Hobgoblins and yellow roses

I have fallen from my plastic throne.

I have prostitued my pride.

I have. . . this is getting excessive.

Last Monday my roommates and I were eating a fine gourmet feast at the Brick Oven in honor of one roommate's birthday. Somehow we started talking about our most embarrassing moments--don't ask me why when girls get together we feel the need to re-live our pre-teen sleepovers, but we do. But I didn't really have a "most embarrassing moment" and the conversation moved on to guys we like and what color of toenail polish is the sexiest.

I would now like to amend that conversation--as of tonight I have a most embarrassing moment.

I am still working on the paper of death. In a moment of frustration, I'm afraid I threw a first-rate tantrum, complete with stomping and squealing and all manner of two-year-old behavior. At one point I stood on the couch in front of the very large window and screamed and slammed my fists into the glass. And then the glass broke and I fell through the window.

Kidding. What really happened was that I noticed how fabulous my butt looked in my jeans and I called my roommate's attention to it with a few dance moves. And then I jumped off the couch into the LoveSac and the tantrum was over.

A minute later there was a knock at the door and Cute Boy walked in. Cute Boy is a guy in my ward who I happen to be mildly interested in and who my apartment is pretty tight with. So I come out to talk to him and open with the line, "You should have been here a minute ago. You missed the greatest tantrum."

"Actually," he casually replied, "I caught most of it from the street."

Oh well. Happy finals everyone.