Brad Paisely Memories

I was organizing the files on my computer today and I came across this gem. It's a recording of Brad singing "I Thought I Loved You Then" at his concert in September. Don't worry. Lisa and I are in the frontest front row. We comment during this video accordingly. Also, the audio picked up some man singing it horribly who was standing next to us. And Brad looked at him like, dude: shut the freak up. Just watch the whole thing. You won't be sorry.

BYU has joined the dark side.

Or, the grounds crew team who drive this service truck have joined the dark side. BYU = Nerds galore. I kind of love it. Behold:

Yep. I saw this beauty walking from work to class. This is on an official BYU service vehicle. How. Embarrassing.

Dear Classmate,

If you are realllllly hot and sweaty, do not sit by me. Especially if I'm next to the wall. When you take off your coat, hot air wafts toward me like you are a human space heater. You make me feel like I'm trapped in a sweaty oven with your hair. PLUS. You keep poking me with your notebook. Please respect the armrest as an invisible cootie barrier. You are ruining my life.


Love, but actually hate,

Kristin

Oh, the BYU

Here is a list of things I observed on campus today that made me chuckle and shake my head.

A seriel commenter (you know the type) in my religion class felt that he needed to go on a 5 minute rant about the history of fornication. Because, you know, he, being extremely well versed in the ways of the world as a 23 year old BYU student, felt that he needed to augment my many-times published professor's lecture on First Thessalonians. Thank you for that, you fornication-crazed maniac.

Several students in my Infant Development class halted the progression of the slide show on human reproduction because they "....just didn't get how it worked." That would be understandable if this were say, the puberty lecture we all got in the 5th grade. But no. The maddeningly frequent questions were being asked by girls only a little bit younger than me who HAVE BEEN MARRIED FOR YEARS AND HAVE ALREADY BORN CHILDREN. I kid you not. Only at BYU.

Sometimes, I like to sit in the JFSB in front of the international studies office and watch the International news they have playing on three large flat-screen TVs. One channel was in Arabic, one was Japanese, and the third was tuned in to CNN. The Arabic channel was boring and didn't have any news anchors. Just a series of static pictures and crazy text. The Japanese channel was running a story on the oldest couple to ever complete a marathon. It was an 83 year old Japanese man and his 78 year old wife. They were the cutest little old runners ever. They were totally fit, and both sported hot-pink track suits. A sort of team uniform, if you will. And he totally wore a hot pink fanny pack. I think it is amazing that people SOOOO OLD can be so fit. And then there was CNN. Airing footage of Punxutawney Phil wriggling around in some presenter's hand. Apparently, PETA wants to replace the groundhog's day groundhog with a ROBOT because it's inhumane to keep a groundhog in captivity. Way to go, America. Your news is lame.

And of course. The BYU couple that looked like 10 year olds who were loitering in front of the vending machine while I was waiting to purchase a quick Fresca before class. He wouldn't stop kissing her, and she couldn't figure out HOW TO PUT THE MONEY IN THE MACHINE. Move it or lose it, babies. Mama needs some bubbley.

Go Cougs.

She got that cashflow

Today, my coworker discovered that you could search for your name on urbandictionary.com .... This is definition #1 for Kristin:

1. Kristin


One of the coolest people you will ever meet. She is always there when you need her. She likes to kiss her guy friends. She got that cashflow. Drives a silver mustang, and dont take s#!% from no one.

"She be fly",

Nah, she be kristin

...
I LOVE IT. So I decided to look up my entire family on urban dictionary. The definitions were most likely created by 15 year old homies. I edited out the bad words. Its kind of a shady website. But please, enjoy.


1. Jackie


Jackie is the name of an incredibly beautiful girl that is good in school, is athletic, has an amazing body, can get a guy drooling over her in seconds.

Her name is Jackie I bet she is an amazing girl.


1. Tami 


kick-a girl who won't take any #$%* from anyone

Tami is the coolest babe around.


1. Nicole 


Awesome person that is often imitated but never duplicated.

Nicole is so godly that I adore her.


1. Michelle


Hebrew meaning "like God"...michelle's are often Leo's, astonishingly gorgeous, very athletic, dark hair and usually curly/waivy/thick, another thing is that almost all Michelle's have similar noses.

guy#1. "man that girl was hot"

guy#2. "must've been named Michelle"


1. Sharon


Somebody that is amazingly beautiful, funny, kind, and outstanding.

