Second Rockingest Thing I've Heard All Weekend

Lifted from the Roxinator:

"I am feeling (and I know I'm not alone here) like I am the hottest girl in the world for the past few days. [...] I have perfect eyebrows, my feet have a lot of character, I have guitar callouses, and quite frankly I am in a hair renaissance. That's Helen of Troy. I am much prettier than that sack of crap."

Had a great brunch with some law school peeps at the brunch Jeff and I stole from the hands of Travis, BC's token Republican, and his retinue of prep schoolers and pretty boys. (The previous sentence was brought to you by Me, Being Inflammatory.) We ate eggs and bacon with our favorite property professor (there can be only one) and the dean of students and talked about bacon in all its glory. J-Makes was on the bacon bandwagon with me: could there be a more perfect food? Survey says no.

It's 12:20 a.m., and I've been at school for the last twelve hours. I think my hips are asleep; it's time to go home and dream up a hair renaissance that involves cutting my hair but in a fashion that contributes to its growing longer and more glorious. I'm gonna go ahead and preempt Mark's comment right now: I cut my own hair because it's a healthier form of self-medicating than drugs and/or nihilism.

Yes, this is the kind of nonsensical malarkey you can expect from me for the next three weeks. 'Tis exam time, my friends, and as I'm pretty sure I told everyone's favorite property professor this morning over bacon, it's all I can do to remember my own name when I'm on this steady stream of uppers in the morning and downers at night.

DISCLAIMER: Future Employers of America, all I'm saying is that you can only balance out coffee with Tylenol PM for so long before it begins to addle your brains a bit.

Pretty Much the Rockingest Thing I've Heard All Day

Courtesy of Bill: "Drinking alone is worse than drinking with people, definitely, definitely. But drinking alone is better than not drinking at all."

By the way, hello to my new readers: law students all (and procrastinators at that), let's give it up for BFF Parcan, E.B. White, and.....that's all I've got. If you want your name in lights, you gotta reckinize.*

Also, Colonel Sheridan. He's old news, but apparently someone is only as interested in my life as I am in theirs.

*It's pathetic the way I enjoy speaking Urban English.
** And it's pathetic the way that I procrastinate, and the way that I send scary emails to friends, and the way that I only post nice fake horoscope-y things because they make me sound awesome, and you get the point. Night!

PHurls: "What'd you break?" JC: "Hearts!"

In your opinion, the candidate possesses the following skills:

a. Carpentry
b. Plumbing (as in, The depths. Of your soul.)
c. Electrical
d. Puppets
e. Clowning
f. Voice (see below)

Hurry, Internet; this is important!

Swan Song, Round Deux

...and we're back.

So my problem with this compilation is that most Christian music isn't really that good. J-Knapps aside, there's not much that's up to par unless one really digs songs that might be about the cat, might be about some unrequited fundamentalist love, might be about J.C. the First. Case in point: Delirious?'s "I Could Sing of Your Love Forever":

I could sing of your love forever (cat)
I could sing of your love forever (unrequited fundamentalist love)
I could sing of Your love forever (J.C. Numero Uno)

I blame Amy Grant for this confusion -- wasn't she the first crossover Christian artist? Or was it Michael W. Smith's popular "Friends," currently holding steady between Vitamin C's "Graduation Day" and Natalie Merchant's "These Are the Days" on the VH1: Cheesy Graduation Songs Special, that began this grammatical atrocity? Also, does Delirious? really need a question mark after their name? What does that mean? And should I start signing my emails as Query? Nine? BC Law '07?

Anyway, despite the fact that Delirious?'s lead singer abuses grammar, has a Spanish accent that's just awful, and clearly wants to be Bono, my new funeral list is in, and one of their songs is on it (So is "Beast of Burden," but I highly doubt that one will make it past the censors.):

Do you feel the darkness tremble
when all the saints join in one song
and all the streams flow as one river
to wash away our brokenness --

Open up the doors and let the music play
let the streets resound with singing
songs that bring your hope and
songs that bring your joy
dancers who dance upon injustice.

Granted, this isn' t writing to die for. (And in a post about grammar, I have to mention that the past sentence should really be, "Granted, this isn't writing for which to die." But whatever. The stick's not made it up THAT far just yet.) I'm also wondering what dancing upon injustice really looks like. I hope it involves some rump-shakin' and hootenannyifyin' and generally putting injustice back in its plizzace, because girl, I do so love a good shimmyshashashake.

