I'm Procrastinating Again.

It's not like I'm out of ideas or that my novel is at a point where I'm stuck. . .I actually just stopped typing mid-dialogue. I hope my characters don't sense my disinterest for the moment. I'm just tired of thinking so much about them, so I want to think of myself. Me. Moi.

I participated in a self defense class this morning and my hand hurts. We were locating "control points" and I may have pressed too hard on the one in my hand. You know, that meaty part between the pointer finger and the thumb. My hand hurts. Ma main me fait mal.

I parted my hair on the unusual side yesterday and today. I don't particularly like it. Nobody noticed. But I wouldn't expect them to. Personne n'a remarqué.

I found a bunch of heart-shaped leaves after my morning run and thought I should collect some and sprinkle them upon someone I love. So I did. I put them on his car with a note that said "I (heart leaf) Devin" on it under the windshield wiper. It made me happy. Ça m'a rendu heureuse.

I find it interesting that like and love get mixed up in meaning. I love my guy friends but I can't love one guy friend in particular until I've liked him long enough to know him enough to love him. For example, I can say "I love Kevin," because he's just a friend. But I can't say, "I love Ken," because I like him...more than a friend. I can only say stuff like "Ken is a great guy," because if I said "I love Ken," then I'd feel weird, because I like him. Does it make sense? Est-ce que ça a de sense?

I will not watch the Twilight movie. Je ne regarderai pas le film Twilight.

I don't have a boyfriend anymore. We broke up October 1st. It sucked at first and sometimes I got reeeeally bored and lonely. And now I'm fine, but I still get really bored. I become slightly curious when weekend after empty weekend comes and goes. I'm afraid I put off a "don't touch me" sort of vibe somehow. Well, I'm not an extremely touchy person myself (until I am dating someone) so maybe that is interpreted as me being someone that doesn't want to be touched. But really I'm just a devoted kind of gal, so I don't go prostituting back scratches etc. for just anyone. Maybe-- no, no maybe. I suck at flirting, that's for sure. c'est sûr.
And I'm tall. I'm pretty convinced some guys are stunned by that. Every time they're near enough to size themselves up, their minds blank and they just sort of walk away. Not my fault how tall I am. Besides, I love it. I guess it just weeds out the insecure. So if I were to answer the question that's actually been posed many times recently, "Why aren't you out on some hot date?" I really don't know. Je ne sais vraiment pas.

My nose has the hiccups. It twitches as though it itches to make me join a brood of witches. And it seems fitting since I'm transmitting a story about witches for my novel. And see, it comes again to the novel that I'm neglecting. I'm bored. Je m'ennuie.

(This post contains 555 words, not including this line, that will not go into my novel.)

There are times, now and again, when a really nasty batch of Macaroni and Cheese comes along. We've all experienced it.

I was at my parents' house (soon it will probably be called just "Mom's house"...),killing time before 11:00 when I'd give Gabi (a girl in my ward) a ride to the bus. I printed off my homework, played the piano, made some popcorn. As I was popping the corn, I had the urge to make some cheese popcorn, because all I've been making is sweet.

I looked high and low for the cheese powder I swear we had once bought. What I did find was a box of mac&cheese that, since I hadn't had any in a really long time, interested me. It was in the pantry. This cupboard, though right in the kitchen, is a completely neglected host of perishing items.

First ignored clue: the box of mac&cheese was in the dark back of the pantry shelf, behind opened cake mix boxes and last (or even earlier) Christmas cookie kits (the kind well-intentioned creative people give in cutesy fabric bags with poems attached). Second ignored clue: the top of the box had a layer of dust that neither blew nor wiped away.

Finally, 11:00 came and I drove Gabi to her bus stop, the aforementioned box tossed in the back seat. I got home and showered and stuff before I decided I wanted to make the mac&cheese today for lunch. I let the noodles cook too long since I was doing my hair. I hate when the noodles are mushy. I dumped them in a strainer and searched for butter and milk. First ignored divine intervention alert: there was no butter. Second: no milk.

First smart idea: I said to myself, during my fruitless search, "Oh, I should just eat my Papa John's left overs."

First and second unsmart ideas: I put a tablespoon of oil in the pot. Then I used a milk box (like a juice box, but filled with milk. . .well, vanilla-flavored rice milk), to act as the needed milk. Come on, my other choices were apple juice or water. Yuck.

I put my nose near to the rip in the little foil cheese bag, but sensed nothing with my half-sniff. I dumped it on the sweaty noodles and stirred. Then it came. First undesirable sense: the smell of rancid powdered milk. Second: the threatening gag reflex.

It's just sitting in that pot until it's cold enough to throw in the trash. I thank God for Papa John's. I literally do.