Puking is sort of like writing.

Am I the only person who lives life as if it all belongs in writing? Not that it deserves to be, but pretty much every minute of every day I'm considering how this moment can be transferred to words. (Please no discussion on the inability of the signifier to represent the signified or on how a true autobiography would simply say "I am writing" over and over and over.) This blog serves to allow some of the more banal out in writing and my poetry allows the more. . . whatever. . . out.

All this serves as preface to the past few days. I have been sick with the flu, which is an experience that really can be related in one less than elegant word. But added to that was feeling like every spot on my body was bruised and a sleepless stupor that was accompanied by minute bits of Rent lyrics. (Tolkien Boy warned me to stop, and I took his advice, but listening to Rent for a week straight had already warped my brain. I'm attempting to correct the damage with my new favorite CD: DJ Whitey's Intro to Hip-Hop and Neo-Soul. And no, you're not going to find it on Amazon.) The creepy thing about this experience is that even in my feverish state I was considering how to write about it, complete with interwoven Rent lyrics. (Note: It wasn't any of the good bits.)

But let's back up some more to Sunday night, which I was meaning to write about, well, Sunday night, when I got distracted by what I thought was just a headache and a cold.

We've been hosting Sunday dinners (and by "we" I mean my roommate and I) the past two weeks. These dinners are really just thinly-veiled attempts organized by my RS president friend to meet people (and by people I mean guys). Of course, this has all been helpfully disguised by the girls who have joined us in this endeavor who make it a point to not talk to anyone but other girls. It's a scary situation when I'm the flirtiest girl in the group. After the first week, which honestly just annoyed me, I decided to take matters into my own hands and drag Tolkien Boy into the mix. That boy makes any party a roaring success. At the very least he provides me with someone to make snide comments to--and as we all know, TB is never a "very least" type of person.

There was a point to this story, but in the past few days I've forgotten what it was. It probably boiled down to complaining about my roommate who refuses to flirt (despite subliminal brownie messages) and recruiting every tall male in the Provo area. RSpres even found one to invite to dinner, but he's--get this--too tall. I didn't know there was such a thing.