I still love this song. I'm not much of a charismatic, hands-in-the-air, wave-and-sway sort of girl, but for some reason the cadences in the second to last line of the verses and beginning of the chorus just make me feel incredibly warm and humble and grateful and ready to be anywhere, do anything, love anybody. In short, I get a silly grin on my face and feel -- quiet inside.

It's hard to understand faith--your own, let alone another person's. It might even be impossible to do so. As soon as you think you've got a grip on it, you realize how little you know, how what you say you believe fails to comport with the way you live your life, how at times it seems feckless and unoriginal and limited to believe in anything, ad infinitum. Believe me: I know. Faith's an unwieldy beast, nebulous and intractable at times, capable of being held in a myriad gods and goddesses, in Science, in Reason, in the non-existence of a life beyond this one, in Chance, in Change. But we all hold it in some form. In some thing. [Pause so Sheridan can take a bathroom break.]

I had a hard time biting my tongue a few days ago when a fellow student started to wax eloquent about Calvinism, not-so-gently mocked the Catholic church's "condition" at the time of the Reformation, and then proceeded to go on and on and on and on about predestination and the elect and blah blah blah exclude exclude exclude. I may know my I Corinthians 4 powers (Travis!), but in matters of theology, I know my limits -- I will not venture into those dark waters myself tonight. But it made me angry all the same. [FYI: It wasn't that he was talking about predestination. It was that there seemed to be a hint of pride in his voice as he talked about "God's infallibility in choosing the elect" -- as if God got us all on an assembly line and went "this one, yes...oh, she's lovely...NO, not that one...nope. Nope. Nope. Yes! No."]

That's not MY God, I wanted to say. I don't know why I didn't. I don't have faith in Quality Control on some cosmic assembly line. I have faith in a being whose love knows no bounds, who is beyond all that we can say or understand, who takes delight in interacting with humanity and working through women and men because we are limited, not in spite of it. I have faith in this being's transforming love and mystery, in the freedom I've gained from loving back and (slowly) learning to love out, in the slow but deliberate removal of guilt for what's behind and eradication of fear for what lies ahead. And I know many of you reading this are good to let me speak so freely of these things to you. This outburst must seem a little...strange. It just hurts to see my God, my faith, my identity tied up with something so wholly repressive when all I've experienced of it over the past year is, well, the opposite of all that. I imagine it's something similar to what some of my Catholic friends may feel when Ratzinger lays down his papal law in the near future: at the same time that you want to distance yourself from something, you feel fiercely protective of what you perceive to be its true beauty, its saving grace.

This brings me back to my funeral, the particulars of which are constantly under revision (evites forthcoming). I'm half-joking about the BeeGees (okay, I'm totally not joking about the BeeGees). But I do hope that people pay attention just a little bit, and I do hope that my caustic tongue and questionable antics don't amount to utter hypocrisy, and I do hope that y'all get your dance on, or your thanks on, or your smile on, or your yarmulke on, or your clothes on, or whatever when they get to the end of the first verse, because all of the welcome I've felt and the openness I've experienced in what I understand to be the very nature of God comes to a head at this crescendo:

Fling wide, you heavenly gates;
prepare the way of the risen Lord.

And if anyone so much as breathes predestination, turn right 'round, baby, and KNOCK that bastard* out.

*Sorry, J.C.

Swan Song (WARNING: Avert your gaze, all ye whose boobs are named Mork & Mindy, for herein lies some Christian folk music.)

It's Sunday in 50 minutes, and I'm busy making Mo a mix CD per her request after her recent accidental brush with Jennifer Knapp. I was soundly berated for not providing a warning of impending JESUS!-ness and then asked to provide a compilation in the same breath. With Maura, blatant contradictions in terms "typically happen often, Justice Scalia (heretofore known as Evil Genius, and/or El Bastardo)."

And that last sentence is a private joke, so no -- it shouldn't make sense to you unless your name is Maura and your boobs are named Mork and Mindy (heretofore known as M&M).

