So I'm at home now, and Spring Break has officially started. Thus far I have been here for four hours and have spent 50% of that time talking with Writer Guy on AIM and the other 50% dancing. For some reason, I come home, and I find myself dancing in the kitchen to the song mentioned in my previous post with my goofy older sister doing the same as she cooks dinner, which is about 500 times better than college fare. Then I find myself chilling in my brother's room as Shrewd prints out something ridiculously long because she's too nice to her friends and I'm dancing again.
Dancing is my natural reaction to being happy. I can't actually dance, mind you, besides like the rumba and foxtrot, but I just naturally move around and I move around more when I'm happy, and I move in patterns and it's sort of a vague facsimile of dancing. You can tell I'm happy if I walk like I'm about to break out into an impromptu musical number and if I can't stop smiling, which is another reaction I have. I don't have a nervous laugh or a nervous smile; when I laugh and smile it is because I'm in a fabulous mood.
I hate that I can't really dance at school, because I can only actually dance when I know full well that everyone around me dances just as badly and randomly as I do. Or when I'm all alone.
In other news, that cold that I was over last night? As in, I was totally and completely over it, but just feeling ill for other reasons?
I'm pretty sure at some point I felt my lung break apart in my chest and rise up through my trachea. I sound like Vader's lovechild. I feel perfectly fine, though, until I start to cough.
This means, too, that I totally was acting as a biological weapon yesterday when I was wandering around and breathing near people. Great.
Meh. At least it's not pneu-- oh, wait, best not finish that sentence, or it will be, and then I will blame Mistake, and then I will have to cause her great pain and suffering for the pain and suffering she would have inflicted on me in her small act of bioterrorism.
Anyway... I have to clean the whole house by next Wednesday, because that is when Writer Guy is coming over. To my house. Where my parents live. And yet, must find a way to do this without actually having him meet them... Mummy has promised she will continue her rampant workaholicism, and not wander downstairs, but the issue arises as to what happens if Daddy comes home early. I really, really don't want to make Writer Guy get grilled by my folks. The ride home with the bajillion questions ("What's his major? What's he going to do with that? Where's he from? Who's his favorite Trek villain..." okay it was my mom so the questions were a little weird) was bad enough. He said he didn't care but meeting the parents at only the third date is so very high school, and honestly, when you're dating a guy three years older than you you try to deemphasize the age difference...
I'm going to cook for him. His response to this idea, while not being bad in and of itself, was... unexpected. Though at least "Oh, that's hot" is better than "Erm... will I survive this encounter?" which would have surprised me less but irritated me more...
|I Communicate With My Ears|
I love conversations, both as a listener and a talker.
What people say is important to me, and I'm often most affected by words, not actions.
I love to hear compliments from others. Music is very important to me. It's difficult to find me without my iPod or laptop playing music aloud...