"I don't like to think of them as cliches--merely embellishments to my sentences."

Thursday night I went with Sarah to her friends basketball game. The said reason for going was for me to meet a guy named Billy, whom Sarah wants to set me up with, but she had ulterior motives for attending. ;)
The game was a lot of fun. They play in a church cultural hall so we sat on the stage behind a giant chalk board that blocked half of our view. We named a guy whom Sarah didn't know-- she called him Robbie because of someone he looked like, and I called him Caesar because of his horrible bangs. (Say-Czar!) His named turned out to be Mike, or something like that.
We munched on gummy peach rings, directed innapropriate comments toward a guy named Lance (ok, so that was just Sar, hahaha,) and had strictly spelled conversations. ...which I learned I suck at. Thank you and good night. Sarah is the s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g c-h-a-m-p-i-o-n e-x-c-l-a-m-a-t-i-o-n p-o-i-n-t

After the game I had an anxiety attack (typi-freakin'-cal!) and mostly stared at the ground or at Sarah while being introduced to the guys. After Sarah talked to the real reason for attending (hehe) we left for home. We became Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand as we did our own version of Tell Him, then improved Daniel Bedingford's If I'm Not The One with hand motions.

Friday night I went with a girl from my ward, her old mission companion, her friend, and a girl from my stake (random mix) to Friday Night Live, a BYU campus party. After being bored out of my head in the ballroom dance and country dance rooms I headed up to the entertainment and games area. At one point I got in a fight with the cotton candy machine which ended with me having pink sugar tipped eyelashes, as well as other things.

I'm sure I absolutely annoyed all the girls with my randomness while driving. (What? Like they have never been encouraged to sing along to the Grease MegaMix before?!) And none of them could understand my paranoia with my WAY-TOO-CURLY hair, and how needing to hear "No, it looks good" over and over is a rational request. (Of course not! Bunch of returned-sister-missionary, young-womanhood-medallion-sporting, Harry-Connick-Jr-fans who are probably more worried if their undershirt is up high enough on their neck than if their all-too-curly hair is staging an attack on any passersby!!!)

A few guys from the Polynesian Club did the Slappy Dance (fa'ataupati...stomp around, slapping their chest, sticking out their tongues...you know what I mean.) And everyone knows that I love Samoan Slappy Dancers more than I do most other people; so my night was good. :D

(Ok, so thats Maori and not Samoans...) How about the funny Samoan guy from the PCC?




I've got to get back to Hawaii! Hehehe