The Art of Murdering Moths

The thing is, I don't want to murder the moths. I know they aren't harmful. I know they're caterpillars who turn into moths. I know they have a tendency to love the light while simultaneously loving the dark. The also seem to love watching me sleep. This is the reason they have to go. Regardless of how careful I am with keeping the door closed and trying to ensure they won't enter the room, like many things in life, this luxury is nowhere near guaranteed. Moths represent summer. The cool air, the crickets chirping, the breeze through the open windows and the pine trees outside. They appear and disappear just as quickly. Stealthy and discreet, I'm rapidly learning that trusting a moth's position is a fatal move.

i awake bright and early every morning to the sound of construction out my open window and to the bright morning light. bang bang bang goes the hammer, its time to awaken and greet the summer light! I drive out of my neighborhood and into town, marveling at the majestic peak straight ahead. With all the rain and weather, it looks different in different forms of light. My shower has some of the best water pressure I've ever experienced. Flagstaff Barnes and Noble is my daily destination. I order a venti diet pepsi every day around 3:00 in the afternoon. The locals and I are becoming quite acquaintances.

Here's the thing with them: I spent a good few days while pouring over my LSAT books and learning strategy, discovering that the trout comes before the bass in the supermarket fish sale, while also keeping an open ear towards the conversations around two local men that sit in the same spots, reading and playing on their computers day after day. I'm convinced one hasn't worn anything but the same outfit I saw first saw him in. He's middle aged, black shirt on black jeans, and often a camo jacket if the rain decides to hang out with us. The first day I saw him he was engrossed, and I mean totally engrossed, in his computer, typing furiously. Since I've seen writers at the Flagstaff bookstore before, I immediately thought he was in the creative process and I was inspired, felt a pang to begin writing for fun like I used to love. I even started a story and pledged to myself that I'd write short stories this summer, just because I want to.

After listening to conversations and context clues and employing my ability to eavesdrop on public conversations, I discovered black shirt camo man was in fact not writing a novel. He was instead playing games. Computerized chess, all.day.long. every.day. To take the matter further, when I told my parents this, my Dad informed me he knows exactly who I'm talking about and has seen him at B&N doing the same thing for the past.8.years. throughout his travels through Flag and in his stops and needs for coffee before heading down the mountain.

gaming? all day everyday? I was so disappointed. still am, actually. I wasted valuable time and energy and listening resources, so curious about these characters who come and do the same routine, day after day. While I've become a part of the crowd, with my LSAT books and diet pepsi, I know its temporary. Come June 8 I'll be done. I'll be working, I'll be in summer phase 2. Looks are deceiving. Apparently you can't judge a book, or a camo jacket, but its cover. And if you do, you better beware. You may just end up rather not knowing.

We ate Sunday lunch in Winslow Arizona last week. It was delightful. Standin on a corner in Winslow Arizona. such a fine sight to see.

Fun fact: the original song was set in Flagstaff. Standin on a corner in Flagstaff Arizona. such a fine sight to see. Its a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford, slowin' down to take a look at me.

There is a plaque. and a flatbed ford on the street of ol' sleepy Winslow AZ. this makes me immensely happy.

what I've learned from LSATing:
-arguments can always be weakened, regardless of how strong you may think it is
-bubble sheets are evil
-in logic games, G H F R Y T U I S all have a place, just not necessarily where you might think they'd go
-writing sample, schmiting sample.

and so it continues. less than 2 weeks. bring it. bring it.

the computer battery is about to die.

summer indulgence: venti diet pepsis and watching the Bachelorette on abc.com with Mom.

fall asleep to the crickets. wake up with the sun. make friends with the moths.

Channeling Charrie

I realize only Reagan will understand the title to this post. And thats ok. Everyone needs cryptic phrases every once in a while.

ahh finals. a time when the world seems so lonely yet so full of commradery. You don't see the same people on an everyday basis, but you know somewhere, they are suffering through studying just like you are. Or, if they're procrastinating, the same guilty thoughts run through their minds as well.

You know what else is cryptic? the language people put in emails. Just when you think you've known someone long enough to determine their official email tone of voice, they revolt against the norm and send surprisingly friendly notes that throw you off your game.

sad I'm missing Mother's Day by 2 days.

am starting to freak out about the LSAT. June 8, baby.

[shoutout to Reagan and Laura and our appreciation for jake fiscom, rumpled journalist and coffee shirt-casual musical barrista]

moving on.

I will have a new best friend by the end of the summer. His name is Flagstaff Public Library, (FPL, if you will.) FPL will provide me with trips abroad and formulaic boy-gets-girl storylines. Come August, I will be so adept in them I will probably be fit to write one myself. ha.

I also need to start thinking seriously about my trip to Ukraine. This is an extremely awesome component of my summer and I want it to rock me.

Conquering fears and re-discovering avenues once lost seems to be constant theme for me. Turns out, the Phantom really just wants Christine to love him. If only 10 year old Brooke had just developed an early appreciation for unrequited love, it would've saved many frightening moments with the Phantom, "inside my mind."

I'm more cynical than I once was. Much, much more so. The idea of a beautiful sad love story where the two don't end up together has currently has more appeal than the typical formula. boy meets girl. series of cute encounters follow. a big misunderstanding. time of sad reflection. one makes the big gesture. together forever. blah. blah. But that has its place. Just not at the top of my favorites. No, it seems the scardicat has begun to see the real world. And you know what the biggest surprise is? Its not as bad as she once thought.

This post is cryptic. I know. And thats the point. Bear with me. The next one will be more streamlined, hopefully. Or maybe not.

Finals studying essentials: [apparently lofty and cryptic thoughts about nothing in particular to balance the intense amount of real information in my head]
-printed notes with computer charts
-DIET COKE.
-friends to look up and stare at every once in a while, to be reassured that other people still exist around you
-late night movies as rewards.
-mindless room cleaning.
-stressing.
-DIET COKE.

Yesterday, I had a paper due at 11:55 pm. (who makes a research paper due at 11:55 on Saturday, the first day of dead days? So strange). I researched like mad most of the night before and the morning of. Began to write at 3ish. Called Mom around 6ish to see if thesis and intro was clear. It wasn't. Had a lovely dinner at Laura's that she cooked while I frantically wrote. Mom called again at 11:15 asking if the paper was done. "No, I'm finishing the conclusion and have to do the bibliography. Its only 11:15. Plently of time." to which she responded: "You are your father's daughter..." I finished with 11 minutes to spare. Her words keep running through my head because I like the sound of their meaning. I am my father's daughter. And you know what? thats not a half bad thing to be. Not at all.