Montana that I would never do it, I would have had an ulcer before age 19. And I would have missed out on a ridiculously fun evening, in all honesty.

This is how I feel about political opinions. For instance, I’ve never really formed an opinion on immigration laws. I have never lived near the Mexican border, nor have I heard the arguments on both sides of immigration issues, so I haven’t formed an educated opinion. I know that immigration is the way my family got here, and I know that Mexicans are pretty great people (see: roommate), but I’ve never known someone who was negatively affected by an illegal immigrant worker. So I never talk about the subject, nor would I ever regurgitate someone else’s opinion to sound knowledgeable. If and when I hear arguments from both sides, I will form an opinion. And until I feel strongly about it, I’ll leave it in the hands of the folks who do.

I never really knew how I felt about late-term/partial-birth abortions. I’m VERY CLEAR about my pro-choice stance, but it’s hard to get behind aborting babies that are pretty close to being babies. I always sort of assumed I would fall back on the “slippery slope” argument, even though I knew it was flawed. But last week, I read the blog Uppercase Woman for the first time. Specifically, this post, which then led me to this heart-wrenching post. And now, I’m with Cecily. The idea that some poor couple would ever have to make the decision with which she and her husband were faced just about kills me, but the idea that they would have no choice is absolutely atrocious. And after reading all of this, I can’t imagine what she went through when she watched John McCain on TV, talking about Democrats “stretching” the idea of a woman’s health in order to rationalize abortions. What sort of sick people think that someone out there in the world is actually pro-abortion? Or that the decision is ever made easily?

When I think of Republicans, I imagine that they created their “agency” when they signed on with the Republican Party, and now all of their decisions are made for them. Are you pro-life with a pregnant teenage daughter? I hear wedding bells! Did you have a gay experience in an airport bathroom? Tell your wife you’re sorry, then sign up for a class at church that will help you control your urges. Never, under any circumstances, reevaluate your decisions based on the information presented. Even if it could save thousands of soldiers’ lives or help a family who isn’t able to pay their medical bills due to layoffs. Instead, send horrible, deplorable messages to innocent people who are already suffering, pretending you know something about their situation.

Because if you’re going to suffer with your repressed sexuality and pregnant teenage daughter who’s engaged to a man she doesn’t really want to marry, then by all means, bring us down with you. Don’t change your original, uneducated, untested opinion.

A few weeks ago on a Friday, I got on a plane headed for Montana. I was feeling sorry for myself. The guy I was seeing just realized that he wasn’t that into me, I had been suffering from Bronchitis for over three weeks, and I had to fly home for roughly 48 hours to go to a funeral. I was not my usual happy self, and I didn’t really feel like being cheered up (note: not normal for me).

But I somehow found joy in the most unlikely places, accidentally. In fact, since then, I’ve been continually reminded that although life is never perfect, there are wonderful things at every turn. I keep thinking of a voicemail my mom left me last summer when there were forest fires all around Missoula and the smoke had settled in the valley, making just leaving your house hazardous to your health. She talked about how smoky it was and then said, “So that’s the bad part of life here right now, but the good parts are everywhere.” It’s sort of like the opening scene of Love Actually, where the narrator talks about going to the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport and discovering that love actually is all around.

That Friday night, I was my dad’s date to a wedding (the oldest son of one of my dad’s golf buddies got married), and although I’d never met the couple and couldn’t think of anything that sounded less appealing that attending a wedding that night, they looked so blissfully happy that I couldn’t help but enjoy myself, celebrating with them.

Even the funeral provided moments of joy. When I read the obituary that my dad wrote for the family friend who passed away, I was inspired all over again by her courage, her sense of adventure, and her love for her family. Saturday night, after the memorial service, all of my dad’s friends from high school (that’s right – high school) and their kids went to the Sip-N-Dip in Great Falls, which is one of my favorite Montana gems. We drank blue cocktails out of fishbowls and put dollar bills on the glass to tip the mermaids. One of my dad’s friends, John, tried to convince the bartender to let him borrow the mermaid costume and go swimming, but apparently the pool is closed at 9 PM to everyone but guests of the hotel, which we were not.

When I flew back into Portland after the whirlwind trip, my friends met me at the airport and took me out for drinks, even though it was late on a school night. They were amazing. They listened. They made me laugh. They even looked at my Sip-N-Dip photos and pretended I wasn’t talking crazy. They didn’t tell me I was too emotional or lame or needy or awkward. They told me I was awesome and hugged me hello and kissed me goodnight on the cheek. Even the ones who live halfway across the country called me that week and supported me, and I didn’t even have to ask.