Ohh man. Her name has GOT to be Sharon! She's gorgeous


1. brion


cutest, most incredible, great kisser; all the girls want him

girl: you heard about the new boy?

girl2: OMG that bryan kid?

girl: no dumb-a its brion, he's great!


Bahhhhhh hahahahaha. I love it. But don't go to that website. It's gross sometimes.

KThanksBai

Booth Family Values

I said: "Gluteus Maximus"

He said: "More like beauty-ous Maximus"


This was said by a usually extremely polite boy. I admit I'm a little disappointed I didn't come up with it myself. Great right?

Don't worry Dad, he wasn't coming on to me. And sorry Mom, he wasn't coming on to me. He is just a buddy. I was going to just make this a short little quote of the day, but now all these less endearing references to derrieres keep popping into my head. Especially this one which was widely propagated by a Ms. Salt and Ms. Peppa circa the early 90's:

"I wanna thank yo' motha for a butt like that."

Unfortunately, no one can thank my mother for a butt like that. And well, you can't stop the blog wheels in my head once they start turning. I feel that at this time I need to squash the widespread and automatic assumption that certain assets have maternal origins. The Booth Butt is just that, a genetically Booth trait. A family heirloom, if you will. It is passed down from generation to generation, manifesting itself more prominently in some than in others. I'm sure I could scrape up some candid family photos depicting my point, but I feel that would embarrass far too many people and at least one of them would attempt to assassinate me. Maybe someday I'll dedicate an entire scrapbook to the subject and keep it privately and safely confined away from the viral spread of humiliating information known as the internet. And if I were a more crass individual I would point out the well rounded appearance of several words in this paragraph that contain the letters s, a, and s.... used right next to each other and in a better order. Have fun going back and looking for them. I know you will.

I used to think that I had somehow managed to escape the inheritance of the mark of the Booth. When I was in junior high I was extremely fit and tiny. Sometimes I even mourned the absence of curves in a certain bodily geometric plane. But when this commercial came out, I inwardly rejoiced.



Once I got to high school not a whole lot changed, although I did possess hips and thighs that inspired certain HILARIOUS (no wait, obnoxious) boys to set in motion stories such as this. Still. Not really a Booth Butt.

Then. I went to college. And discovered Nutella. My weight has fluctuated in the last 5 years between 150 and 195 pounds. Right now the needle on the scale rests somewhere in the middle and I don't care to discuss it. The point is this:

Of all the weight I've gained (or lost) over the years, hardly any of it has ever taken up residence in my midsection. I'm about 25 pounds overweight right now. Welcome, Booth Butt. You have found your place with me at last.

Hoppy Birsday Michelley!

To my favorite albino beluga child sibling.

You were an extremely hefty baby.

With superb facial expressions.

Its a good thing you turned out so dang beautiful.

You are 16. Don't kiss boys. They are gross.

P.S. Happy Birthday.

Avert Your Eyes

Apparently, I have laser beams for eyeballs.

I met a new boy today. He seemed pretty cool... EXCEPT... every time we made eye contact he started blinking uncontrollably. I seriously almost laughed in his face like 3 times.

What's a girl to do?

Obviously, he's just unaccustomed to viewing devastating beauties such as myself up close in real life.

Or I am Godzilla. One of the two.

Yoga Yoda Yada Yay

I did yoga with my roommates the other day. I was holding an inverted pose, and spontaneously drooled onto the folded blanket that I was using as a yoga mat. I told no one. But now I guess you know. Yoga is hard. But I liked it.

Word Vomit

Word vomit. It's what is going to make up the substance of this blog.

My life is average.

My GPA is below average.

Sometimes I walk through the frozen foods section of the grocery store, simply because I just haven't met you yet.

I have lived in Utah for 8.4 years and still have not mastered the art of negotiating snowy pathways. If the snow is hard and frozen on the ground I slip on it. If it is deep and fluffy snow, my feet get stuck in it and I trip. If its slushy, I slide around like I'm wearing ice skates. I'm not even talking about ice. Just regular snow. I cannot walk on snow of any type without selling my soul to the gravity gods in hopes of avoiding frictional failure.

Skinny blonde girls are the bane of my existence. Unless they are my friends.

