Blog Happenings and Kayleen's Talent for Writing

Hi all! Jordan here. Great news! Our blog has an upgrade! It has been moved to http://fingerfoodforthought.wordpress.com!

Please visit the blog there for regular postings. As you know, Kayleen and I have tried blogging in various forms and formats with mixed results. With the big move to Indiana, things kind of got lost. We've taken what we've learned in the past and are starting something new and exciting to give Kayleen's writing career a new jump-start! And so, I'm happy to announce....

Kayleen is back to writing! On a regular basis. This makes me very very very very happy. She is a very talented writer and I think she has very much to share with the world. She loves writing and so many people love reading what she writes. We've arranged our schedules so that at least twice a week, I will be watching the kids for a couple of hours while Kayleen takes the laptop, leaves the house, and writes! She is slowly working on her novel and will be doing regular posts on Finger Food For Thought.

So what are you waiting for? Check it out!

Chapter 1

London stared at the clock and watched the seconds of her agony slowly tick away. English was always a torture; she hated listening to her teacher’s crack-pot ideas and then pretending to agree with them. Today they were reviewing sixth grade grammar rules since Mrs. Jones had found their papers so disappointing. Little did she realize that the people who didn’t pay attention in sixth grade weren’t going to pay attention now that they were sophomores. London was one of those people; in her opinion, any idiot should have been able to figure this out just by reading a couple of books.
  Instead of listening to the different uses of colons versus semi-colons, London was watching the brunette boy in front of her make beautiful pictures out of nothing more than a mechanical pencil and cheap lined paper. He drew pictures of people in their class, usually adding something odd, like a mole or an eyebrow piercing before flipping the page. London loved to see his hands make smooth lines that magically turned into noses, hair, shoulders, and glasses. She had the shape of his hands memorized and got flutters in her stomach every time they picked up a number two. They were average size, with square nail beds and a few random freckles here and there. London didn’t know about the rest of him, but he sure had a fine pair of hands.

                The bell finally rang at 2:50 and London hastily pushed her empty notebook next to Middlemarch in her backpack. Reading was always a heavenly refuge for her, but writing was near torture. She hated grammar, she hated her teacher’s ideas, and she hated writing boring book reports about Tom Sawyer. What was it about Mark Twain that everyone loved? There was no beautiful flare in his language – only flat depictions of a life slightly more depressing than her own.

                London left English and forced her way into the crowded hallway. Trying to get from one class to another was like trying to leave a burning theater. Everyone desperately pushed and elbowed their way through. She hated it when the seniors grabbed her backpack and swung her out of the way. She wore her backpack over one shoulder so that she had a better chance of avoiding a face crunch into the wall. High school was brutal. She hated it.

London’s last class was gym. This probably would have been her least favorite, but Abigail was there, so it got second place on her list of “worst torments endured upon receiving a high school diploma”. They had the most uncreative gym teacher of all time. First semester they swam laps every day, second semester they ran laps every day. And to top it off, he was a major pervert. This was still first semester so London had to undergo the humiliation of wearing a one piece swimsuit that only covered about half her lower set of cheeks. Mr. Leonard loved this.

London slammed her locker shut and anxiously pulled down her swimsuit.

            “No use Chica, your buttocks will be bared like everybody else’s.” Abigail pulled her hair into a ponytail and tossed London the brush.

            “I’m pretty sure my bulging butt creates more drag than a snug pair of shorts would.”

            “We have to wear these school issued suits because creepy Mr. Leonard likes to stare at our butts during diving. The boys don’t have to wear Speedos; so I guess we can be sure Mr. Leonard isn’t gay.”

            London shuddered, “This is so wrong.”

            “Welcome to the system. You are under their power and must suffer the necessary humiliations.” Abigail wrapped a towel around her waist and headed for the pool.

            As soon as they reached the bench Mr. Leonard yelled, “Abigail, no towels.”

Abigail nodded her head and regretfully removed it from her waist. “Everyone acts like teenagers are so obsessed with sex and drugs, but I think adults are just as bad.”

“At least the ones who work in high schools; they only teach so they can continue creeping on freshman girls and getting drunk every weekend without feeling like a loser.”

“Seriously.”