Anyway, all this holy music makes me realize that it's time to update my list of funeral songs and email it to my sister to make sure my funeral stays current and hip and isn't given over to Mrs. Townsley, who'd probably play "To God Be the Glory" in honor of the one jillion times I had to play that hymn from 1994 to 2002. Don't get me wrong; being a church pianist rocks, but That. Hymn. BITES. The final moments of my funeral have been set in stone since 1998, when I had a three-day fever and lost ten pounds in (basically) 20 minutes and was this close to being taken to the hospital (and dying): as my brother and five of my platonic crushes carry out my mangled body, the BeeGees' "Stayin' Alive" will pipe in over the airwaves, and life-sized cardboard cut-out of me will pop up from the top of the coffin. I don't care what you say, I've been imagining this scene for 7 years now and I still think it's funny. SO THE KID STAYS IN THE PICTURE.

I'm gonna end this post now and post in a series because five people told me this week that my posts are too long and they can't make it through them. To be continued...in ten seconds.

kissed me like I was a soldier/ heading for war

Annie, much to her chagrin, returned my Indigo Girls Rites of Passage cd to me tonight. This is bad for her because if there is one thing that I love doing more than con law (and believe me, there's only one thing) it's singing the Girls' "Three Hits," "Let It Be Me," "Galileo," "Romeo and Juliet," "Virginia Woolf," and "Love Will Come to You"-- in that order -- at the top of my lungs while sitting two feet from my con law book and pretending it's a campfire. (Crucial to this exercise: I play piano, not guitar, so this little mental exercise always involves envisioning the reemergence of Andy Starr as my guitarist/backup vocalist, and/or my cousin Scott. What's going on, Scott?) I sing "Three Hits" first because it's a good settle-down song and I feel like the message isn't important enough that the audience will really miss anything if they're still pulling up their lawnchairs by the time I break into "Let It Be Me." This is important, because "LIBM" really highlights a sense of civic pride and duty with which I identify. Also, it's a toe-tapper and warms my vocal chords enough to let me get the high notes in "Galileo" without sounding like a toad. [Ed. note: If you're asking yourself whether or not I'm singing along and aloud as I type this, the answer is yes. Yes, I am.]

Some bongo drums miraculously appear (Guster? Is that you? Wow, how amazing that you happen to be camping right next to us), and "Galileo" gets under way. "Galileo" is just a rockout folk song, at least for those of us who believe that such a thing exists. (Second shout-out of the evening: hola, Rebecca C. and Remmington Steele.) The faces around the campfire have probably come into focus at this point, and depending on what era of my life I'm feeling particularly fond of at the moment, Jonnie Gou or Joe Arthur or Katrina or Kathleen or Dave N. and his wife or Anthony or Aimes and Jana or Karly or Dan P. or my brother or Mike or the Pauls or any number of people I've met/have yet to meet are encouraging me to no, sing another one...really! Obviously this is a stretch of the imagination, as years of choral singing left me with a bad vibrato that I just can't shake and that no one wants to hear. But, whatever. It's my daydream.

So now the instruments are fading, and I survey the scene. It's time to take the whole thing down a notch: the sun's been down for awhile now, and for some reason I feel like Dave N's dad is just on the other side of my old Toyota pickup trying to retie my bumper or dancing the polka, which was what he always seemed to be doing when we'd go camping. Andy starts in with "Romeo and Juliet," which as you probably know is original to Dire Straits. Everyone sings along. It's kind of cool, except Sheridan's totally off-key and Tara and Emily arerocking out a little too hard after their sixth trip to the cooler for another brew. I notice that my "campfire" says something about differentiating between treaties and executive agreements and launch into "Virginia Woolf," at which time Hillary leaves because, frankly, she's had enough of my caterwauling. Whatever, there's no accounting for taste. And then (okay, right now) Andy lets it all hang out, and we just let it go for awhile and sing our little hearts out (Annie's knocking on the door right now and asking me if this is what banshees sound like) as I take a stab at the melody and Andy picks up the harmony on "Love Will Come to You":

And I wish her insight to battle love's blindness
Strength from the milk of human kindness
A safe place for all the pieces that scatter
You learn to pretend there's more than love that matters

Yeah, you're tearing up right now. So the whole scene gets quiet for a bit and my eyes refocus -- dang it all if this campfire doesn't look an awful lot like Chemerinsky's Constitutional Law -- and unfortunately for everyone within a five-mile radius, I know how to push repeat AND I have another beer in the fridge. You know what happens next. That's right, Bubba: the encore. We've got some options: we can do a little a cappella and take it away with "Closer to Fine," which will leave everyone happy....OR we can finish with "Ghost," which Andy fortunately knows how to play. It's funny how I've yet to be camping in my head like this with a guitar player who doesn't know every single song in my singing repertoire. That's amazing, considering that I have a large out-loud repertoire due to a complete lack of shame. Anyway, I'm a melancholy lady, so "Ghost" wins hands down; and before you know it, there's a letter on the desktop/ that I dug out of the drawer and a stray dog howling along with me outside my window and an angry neighbor banging on her floor and an Annie and Roy weeping with laughter when I walk out my room for a refill.