So yes, I’m currently in the busiest part of the year at work. Yes, I worked 12 hours yesterday after working last weekend, and it’s only going to get worse. Yes, the summer’s over. Yes, three more of my closest friends moved away in the last month. Yes, I’m single. Again. Yes, the economy’s terrible and the presidential race is ten times closer than it ever should have been. But how can anything in life look bad when there are so many good parts?

For the last week or so, I’ve been “working” on a post about all the awesome and not-so-awesome things that have happened to me recently. Hopefully that post will be finished soon, but until then, I wanted to talk about an incredible episode of This American Life.

One of the things that happened since last we met is that Brad and I broke up. I’m doing fine. I’m over it. And I can honestly say it’s better this way. But when it happened, I wasn’t so calm or reasonable. Between then and now I’ve gone through the obligatory stages of sadness, anger, resignation, and now I’m back to “normal.” Considering it wasn’t a very long relationship, it didn’t take particularly long to go through the spectrum.

My dad sent me an email saying I should download Episode #339 of This American Life and listen to it. He didn’t actually find out Brad existed until my mom told him about meeting Brad when she was in Portland, and then by the time my dad asked me about my new boyfriend, we’d broken up. So in his lovable and adorable Dad way, he tried to cheer me up. (Well, first he told me that boys are crazy, that they don’t make any sense, and that even he doesn’t understand them… But then he told me to download the podcast).

The episode is in four parts, but my favorite two are the Prologue and Part One.

For fear of transcribing every single interesting or funny line in the show, I will only write a few of my favorites and then STRONGLY URGE you to listen to the entire show online for free or download the podcast on iTunes. In fact, if you feel like a little audience participation, let me know what parts/quotes you liked from it.

In the Prologue, Ira Glass interviews a girl named Lauren, who sounds like she’s probably a teenager, or maybe a bit older. She’s in the throes of all the emotional turmoil that follows a breakup, but is still willing to be taped and even describes her situation in a remarkable way. My favorite is this quote:

“Breaking up with someone is literally the most common thing. Like, everyone you know broke up with everyone they ever dated… until maybe the person they’re with right now if they’re with someone right now. But when it happens to you it feels so… specific.”

Which really brings into focus how ridiculous breakups are. You always feel like no one understands, when in actuality, pretty much everyone’s been there. But it still seems different this time.

In Part One, a woman named Starlee Kine, co-creator of the Post It Note Reading Series, talks about her recent breakup and then writes a break-up song about it. I’m not making this up. She has never written music in her life, she has no musical abilities whatsoever, but she decides it’s the best way for her to express her feelings and wallow in them.

One of my favorite parts about Starlee’s story, other than her deadpan humor, is that music seems to play a similar role in both our lives. Music has and always will be one of the most important outlets I have. I don’t create, mix, or even critique it. I don’t claim to be a music snob. In fact, my friend Ben has described me as a music plebian. I listen to just about everything and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

I’m just amazed how lyrics or a good beat can affect my mood, change or enhance the way I feel, or identify emotions I didn’t even know I had. My friend Julie is one person that seems to share these sentiments; she will sometimes describe her feelings or state of mind with just the name and artist of a song (not out loud, mind you. Usually on her blog or her status messages on Google chat). I have playlists in my iTunes library for just about any emotion or occasion (Saturday Night Dance Party, Mellow, Giddy, Road Trip, etc.). Sometimes I’ll listen to SNDP when I’m doing the dishes or if I had a bad day and want to cheer up. Or I’ll put on Road Trip at work while I’m doing something boring like putting address labels on 800 invitations.

Starlee associates Phil Collins songs with her ex-boyfriend, Anthony. Nothing is sacred to her in this “report”. She is the first to admit that, “it was hands-down the corniest relationship I’ve ever been in. And by corniest, I mean greatest.” This quote is even preceded by a list of all the red flags she ignored because she was so enamored with Anthony.

When he broke up with her on New Year’s Eve, after nearly a year of dating, she was crushed. When she reflects on it, she says, “In that moment, no one could have conveyed how I was feeling better than Phil Collins.”

She goes on to make a sort of mix tape of breakup songs she loves before trying to write her own. She wants to listen to every sad song she can, to just wallow and be consumed by all of her sad feelings. “A breakup song won’t ever suggest you start online dating, or that you’re better off without him. They tell you that you’re worse without him, which is exactly what you want to hear, because that’s how you feel,” she says. She’s honest, articulate, and apparently has no pride or dignity whatsoever. Heartbroken to the max.

Once again, I don’t want to ruin the entire episode in this post, but let me just say that I have a whole new respect for Phil Collins now, and I even downloaded a song or two of his after listening to the episode.