Both girls jumped into the pool and began doing warm-ups. Mr. Leonard made the girls stand in front of the boys so he could get a better view. This meant that the back row of girls was reserved for those with a self-esteem established on immodesty and who found pleasure in being ogled by nasty teenage boys. The middle row was where everyone normal tried to be, and the front row was for the poor girls who were always late and, therefore, continually molested by Mr. Leonard’s stare. Abigail and London headed for the very crowded middle row so the boys couldn’t see their butts and Mr. Leonard couldn’t stare at their chests. London felt bad for the girls forced to be in the front row today, but she wasn’t about to take degradation on their behalf.

“I was wondering if you would do me a favor,” Abigail said as she reluctantly put both arms over her head and stretched.

“Not a chance.” London and Abigail had very little in common, and when Abigail asked for a favor it usually meant doing something only she would like.

“Oh, please. It will only take like an hour and I really don’t want to do it alone. I need you there for support,” Abigail said in a whiney tone.

“Don’t try and guilt me into anything. It only makes me want to do it even less.”

“Okay, fine. I just wanted to audition for the fall play and - ”

London almost whacked the girl next to her in the face. “No way! I am not auditioning for some stupid play. You can do that on your own.”

Abigail began bouncing up and down. “Oh come on. It will only take like an hour and it is The Crucible. You love Arthur Miller.”

“Correction. I love reading Arthur Miller, not performing him.”

“It is pretty much the same thing. All you have to do is read him out loud.” Abigail turned toward London with big eyes, “Oh, please, please, please. It would mean the world to me.”

“If that is your world, then I am sorry for you.” London watched Abigail pout for a few seconds before finally saying, “Fine. I’ll do it. But you owe me big time.”

Abigail clapped her hands, “Yay! I love you so much! Thank you, thank you, thank you, I promise you won’t regret it.”

London just scoffed, “I’ve heard that before.”

Chapter 2

London and Abigail had been waiting in line for an hour when they finally got their forms to audition. London looked over the information she was required to give and said, “I hope they don’t give this out to solicitors.”

Abigail laughed, but the Drama Club boy helping them was a little slow. “No, we only use this information within the Drama Club. We are not affiliated with any other organization. We use it when we need to call you with any schedule changes or other emergencies.”

London looked up at him with mockery in her eyes. “Right. Thanks.” She began flipping through the pages. “How much longer are we supposed to wait before we can audition?”

He obviously loved being important; he dragged out a long “ooh” and examined his watch for a few seconds before saying, “It shouldn’t be any longer than an hour. We are really busy today; the Drama Club is too popular for the number of positions available, so it takes a long time.”

London smiled really big in order to hide the laugh threatening to come out, “Uh-huh. Thanks.”

“My name is David. If you need anything just call my name and I will be able to answer any questions you might have.”

Abigail had to answer this time because London had lost control of her giggles, “Thanks David. We will let you know.”

He gave Abigail a friendly smile and London a curt nod before leaving to hand out more forms.

Once he was out of earshot London really let herself go, “That is reason number 79 why you should never join Drama Club.”

Abigail laughed. “I admit he was rather odd, but not everyone in Drama Club is like that. There must be some normal people.”

“Don’t count on it. Everyone knows that drama kids shop at Emo Geeks R Us and Not So Hot Topic.”

London began filling out her form with wrong information. She didn’t want anyone calling her about practicing art with a bunch of psycho thespians. When it was finally their turn, Abigail and London entered the theater together. There wasn’t much to see. The high school auditorium was dimly lit, and there were two teachers sitting behind a table in the middle of the seating section. One was a woman who looked desperate. Most likely one of those dreamers who planned on being a famous Broadway star once she finished school, but never had the talent and got stuck directing emotionally disturbed teenagers in crappy performances instead. She seemed on the verge of tears as she looked at the group of hyper freshmen and skinny seniors on stage. The other director was a man in his late fifties with white curly hair and a white curly goatee. He was tall, skinny, with long legs and a horse-shaped face. London couldn’t help but think that he looked like an overgrown goat in a bad sweater vest. To her he could be nothing other than Billy. She leaned over to Abigail. “Maybe they are planning on Animal Farm for next fall and he’s gonna be the lead.”

Abigail smiled, “Well, they could probably cast you as the pig.”

London pushed her nose up into a snout and began oinking. “Not a bad idea. I look good in pink.”