Life is often good. Sometimes, I write poetry.

Children’s Books

I stand small because
I am small, a young girl set adrift amidst an inky sea.
Today I am a tourist on the Dewey line: a traveler
through muck and mire, Grop and Puck and Judy Blum,
I am five again and unafraid to plumb
The recessed corners of this quiet, literary tomb.
I love to be where no one else will go – not the old folks
Who slouch and tear and stumble in from convalescent homes,
Not older girls and brazened boys making out
In Mystery – no, no, I am five again. None of this for me.
But I can’t fly now, and my heart can break.
What other things unseen have changed?
Down the steps and around the corner lies the Children’s Way.
It smells of dust now; on the red bench
I don’t remember, there’s a water stain
To mark the passage of these 20 years.
I take my hands out of my pockets and walk quickly. Two fingers
Seek each spine and date marking circulation,
each book with its own smell and its own fate.
Each stands for one life lived among the many, the how’s and where’s
Of all this mess never getting to the Why (or maybe finding ways to tell)
Of giant peaches and talking silkworms, lost dads and mums and time machines
With silent halls of great queens turned deliberately to stone.
Narnia, the Dwarrowdwelf, and Katmandu,
Western prairies, Lonely Houses, and (ach, my favorite!) Invisibility!, you too--
It’s always longer than I’ve meant to’ve gone away.
The sun is fading. It’s so quiet that I close my eyes.
The authors of a million chapters crowd about me
In the ceiling, near the grates below—a cloud,
a ghostly witness, a testament to Language, now their final home.
I imagine they are waving wildly to some small girl, still wandering.
We’ve not forgotten what it is you want to know:
It is still wonderful somewhere. We will tell you,
When we find out, how to get there and with whom to go.

These are my oldest friends; the Things They Carried
were beyond them, so they wrote them down.
From these stone walls, a quiet Bless the child sounds.
Bless the child; she will grow old and die. I make a silent promise
To take notice: it was some brokenness that made them gentle.
They bled, in ink, a kind but quiet love, and so will I.

Thou Shalt Be Less Gross, Saith the LORD, for Cleanliness Is Next to Godliness. (Except for you, Jessica.)

Many moons ago, when our love was new and my law school days young and her Harvard grad school days only just begun and our apartment much cleaner than it is now, Annie and I discussed our aspirations for the coming school year.

"I," quoth Annie, "am going to pull another Rushmore-esque turn. Seriously. I'm running for everything while I'm here. I'm taking Cambridge by storm."

"Mrmph," said I. My mouth was full of bacon and peanut buttery goodness. (Oh, shush. Elvis loved a peanut-butter-and-bacon sandwich just as much as he loved overdosing on drugs, and you know it.)

"And then? I really want to check out this negotiations class that the Law School offers in the spring. Oh, but that might not leave me enough time for that extra stats class I want to take...now why did you say you're going to law school? Any big goals?"

"Mrmph," said I, and cleared my throat. "Yes. Actually." I took a deep breath. "I'd like to be less gross -- not that law school teaches you how to do that, but I figure if I'll be traipsing about in skirts and pantyhose and suits aplenty, I might as well learn how to not get toothpaste on my shirt in the morning, or how to stop my right armpit from sweating at the speed of light, or maybe how to brush my hair."

Annie, startled, looked at my hair. "Are you...sure you're ready for that?"

And I thought I was. I really did. I mean, I bought a brush and some detergent and everything! I even thought (briefly) about actually paying someone to cut my hair and decided against it. Why, Seth B. told me in civil procedure that it looked like I took at least five minutes to get up and out of the door in the mornings -- a clear improvement on the three minutes I'd been averaging when I was working twelve hours a day for ERN and four for Saint Joe's and not getting to sleep before two most mornings because my Favorite Overseas Partner in Crime couldn't work up the man-boobs to pick up the phone, and so all of our arguments about, I don't know, feminism and the genus of muskrats and the odds of Penn State EVER beating Boston College in ANYTHING took four times as long since we had to tippity tap away at the keyboard, and gosh, don't you just love it when I insert personal jokes here that no one else could remotely find funny?