I have a peculiar attraction to men with significant sideburns. Some day I may dedicate a whole blog to it. Where are you, my sideburned prince charming?

I can become a gooey emotional marshmallow at the drop of a hat, despite my devastating ability to B-slap you in the face with witty weaponized words.

I would rather take a multiple choice test that is 150 questions long than write a one-page essay as a final exam.

The tumbling gym in Provo smells like a wet dog wearing puppy shoes made out of onions. BUT. It makes for a great FHE activity.

The more active my dating life is, the less I weigh. Probably because I am an emotional eater. Otherwise, I lose about 5 pounds for every 2 dates I go on.

I keep having nightmares about heavily armed homeless people harassing me. As in, they throw huge axes at me like tomahawks and the such. How they can afford to buy and then throw away their weapons while living on the street is beyond me. I think these dreams reflect the guilt I feel when I don't help the needy, as well as my skepticism toward organizations that claim to help the needy when really they are just out to get your dolla dolla bills.

I don't blush. But when I am embarrassed my ears turn red and get really really hot. Like a Tasmanian Devil.

I have not done any Christmas shopping yet. It is December 16th.

I procrastinate doing my laundry until I have absolutely nothing left to wear. Then I do it all. I am currently wearing swimsuit bottoms under my jeans.

Nothing makes me laugh harder than video chatting with my sisters and morphing our voices until we sound like munchkins.

Ya, my life is average. And I love it.

Sick Nasty.

I got crop dusted today. Twice. Not familiar with the term?

crop dusting. verb. definition: Passing gas in a stealth manor, usually while walking through a crowd or a group, so that someone else gets blamed for the stench, or at the very least people besides the assailent must suffer it.

It is soooo much worse to get crop dusted when it is cold outside, because you can actually feel yourself passing through someone else's cloud. Woof.

I got a New way to Walk... (walk walk)...

Here's the thing about the world wide web. I can be thinking about Sesame Street for no good reason on a snowy Saturday afternoon, type the lyrics to my favorite Sesame Street song into Google, find an ancient clip of it on YouTube, and entertain myself with puppet pigs in sassy outfits for a good 5 minutes. We live in an amazing age.

I have thought about this clip many a time over the last umpteen years. No one else I have ever talked to besides my sisters remembers it, and I haven't seen it since I was really tiny. I am inordinately happy to have finally found it. Of all the hours of Sesame Street I have ever watched, I think this segment has influenced my cognitive development the most, for better or for worse. It is a catchy little song about walking with confidence and attitude, sung by the "Oinker Sisters" who are all decked out in 80's pop-star attire. This clip may have had something to do with my zesty attitude as a wee little lass. It also could have influenced my decision to ask my teacher Ms. Sally to write out that I was going to be a movie star when I grew up on my pre-school diploma. And I am certain that I walked and talked with more confidence than any 5 year old should ever possess. Whether I liked this clip because I was already sassy, or I liked being sassy as a result of this clip, the world may never know. Most likely it was a combination of nature vs. nurture as most development tends to be. Either way, these muppet pigs were my idols. You will not be sorry you watched this:

(5 dollars to whoever can determine what the intended nationality of the 'cowboy' music executive was... Irish? Scottish? Swedish?)

In case you missed it:

*None of these sassy pigs are wearing pig pants. Scandalous.

*Please notice the way they throw back their snouts in awesomeness after every phrase of the chorus.

*There is a fake mole on the lead singer's pig face, despite the fact that she has a very weird baby voice during the speaking part.

*I was always baffled by the way the pigs defied gravity by walking straight up one side of the giant "WALK" sign and then straight down the other side. How DID they do it? Amazing.

And yet, it never occurred to me that they were made of Muppet foam.

Its a Dangerous job....

I am like, the Henry the 8th of phone owners. My cellular devices often meet a cruelly undignified demise long before their normal life expectancy predicts. My retainer has been in service longer than my last 6 cell phones combined, and it has a far nastier job. Lets just take a little looksie at my phones of phonedom past and commiserate over their untimely entrance into that big Verizon store in the sky.