So it turns out that my emotions can be described or amplified not only by music, but by a program on NPR. Just like breakups, the feelings you are going through always seem so unique and so specific to you, when they’re actually incredibly common. Of course, knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to get over them. It’s just an interesting thought.

The following is an open letter to anyone on the streets of Portland who is even considering talking to me.

To Whom it May Concern,

I am a good person. I work for a local non-profit. I volunteer occasionally (even early in the morning the day after celebrating a friend’s thirtieth birthday a little over-zealously). I believe in thinking globally and acting locally. And I consider myself politically-active and aware of the issues that our society currently faces. I give money to causes and groups about which I feel strongly and have been known to campaign for them on a few occasions. I have a set of firm, core beliefs that are important to me and guide me through difficult times. And I don’t live my day-to-day life feeling like I’m searching for something I haven’t found.

I do not want to sign your petition. Don’t get me wrong, I do feel strongly that politicians should not take money from PACs without writing thank-you notes and that we would be better off if the Oregon Coast was lined with free-range seal refuges. I may even be convinced that everyone should be able to grow their own weed in their cars if they want to. For medicinal purposes, of course. But just because you have a Greenpeace sticker on your clipboard or an Obama ’08 shirt on your back does not mean that you are trustworthy. Particularly if you ask for a donation by either credit card or electronic funds transfer (I’m looking at you, hippie outside Powell’s draped in hemp jewelry).

I do not want to adopt your pagan babies. I’ve seen their pictures – I admit they’re adorable. I can’t deny that their tiny frail bodies and huge hopeful eyes pull at my heartstrings. But when you approach me on my lunch break and try to reel me in by telling me that I have a beautiful smile, I only want to yell at you for accosting me while I’m enjoying singing along to Jason Mraz on my iPod and tell you that flattery will only get you so far. And it will DEFINITELY not get you into my wallet. I would be more likely to buy a copy of Street Roots than give you my money. And don’t give me that look, either, or I’ll ask you for a donation to MY fund for sick kids.

I do not want to hear about your church. I am so happy for you and your blissful state of existence. In some ways, I wish I knew what it felt like to be so incredibly sure that I had found the best thing in the universe that I would approach complete strangers in Pioneer Square and ask them about their relationship with God, but I respect their time and their personal space too much to ever do so. I am steadfast in my belief that people can find the system that’s right for them on their own, and that approaching them when they least expect it is a horrible way of converting them. I would rather walk into the Church of Scientology on my way to work and take a stress test than answer the door (to my HOME) for a couple of elders with bike helmets.

I don’t even mind being asked for change. I rarely, if ever, give it, but beggars don’t bother me nearly as much as the rest of you. As my friend Michelle says, you are the telemarketers of the street. You are relentless and you are on every corner. I can’t take it anymore. There are only so many excuses to make – “I’m not an Oregon voter.” “No thanks, I’m in a hurry.” “I’m Jewish – some people believe I killed Jesus.” I’m going to start saying ridiculous things to see if you’re even listening. “Not today, buddy. My chi is off.” “How could I even think about starving children in Africa when it’s raining in Portland?” “My relationship with God? Mutual indifference.”

Please, just leave me alone. Everyone will be much happier that way.

That is all. Thank you for your time. I’m sure it’s valuable.

Megan

Leaving home for the first time, you learn a lot of things. I, for instance, learned that other people’s mothers don’t use words like “drek” and “schlock” or tell stories about smoking weed in college, and most kids my age don’t have fathers who enjoy listening to showtunes and consider a beer and a chunk of cheddar cheese to be a well-rounded meal. However, most of the things that shocked me were related to Montana. For instance, every child who spent their formative years in my home state knows certain songs. Like this one:

My home’s in Montana,
I wear a bandana.
My spurs are of silver,
My pony is gray.

While riding the ranges,
My luck never changes.
With foot in the stirrup,
I gallup away.

(There are more verses, but I’ll stop there.)

I was flabbergasted to find out nobody else knew that song. I thought it was one of those tunes like “You’re a Grand Ol’ Flag” and “Thank God I’m a Country Boy” that all Americans knew somehow. You don’t remember learning the words ever, but you could probably sing most of the song right now. Well, it turns out it’s more like the Montana state song or the U of M fight song that only folks who run in (ahem) certain circles would know.