WELL. Can you say relapse? I thought I was doing well. Granted, I've tried to style myself as having a very "devil may care" approach to fashion, working off of the model I cut in college when my mother would regularly make these comments: "Are you a lesbian?" and "You look like you walked through a fabric store with a bad case of static cling. Is that a -- are those --is that a pair of jeans on your head?! Jessica, we're going to church!!" (The answers, respectively, were no and yes, yes it is. Man, I wish I had a picture of that.)

Anyway, now that I'm clean (hah! Christian humor), and now that 22 is behind me (horrid, sickly, insipid little year), I've put some things behind me: jazz guitarists, for one. Classical bassists, for another. Smoking and swearing like a sailor went out the window with my habit of secretly loving to peel Elmer's glue off of my skin and look for split ends to, well, split. I'd almost completely kicked my spoonful-of-peanut-butter snack habit, and things were looking good on the pumice-stone-on-your-heels-at-least-once-a-week front. It's also been awhile since someone's spit toothpaste on me (Bryan) or rubbed my head in their post-workout armpit (Patrick) or stuck a wet finger in my ear (Bryan and Patrick) or passed gas in my presence (Derek, Patrick, DAN...Uncle Charlie!!!). In other words, it's been awhile since I've been around dudes for any prolonged length of time, and I can honestly say that I now clean my bathroom and lighting fixtures at least once every week. I also sweep under my bed. And I never pick my nose. That's maturity, right? That's some serious cleanliness right there. I truly thought I and my little cleanliness wagon had arrived.

So you can imagine my chagrin today when, after lusting for an eggplant parmigianno grilled cheese with melted mozzarella and plum tomatoes all through property, I dropped the eggplant, melty mozzarella side down, on the throw rug in our kitchen that hasn't been washed since I last washed it. In October. And friends, I'd like to say that whole years of spiritual growth and firm resolve made me do the right thing -- made me pick up the whole conglomerated mess, throw it in the garbage, and start again -- I'd like to say that. I'd like to have accomplished at least one of my objectives here, the only one that was ever realistically within my grasp. But the cheese was so melty and the eggplant so garlicky and the sandwich....so....tantalizing....

I picked that sucker up, checked for hairs and found none -- and ate it all with a glass of milk.

What'd you do today?

Some Things, Retrospectively

Number one:

Ellen H., thank you so much for a lovely dinner/bad movie night on Friday. We are the anti-prom. And you may not appreciate it, but you live in the same house as the most beautiful piano I have ever had the privilege to play. I only hope I didn't overstep any hidden snooping bounds, and remember -- they'll name a gender after you. [Line from bad movie: "You're the most amazing white woman I've ever met!"]

Number Next:

Maura, Krish, Bekah, Seth, Em, Joe, Sheridan, Sarah, Rebecca and Co., Julia and Co., Kim, Mark, Jonathon -- y'all are my favoritest human pretzel bits. Thanks for playing. [Sheridan: "Our pretzel is stupid."]

Number the Third:

I'm working on writing something of quality, but I can't lie: it was pretty awesome today in property when we hijacked Krish's gavel and donated it to Mary Bilder. It was also pretty frickin' awesome last week when, at the PILF auction, Rogan and I beat out Travis for the Bilder brunch....exceeding our limit by a mere TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS. [Scott Wilson to Travis: "Travis. It's OVER. The Cossacks have won."] This was just hours after I'd declared my poverty post-London, and Joe and Maura felt enough sympathy for me to offer to help stake out corners on which I could offer my services to, I don't know, proofread and edit things. [Oh, come on. What else do I do well? Maura: "You don't juggle."] But best of all was remembering that I'd made some sort of budget at one point and correctly factored in my tax refund to cover this trip. Why I don't write these things down, I'll never know...but I did spend a pretty sweet four hours dreaming up schemes involving bake sales and working at coffeeshops in order to make rent next month, all the while forgetting that the federal government totally had my back. [Kenji: "I'm pretty sure that's not the best way to make a budget, Jessica."] So thanks, federal government. By the way, I love how you trick me into lending you my money interest-free every year and then make me feel like I'M pulling the fast one on YOU when I get a refund. [Federal government: "E-file for free!"]