The audition exercises were somewhat bogus and London felt like an idiot standing there pretending to be happy, sad, or angry. Once they were over, Abigail and London hopped off the stage and took their seats in the auditorium. After a few more rounds of bad drama, the auditions were finally over and Billy stood up. He began thanking all those who participated in the auditions; he was flattered by the large turnout and thought everyone performed remarkably well; unfortunately, there were only twenty parts. “For those of you who are not asked to stay we would love to have you be a part of the play and work on the set design, costumes, or lighting crew. David will be able to help you with that.” David gave a friendly nod to the large group of freshmen with anxious faces. “Without further ado, we are ready to start our second round of auditions. When your name is called could you please take the stage and wait for a script?”

London and Abigail went up to the table where Billy had posted the list of students who had made it into the play. Some students were squealing in delight and hugging one another, while others were wiping away tears and pretending to congratulate. London found her name about half-way down the list, but she couldn’t find Abigail’s anywhere. “Abby, your name isn’t on here.”

“Yours is.” Abigail smiled up at London, but was obviously disappointed.

“Well, I don’t want to be in the play. Let’s just go and forget about it.”

London began forcing her way through the crowd of students huddled around the list when she heard Billy start speaking again. “To begin with, would London Downing please go up and turn to page twenty?”

Both girls stood there in shock. London didn’t know who was more upset. She definitely didn’t want to be in the play, and Abigail looked hurt. David bustled over and handed London a new script.

After a few moments, Abigail nudged her and said, “Well, go on. Don’t just stand here.”

London looked at Abigail, who gave her two thumbs up. She quickly took off her jacket, and climbed up onto the stage. She stood feeling extremely exposed and inferior.

Billy smiled at London from where he sat. London thought it was a little weird, though, probably just because she had Mr. Leonard and now all teachers seemed like pedophiles. Billy looked at his notes. “And Hyrum Ringeisen will play John Proctor. Please begin on page twenty.”

London turned to see a senior built like James Stewart walking out of the side wings. He was about six foot three, with jet black hair that was haphazardly combed to the left, and a handsome face covered in a million freckles. His confidence was somewhat startling and London hated the idea of humiliating herself in front of him.

London opened her script and found the scene. Her heart dropped to her stomach and began flying around her chest all at once. This was quite possibly the worst day of her whole education, even worse than when she peed all over herself during football in the fourth grade. Of course, the one scene she would ever be required to act was the one in which a major skank begged an older man to sleep with her. London usually loved this scene, but now she wanted to burn the pages. It was a beautiful scene as long as she didn’t have to be the skank and beg a hot senior to do the nasty with her in his barn. London’s mouth dropped open and stared at the boy. He looked at her somewhat funny and then gave her an encouraging smile.

She was almost a foot shorter than him and came up to just below his shoulder. He seemed huge now that they were standing next to each other. London wanted to run in the other direction but it felt like someone had super-glued her shoes to the stage. Everyone was watching her; it was like she had forgotten to wear clothes or something.  

Hyrum finally opened his mouth and said, “I think you are supposed to start.”

London was jolted out or her misery and could feel her cheeks becoming warm and tingly. She read the first line out loud and her voice cracked, “Gad. I’d almost forgot how strong you are John Proctor.”

 “What’s this mischief here?”

“She’s only gone silly somehow. . . Give me a word John. A soft word.” London began to feel a little dizzy and used the card table on stage to keep from falling over. She leaned heavily on it and began taking deep breaths in order to keep from fainting.

“Put it out of mind Abby,” He raised his voice at London and took a step closer to her.

“I saw your face when she put me out, and you loved me then and you do now.” The words came out shaky and high pitched.

Hyrum leaned back but continued, watching her intently, “Abby, that’s a wild thing to say.”

London couldn’t raise her voice any higher than a wobbly whisper. She could feel the tears begin to form in her eyes as she read the next line, “A wild thing may say wild things.”

He continued to back up little by little while he spoke his lines, “We never touched, Abby.”

Just as Hyrum was about to leave the stage London said the next line. It was awkward and desperate when it came out. “Aye, but we did.” He stopped and waited for her to go on. She kept her eyes on his neck in order to ignore the large crowd of people in the audience. “I marvel how such a strong man may let such a sickly wife –“

At this Hyrum turned around and yelled at her with full force, “You’ll speak nothing of Elizabeth.”

London just stood on the opposite side of the stage and stared at him. She couldn’t believe how much she had upset him. They looked at each other for a few moments, him nothing but anger and her nothing but shocked fear. Time seemed to be taking unusually long to progress.