The reason I thought of this is because a close friend of my friend Jen recently moved to Missoula to go to graduate school, having never really spent time there. This girl, who we’ll call Andrea, sent Jen an email after she’d been in Missoula a week, saying she was pretty sure she moved into the middle of nowhere, citing the following arguments:
1. There is no Sprint store in Missoula. Andrea has a Sprint cell phone.
2. There is no Bank of America in Missoula. Andrea uses Bank of America.
3. DHL doesn’t deliver to Missoula. Apparently this is a problem for some people.
4. She couldn’t find anywhere to get a beer after 8 PM.

Now, when Jen told me these things, I responded with, “Oh yeah,” “Uh huh,” “Nope,” and “What the hell? She’s clearly going to all the wrong places.” But it never even occurred to me that any of the first three statements would be issues for someone moving to my hometown. Why not just get Verizon, use Wells Fargo, and ship FedEx like everyone else? (Oh, and I definitely got Andrea’s email address from Jen and sent her a list of no fewer than ten bars in her neighborhood that most definitely serve beer until 2 AM when they only close because it’s required by law.) Jen was pretty sure Missoula was in the third-world by this point.

Now I’m wondering what other things are totally normal to me but would seem crazy to all of my friends. Indian reservations that actually have Indians living on them and don’t exist purely to house casinos? Getting your drivers license when you’re fifteen and using it to cruise the drag with your friends on Friday and Saturday nights until curfew? Living a Nordstrom- and Ikea-free existence? Going to the rodeo every August and eating fry bread topped with butter and honey?

I can’t even imagine.

Last Tuesday, Oregon Democrats gave 31 of their 52 not-so-super delegates to Barack Obama. According to CNN.com, he is now 48 delegates away from securing the Democratic Party’s nomination. Oregon’s primary mattered more this time than it did four years ago, no question. But the really amazing thing happened last Sunday, May 18th.

Alex, Julia, Zach, and I gathered with 75,000 of our closest friends on the Portland waterfront to hear Barack Obama speak. It was the biggest crowd his campaign has seen and the largest rally in U.S. history. From the time I got in line 5 blocks away from the entrance until I got through the metal detectors and found a good spot, 45 minutes passed. Then it was about an hour until the Decemberists played (who I love not just because of their music, but because frontman Colin Meloy is a fellow Oregonian/Montanan who loves Barack). And it was about a half hour after they were done that Senator Obama finally got on stage. It was incredibly hot and we didn’t bring any water. Thankfully, Julia brought sunscreen or the sunburn I got would have been 10 times worse. I was dehydrated, hot, and uncomfortable. And I loved every minute of it.

The cross-section of Portland that attended was incredibly diverse and made for great people-watching. Plus Alex and I wore shirts we made:

And got A LOT of comments. (“Bros before hos? That’s terrible!” – “Hey, where’d you get those shirts? I want one!” – “Nice shirt!” – “Isn’t Bill the ho?”)

I was probably 40 feet away from the man himself, and he was amazing. He spoke for about half an hour on topics ranging from the unification of the Democratic Party in November and the mistreatment of veterans to the difficulty of paying for a college education and the recent news that he and Dick Cheney are cousins. He sounded tired, he tripped over his words a few times, but he captivated the crowd. He spoke as if he was just having a conversation with a buddy about things that were on his mind at the moment. But he was eloquent and interesting. At one point, he told someone in the crowd, “I love you back.” He was, in one word, incredible.

When my friend Brad told me later that night that he heard the crowd totaled 75,000, I didn’t believe him. Had Governor Tom McCall Waterfront Park been dropped in the state of Montana with that crowd, it would have been the second-largest city in the state.

There was a period of a few minutes, while I was waiting for him to take the stage, when I worried about Obama’s safety. My mom has been telling me lately about what it was like to see JFK, Martin Luther King, and Bobby Kennedy get shot on TV, and the similarities she sees between this election and the political situation in the 60s. (Clearly she isn’t the only one). As my aunt and uncle said in an email to me afterwards, “We are the kids of John, Martin & Bobby, and tend to fret about the nuts.” But then I just decided to think about how thankful I was to be able to say I saw him, I heard him, and I voted for him.

Over the last week, I’ve run into four people that I used to work with at The Company (one I really, REALLY wish I hadn’t seen. Apparently five months wasn’t long enough apart). And of course they’re all very nice and they each asked how I’ve been and whether I like my new job. One of them even asked what life’s like on The Outside. I was with Kara at the time, so we started chatting about the things we liked and didn’t like about our new jobs. (Note, The Plastics all used to work at The Company as well, so I guess that number should really be seven instead of four, but I actually SCHEDULE the times I see them. The others were totally random).