The first phone I ever destroyed was one of the earlier Samsung flip phones. It was silver, and had no outside display screen, camera or any other awesome features to speak of. EXCEPT.. it had a little red indicator light that would flash when I got a text message. I thought I was just so sneaky at school because I could carry on meaningless texting conversations during, YES DURING class. The phone I had just upgraded from was a nokia brick that vibrated like a jackhammer when it was on "silent" and caused electrical anomalies in surrounding devices any time any kind of message or call came to my phone. It was like it had an invisible tractor beam that hooked straight into a satellite. Needless to say, the little red indicator light on my new sleek flip phone was a cutting edge commodity.

One fateful day just outside of Jackson Hole, WY... I was camping with a YSA group next to the snake river. We got back from rafting the river that day and I for some unknown reason decided to put my phone back into my pocket, even though I didn't have service. There was a little creek next to our camp ground that fed into the river, and Holly P and I decided to go frolick in it before dinner time. Everyone else in camp was playing a rousing game of apples to apples at a picnic table near by. I rolled up my jeans as to not get them wet, and began wading around having a jolly good time. Out of no where, I stepped on a mossy rock and fell butt first into the creek. Who would have ever thought there would be a mossy rock at the bottom of a creek. Fat lot of good it did me to roll up my pants. Anyway. A roar of laughter erupted from the picnic table and I stood up slowly, only to find that when I fell I had landed on the swamp thing. Its smushed carcass was spread all over my bum. It looked like I sat in a pile of horse dooty. Holly had come over to help me up and I was laughing so hard that I lost my balance and fell into the creek AGAIN. More Laughter. More swamp nastiness. We made it to the bank and that is when I remembered that my beloved little phone was in my back pocket. It had fallen prey to the carnivorous swamp thing stuck to my behind. There would be no more laughter that day. FAIL.

There were two phones that croaked on their own behalf within the next year. They were faulty. THEY WERE FAULTY OKAY???

My next victim bought the farm after like 2 years of normal aging and a little, shall we say... negligence on my part. Basically, I would just drop it every day. It still totally worked so I was like hmm what the crap. I'll just keep on droppin it. It was a flip phone. One day, I casually dropped it on the ground and, being a flip phone, the top flap just up and fell off. It was still connected to the bottom half with a tiny little optical cable. It looked like Nearly Headless Nick. I very carefully snapped it back together and tada! ... It still worked. Being proud of my accomplishment I thought to myself, "Self, you are cool. I bet you could take it apart again and put it back together and it would STILL work".

Why, why did I tempt fate? I took it apart, but this time accidentally severed its little electrical spinal cord. All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put it together again. Death by beheading.

The next phone I got was the LG chocolate. It was kewl. It played music and it was blue and it had a little slidy-outy number pad. I was pretty nice to this phone. I cherished it. But... not enough to pay for a real screen cover to keep it from being scratched. So I coated it in nail polish. It worked. Whatev. Don't judge. I had this phone for a good year before it entered into the dreaded watery grips of Davy Jones Locker. No, it didn't fall into the ocean. It slipped out of my hand while I was filling up the tub for a bubble bath. I seriously screamed NOOOOOOoooooooo(00000) like I had fallen off a cliff. I swear the little nugget screamed back at me for help from the bottom of the bubbly bathtub. My poor little poopsie. (little mermaid reference, not actual poo) I tried to salvage my cherished blue jewel of a phone for a couple days after the incident. Any time I tried to use the touch screen it had a vibrating seizure. It sounded like a dentist drill. It came time to just let go. I should have ceremoniously dropped it into a large body of water like the old lady did with the Heart of the Ocean. Maybe some day when I'm 80 and creepily barefoot and in a nightie on the deck of a ship in the middle of the Atlantic I'll do that. I'll let you know how it goes.

OMGosh so maybe I just went looking for a picture of that scene but somehow ended up spending a half hour looking at youtube montages of Jack and Rose. Woof.

The point of this whole post, is that I have yet again destroyed another phone in the most igmonius of circumstances. I had until yesterday a beautiful functional LG Venus. That phone and I had been through a lot together. Dozens, and I mean literally dozens of long tearful phone calls were made and received. It is a miracle it wasn't waterlogged just from regular phone usage in the last year. It was the closes thing I could find to my dearly beloved LG Chocolate. Ironically, it too suffered a watery death. You could say it went swimming with the fishies. And when I say "swimming" I mean it fell into a a toilet. And when I say "fishies" ... well. I will let your imagination take care of that one. Suffice it to say it has touched things insomuch that I would never press it to my face again. And yes I fished it out. What was I supposed to do? FLUSH? I was in a public bathroom in the JSB. I fished it out and threw it onto the stall floor and just stared at it. What just happened?? My phone touched WHAT? What was I supposed to do now???? I dried it off and washed my hands VIGOROUSLY. It was the perfectly appropriate end to a crappity crap crap weekend. But, I had places to go and tests to take so I just pretended like what had just happened, had not actually happened.