Next on Bee Claw: Germans.

Egg on Your Face

What you have to understand is that we don't talk about the weather because we've got nothing better to say, or that -- with the possible exception of DTC's meeting certain professors in the men's room -- we're really that uncomfortable with silence that a good discussion of the pollent count seems better than nothing at all. No, we New Englanders talk about the weather because it's got such a significant stranglehold on our lives, and every unpredictable moment heralds something new and unforeseen.

Like Capture the Flag.

It's a beautiful day, and I just woke up knowing I have so much to do, and you know what? Here's what's great about it: I get to do work I'm slowly but surely starting to actually love, come home to a grilled cheese sandwich tonight (latest obsession), head down into Boston tomorrow for church, and meet a ragtag bunch of law students on the Common for Capture the Flag tomorrow afternoon.

CAPTURE THE FLAG DETAILS:
High tomorrow: 62 degrees
Chance of precipitation: 0%
Theme music: The sound of Krishan's body hitting the ground...hard
Game face: So, so, SO on.
Jana sighting: likely
Invited: all y'alls.
Meet: at the Park Street T stop, 1:30ish, Sunday afternoon.
On my side: God.
On yours: does it matter, really? (see above)

May It Please the Court

Apologies to Mr. Gilmartin for writing a memo so insipid it barely warrants a response. Plaintiff's counsel had a difficult time of it this weekend as she found herself continually thinking, "You know, this time last week I was [arriving at Heathrow] [eating a meal so good it was unholy] [watching Captain Picard and Pacey duke it out on the stage] [falling up stairs] [defending my honor with penny candy and some well-placed blows to the chest] [strolling by the Thames in Putney] [etc.]."

Some of that is recaptured here, although not all of it since Plaintiff's counsel has become notoriously camera-shy in the last year, an effect which dulled her trusty Pennsylvanian's ability to take the camera out of his pocket at all, ever. Apparently she has great power over the will of men. Fear her.

Many thanks to BFB for leaving out the butt picture. (Jessica: "Whose butt is that?" Bryan: "I don't know. Did I take that? I think you took that." Jessica: "I took no pictures of butts." Bryan: "Wait a minute. Look at in context. That's not a butt. THAT IS YOUR ARMPIT.")

Seriously, with All Due Respect...

I'm sorry, but this guy's latest post on the Pope (you may have to scroll down -- I think he updates every half hour, but you'll know it when you see it) has me in stitches. An excerpt:

"I was watching Meet the Press this morning, and it was all pope. They were interviewing lots of priests and religious scholars, and a lot of them said things like, 'He was a very holy and spiritual man.'

Yeah, he was the pope. I'm pretty sure 'spiritual' and 'holy' has to be somewhere on your resume. It's right up there with 'self-starter.'

Proficient in Word, PowerPoint, Excel and Pontificating."

And I have to say I'm sorry, Will, because you're totally going to hate me for what I'm about to do, but it just reminded me too much of this totally awesome and somewhat incriminating conversation we had, oh, three months ago, after I admitted I'd been googling something other than Katie Holmes but just as ewil. Stalk much? Yes, please! Anyway, enjoy, and Will -- it was nice while it lasted, and we'll always have LRRW:

seefever: his hobbies should be "whatever I think Jesus liked to do"
querynine: carpentry
querynine: traveling
querynine: definitely camping
seefever: being born in mangers

querynine: the only one i can't see is skiing
querynine: unless it was when hell froze over during the three days the bible doesn't talk much about
seefever: a long weekend
querynine: maybe he was all, "dude. satan. it's over. just give me the keys of hell and death, and let's hit switzerland."
seefever: exactly
seefever: you have to take advantage of time off
seefever: he got a lot of lepers cured and it was MLK day on monday

Then:

querynine: it will be very hard to explain how i know these things
seefever: hahaha
seefever: tell them God told you
seefever: "So [NAME WITHHELD], God tells me you enjoy carpentry"
seefever: [NAME WITHHELD]: "Oh yeah, well then what's my..." You: "Deut. 6:4-9"
seefever: wow, that would be amazing

Ah ha. Ah ha ha ha. Oh, but we are laughing. We are making memories. We are having a good, good time.