Oh Hurrah hurrah! Blythe signed my guestbook. What fun. I feel the need to annotate. But before I do, please note that when Blythe writes HEELLOOO she is saying that word in her head like Robin Williams says it in that movie where he's dressed like a busty old woman. One of her many quirks, yes. God love her. Also I should apologize now to Blythe in a public forum for conniving and manipulating her into writing in my guestbook. I'm a ho. What can I say?

Onward with the annotation.

Item 1. The anarchy bunk beds. The 47th apartment. All respectable inhabitants (read: Sue and Jess) have moved out. The evil and diabolical Miss Mary F. (a known panty snatcher--I tell no lies--that girl is wiggity wack. And already taking up too much space here. Forget I mentioned her.) moves in. It's a boiling DC summer. We drag the mattresses from our filthified bedroom into the living room, which houses the only air-conditioning, and basically wall off the rest of the apartment. We revel in filth. I'm pretty sure none of us holds a job. I'm pretty sure we drink and smoke pot (except for Mary who is a good Catholic girl) a lot. We take very few showers. We leave the kitchen to the roaches. It's all such a haze now.

Item 2. The hierarchy of cool. Yeah. I can't believe I left this one off my list. Good times, Blythe, good times. We were SUCH LOSERS that we actually charted how uncool and loserly we were. Mein gott. I love us. We are rejects from every John Hughes movie you never saw. Although I have to disagree with one point you make, dearie--I believe we were 3rd tier cool, not 4th. Give us some credit. And yes, my dating Dan M.--so very cool and beautiful he was--did indeed raise our status. So much so that you got to rub Dave H.'s head. Aw, sister. You smoke.

Item 3. The jackalope. Sfitz tormented us throughout our cross-country trip with tales of the jackalope. I want a copy of his travelogue, Blythe. That boy never fails to send me into gales of giggles.

Item 4. Wonder Woman steam tennis courts stuff. Secrets known only to me, Blythe and Sue. Never to be revealed.

Item 5. "Cladoodle!" "Club Cranium!" Sftiz again. When Blythe or I feel down we just think of how he says these words and it's like a toy store for our kiddie minds. Giggle. You must remember to bring this game on our camping trip, lady. Or we can bring the board you made for me. I still have it, you know.

Thanks for that Blythe. You made my evening, sister.

I can't help but notice, however, that this entry verifies something that I've long feared about myself: I'm the world's dork. But not in that cool way that all the kids say they're dorks. I'm really a dork. If you're reading this, you no doubt have no need for me to expound upon my elemental dorkiness. But in the interest of full disclosure, I do wish to add that I just finished watching The American Idol, the show I'm currently loving the most, and sometimes I got so excited that I had to bounce up and down on my couch all by myself. It's terrible to be embarrassed for yourself by yourself.

Back to the subject at hand. Here's my question: why don't all my favorite friends live together in the same town? Ideally Blythe and Britania and J-bird and Sfitz and Bauer would all move here. What lovely times we'd have then, children.