So there I am, studying for a midterm in the Testing Center when all of a sudden, something in my pocket feels warm. Toooooo warm. I pulled out my pee pee phone and it was hotter than lava. The "water" was shorting out the battery. It was making a sizling noise and the camera lense was all fogged up. Sick sick sick sick sickkkkk. For some reason it took me a while, but my mom finally convinced me it would be best to just throw it away. So I did. And when I say I threw it away, I mean I threw it out. And when I say threw it out, I mean I threw it out of my car window while I was driving. Sue me. I was flustrated. Intentional L.

This Is Halloween.. this is halloween....

So, I was procrastinating cleaning my room and thought to myself, "self... you should look for costume ideas for halloween." So there I was, just browsin away at pictures of costumes and I see THIS:

Oh the horror. Tami. I'm Sorry. That probably ruined your life. Here... replace it in your brain with this image.

That is all. As you were.

Move Over, Swine Flu...

We have a far more dangerous and damaging epidemic on our hands amongst the male students at BYU. It is as vile and viral as they come. And yet, no one seems to be as concerned about it as I am. What is this mystery plague infecting our young men, you ask? Athlete's foot? Giardia? Leprosy? No. Worse:

MUSTACHES.

Dirty, nasty, stringly, fluffy, crumby, mustaches. "Moustaches." Cookie dusters. Soup strainers. Misplaced eyebrows. Stalker 'staches. Face fungus.

Why? WHYYYYYY?

This is my theory: BYU men are not allowed to grow beards. It's against the dress and grooming standards of the honor code. Therefore, they feel that mustaches are an appropriate outlet for expressing their manly capabilities to grow facial hair. They are sorely mistaken.

Mustaches make me want to hurl. And no. They don't look good on anyone. And I am not typically a hater of facial hair.

For example: Take an extremely good looking man. Add the following:

A goatee? Fine.

Sideburns? Excellent.

Manly scruffiness? Superb.

But a mustache?

Woof.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

You have made a beautiful man into an atrocity. Adding a weird patch of lip hair to a handsome face (or ANY face, for that matter) is a recipe for disaster. Lets take a look at the famous evil men in history who have rocked a mustache, shall we?

Hitler.

Sadam Hussein.

Captain Hook.

And basically, every sex offender that ever lived.

Need I go any further? I think not. Please, be responsible. Grow some sideburns. Forget to shave for a couple days. But I beg of you.... do not, under any circumstance, grow a mustache. The consequences are always severe.

Attention Deficit Disorder

I am sending murder vibes to everyone who is yackety yacking in the library right now. I'm in my favorite place to study, but I can't focus because it sounds like feeding time on monkey island. Once upon a time, the middle section of the main floor of the HBLL was a quiet, calm, lovely place to fill my brain with knowledge. NOW... it is covered with these signs:



And filled with chatty Cathys.

HATE HATE DOUBLE HATE. LOOOOOOOOATHE ENTIRELY.

I wish that sign said.... "No BULL SHHHH! Zone"

This is not doing anything to boost my mood, which could use some substantial boosting considering the earlier events of today. Let us start from the very begining.

I was 10 minutes late to my favorite class this morning, and really, really sweaty after walking up the stairs and ramp south of campus. I had to scoot my sweaty self into one of the only open seats in the front row. The girl next to me had total poo breath and I wanted to pass away every time she moved. I really hope it was her breath...

After class I started to make my way from campus up to the Morris center for work, which is about a 10 minute walk. Its usually not too bad, but the skirt I was wearing insisted on scrunching and sliding northward whilst swirling around so that the zipper was all skiwampus and not in the center where it was supposed to be. I literally had to hold it in place all the way to the office. I probably looked like I was trying not to poo my pants. I was relieved to be able to sit down at work and relax.


Until. UNTILLLLLL.....