Kara and I both decided that we’re much happier at our new jobs (Duh.), but that we’re also really glad we worked at The Company. Namely, because we met so many cool people there. We both are now in industries that we are passionate about (me: helping sick kids. her: drinking alcohol) and we work for great organizations, but our coworkers could never measure up to the ones we left at The Company. For instance, my coworkers at The Foundation are almost exclusively female, married, and older than I am. At The Company, I worked with mostly twentysomething single people. Now, the other Foundationeers are definitely cool and usually down for a happy hour, as long as it’s scheduled at least a week in advance, but they don’t do much on the weekends because they have husbands and mortgages and maybe kids.

I also told the guy who asked about The Outside that I had been at my new job for 3 months before I learned how to check my work email from home. And that when I finally did it, it was because I actually cared, not because I was afraid of what might be happening. His mind was totally blown.

It is strange, though, working with people who are at different places in their lives. One of my coworkers, Traci, always asks me what I did last night. She says things like, “Tell me about your fabulous single life! What did you do last night?” To which I usually respond with things like, “Well, I went to happy hour at this place on the East Side and then went home and watched 30 Rock on my DVR. It was a Tuesday, Trace.”

And then there was the work happy hour we had a few weeks ago on a Friday. We went to Bettie Ford’s, because they have $2 beers and awesome $3 food options AND their happy hour goes until 9:00. The bad part is they don’t open until 5:00, so we can’t leave work early with the excuse that we need to go reserve a table. But it’s pretty sweet to be the only group in the bar and have the Wii all to yourselves. Anyway, when we get there, Tessa, who is 8 months pregnant and married, says, “So, Meg, is this place cool? Is this a popular place for people to go?” I responded with, “Yeah, Mom. All the cool kids hang out here these days.” I mean, really?

And then we threw a baby shower for Tessa last Wednesday. It was a great time, but I was the only single person there (as always) and one of the few who hadn’t had any children. I learned more about pregnancy in an hour than I ever, EVER wanted to know. It was so horrible that I actually had a nightmare that I was pregnant the next night. Seriously.

So, Kara and I have found a happy medium hanging out with our very nice, funny, interesting coworkers during the day, doing things that we enjoy, and then going out with people we used to work with in the evenings. Other than the occasional awkward conversation or horrible pregnancy nightmare, it seems to be going quite well.

I found out that something horrible happened to an old friend of mine today. Actually, probably my oldest friend in the world. And it made me think about a lot of very deep, meaningful things. I wonder how all of the bad things in the world seem to happen to a select small group of people. I wonder how I got so lucky. And I wonder why it was Bethany instead of me.

I say, fairly often, that I think I’m the luckiest girl in the world. And I mean it. I have the most amazing friends and family. I have cousins that are like siblings to me and a brother who is one of my best friends. I have the best parents anyone could ask for, and a roommate who’s basically another member of my family. I have found friends that I can count on no matter what happens in life, and I know I will stay close with them forever. And although I’ve experienced some sad and difficult things, the joyful ones will always outweigh and outnumber them.

I completely understand, as I think most people do, why Mother Teresa questioned her faith. Knowing that horrible things can happen to innocent people is so awful, so unfathomable, that it’s hard to think someone or something that was “in control” would let them happen. I believe in the general goodness of life, but it’s really hard when such terrible things happen to such good people.

Thank you, world, for the life you’ve given me. I don’t understand it, but thank you.

If you know me, you know I’m not wild about my college experience. Sometimes I wish I’d gone to a school with a greek system and a better social atmosphere. Sometimes I wish I’d gone somewhere where people actually went on dates instead of getting drunk and making out enough times that people started saying you were dating. Sometimes I wish I’d gone somewhere that didn’t have a stigma that caused reactions like, “You went to Lewis & Clark? You a big pot smoker?” or “Don’t like shaving your legs, huh?”

But the truth is, I wouldn’t change a thing. And here’s the reason:

I found the most amazing friends in the world. And although not all of them went to LC (and I wasn’t really friends with the ones who did until after we graduated), that’s how I found them. And for that I am forever grateful.

If I just want to go have some beers, if I want to play video games, if I want to get my nails done, if I want to go hiking, if I want to go bowling, if I want to go shopping, if I want to see a horrible movie, if I want to talk about myself, if I want to talk about nothing at all, if I want to laugh until I cry and then have people laugh at me, or if I want someone to remind me that I’m not crazy, but I’m definitely not normal, these are the people I call. They are always there for me. And I want nothing more than to always be there for them.

Last weekend, we were all together (Spring Break ’08!) and it was amazing. I know we will probably never all live in the same city, but I hope we have reunions often. Abby, Alex, Amanda, Bean, Ben, Ben, Brad, Brian, Julia, Rayne, Talia, and Zach, you guys are the best. Thanks for being awesome.