I felt like I wanted some chocolate milk. I love chocolate milk. It is delectable. We have it in our vending machine in the break room, and I was really excited to drink it. I bought some and as I made my way back to my desk I proceeded to shake it up. I hadn't even opened it yet, and out of nowhere the cap flew off and I sloshed chocolatey goodness all up all over myself as I sat down. It was in my hair. All over my desk. All over my face. All over my neck and down my shirt. All over my arms. All over the outside of my shirt. All over my work phone. All over my backpack. All over the cubicle. In my eyes. I looked like a chocolate swamp thing.

Trying not to draw any attention to myself, I got up and walked briskly to the bathroom, got some paper towels, dried my face off, and hurried back to my desk to clean it off before my computer shorted out from being covered with liquid chocolate.

I sopped up as much of the chocolate puddle on my desk as I could before anyone could see, but hours later I still had tell tale brown splotches all over myself. Like unto this one on my shoulder:

I wish the lighting in this picture were better so that you could see how much dried chocolate milk I had down the right side of my face and hair. (Your Left) It really doesn't do justice to my chocolatey dampness at all. Well, I mean, my clothes stayed wet but my hair definitely dried into a crunchy chocolate shell.

I totally just lost my train of thought. Oh yes. So after my milky mishap I sat in wet milky clothes for the rest of my shift. It was awesome. And when I say awesome, I mean that I smelled like a rotten fudgesicle.

I am in no mood for any late night library shenanigans. If the freshies behind me do not shut their yaps in a about 5 seconds, I am going to LOSE MY FREAKING MIND. Like Andy Bernard.

Also, I just found some more chocolate in my hair.

I know why they call it a fly...

They call it a fly because my pants have an unwavering tendency to FLY open when I walk. So, I had to tape them closed with scotch tape once I got to work. Not all my pants, just one pair of work pants. It sounds a little bit like I'm wearing a diapy when I move. In these days of health following a skinny summer, I have become somewhat more substantial in the area of my bodacious hips. I'm still fly, but my fly likes to fly.

Also, I saw this guy on campus and I had to take a picture of him....


Your eyes do not deceive you. He is wearing under armor, basketball shorts, khaki shorts, dress shoes, dress socks, and a backward winter coat. It was not even cold, and he is not allergic to the sun.

The Little Darling

I can only hope to have a kid so freaking hilarious and sassy. I love this child. How can I raise my kids to have accents?

Swine.

I'm pretty sure I have the swine flu. And I'm not even being sarcastic. I've been kind of sick since last Friday, and really sick since late Sunday night. At first I just thought it was a cold, so I just went about my business being a social butterfly. Also, I become very snuggly when I'm sick. Like a teddy bear with smallpox. I apologize.

Anyway, last night I still felt super nasty... so my roommate and I looked up the swine flu symptoms and what not. They include: fever, cough, sore throat, runny or stuffy nose, body aches, headache, chills and fatigue. Don't worry, because I have only experienced all of them. Yes, it could just be the regular flu, but I haven't been this sick with a cold for a long time. I didn't even get a cold last winter at all, so maybe its double duty this time.

So, we can approach this two ways.

First, I could quarantine myself and be super bored and miserable for the rest of the week.

OR. We could throw me a swine flu party. Anyone and everyone who loves me more than they value their own health is invited. We could have pigs in a blanket, ham sanwiches, bacon and the such. We could also watch Babe. I will do my hair in pigtails. It will be fab. Optional face masks would be provided. Don't pretend like you don't think it will be fun. I'm seriously considering it.

One question still remains in my mind... where did I catch the piggy flu? I'll tell you where. Because it just came to me. Last week, I was grocery shopping at Smith's and the checker in the line next to me was totally sick. He kept sneezing and being nasty. Also, he had a pony tail. Anyway. He sneezed a huge sneeze right next to me. THEN. I went home. When I got home I couldn't find my keys, so I went back to Smith's to ask if they had them in the lost and found. I talked to Mr. Ponytail, because he is old and funny and also nice. They didn't have my keys, so I went home and looked some more. The next day I went back to Smith's to see if they had been turned in. Again I was in the vicintity of Mr. Ponytail. And FINALLY... I went to Smith's AGAIN a couple days later to pick up some snacks for a work party. The Provo Smith's is a freaking petri dish. It all makes sense.

Call me if you want to be infected.

If he succeeded in being acquitted, is it really a FAIL?

There are no words capable of improving this. So I'm letting it be.