After what seemed like a year, Billy put down his pen and began clapping. The other students in the auditorium began clapping as well. “Thank you very much, London and Hyrum. That was excellent.”

David came up on stage to take their scripts, and London almost jumped down his throat. “Am I done now?”

He gave her a big smile and said, “They won’t need you any more tonight.”

She muttered a quick “Thanks,” and hopped down from the stage. Abigail was waiting for her in their seats. “Let’s get out of here,” London begged.

Abby was bright and cheerful as she took London’s bag for her, “London, that was amazing.”

London rushed for  the door, “What are you talking about?”

“I mean you did really good! You looked terrified up there.”

London let out a nervous giggle, “Are you kidding me? I was terrified. Did you see how ticked off that Hyrum kid got?”

“Yeah, you two were awesome together. He is a really good actor.” Abby bounced in front of London and held the door open for her.

“Can we just not talk about it anymore? I really don’t feel like it.”

Abby shrugged her shoulders, “Sure. Fine with me, Miss Williams.”

London stuck out her tongue and slid into the front seat of Abigail’s junky car. “I’m tired, and I still have to work on my Tom Sawyer report tonight.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Tell me about it. I hate Mark Twain.”

Abigail turned the key and the car started shaking. “Feels just like you’re in an airplane doesn’t it?” Abigail laughed, but London was too distressed to get the joke. Abigail reached over to ruffle London’s hair and said, “I’ll do your report for you. Mark Twain is a cake-walk. Just spout out some random stuff about regionalism and local color and any teacher is dumb enough to give you an A.”

London smoothed down her hair, “Oh, Abby, I love you. You are the best.”

 She slid the shift into gear and held up a finger, “On one condition.”

“I will do anything.”

“You have to accept whatever part they give you in the play.”

London laughed out loud; she knew the likelihood of being asked back for more embarrassment was very slim. “Sure thing, Abby, whatever you say.”

Chapter 3

              The next morning at school, London was waiting in line to buy a bagel when an acquaintance from biology passed her. He spewed out a “congratulations” along with some of his breakfast burrito. London gave him an unsure smile in response. She decided to ignore the odd comment because he was high most of the time and said random things a lot.

                It wasn’t until Abigail literally skipped towards her with two cappuccinos in hand that London began to worry. Abigail looked adorable with her shoulder length, light red hair covered in snowflakes and her purple scarf tied around her neck.

                London gratefully accepted the cappuccino held out to her. “For me?”

                “Just a little treat for my incredible actress friend.” Abigail joyfully took a sip from her own drink and began removing her gloves.

                “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” London began chewing her tongue in anxiety.

                “They put up the cast list this morning. I checked it after A.P. English and then ran to get you a little congratulations gift.” She held up her own cappuccino and squeaked, “Cheers!”

                “Why did I need a congratulations gift? I didn’t make the play.”

                Abigail raised her eyebrows. “You, Miss Crab, are misinformed.” Abigail smiled even bigger. “Not only did you make the very selective cast...” At this she raised her eyebrows and made her voice all nasally like David’s. “...but you, my dear Miss Downing, got the lead.”

                London smiled. “Liar.”

                “Cross my heart and hope to die – I am not telling a lie.”

                The smile was gone and London looked at Abigail with uncertainty. “Are you sure it was my name?”

                Abigail rolled her eyes, “Yes, I’m sure. How many Londons are there in the world?”

                London took a sip of her cappuccino. “Mm, I love peppermint caramel. You always know what I am in the mood for.”

                “London!” Abigail gave her a little kick. “Aren’t you excited?”

                “No. It isn’t like I am going to take the part.”

                “You’ve got to be kidding me! Of course you are! You can’t drop out now!”

                “Yes, I can. And I will. I never wanted to be in that stupid play anyways.”

                “I won’t write your Mark Twain paper for you, then.”

                “I’d rather write a book report than be Abigail Williams, 1600s deranged ho-bag, in a crappy high school production.”

                Abigail looked really mad now. “London, if you don’t take this part I will never speak to you again.”

                “Well, I guess this is the end of an eleven year friendship then, because I’m not doing it.” London was almost yelling at Abigail now. It was extremely unfair for Abigail to expect her to take the part when it wasn’t her idea to audition in the first place.

                Abigail was obviously hurt. She shot out a short, “Fine,” before marching away, holding her bag in one hand and her cappuccino in the other. She was still adorable, even when she was ready to throw something.

                London got out of line and headed for A.P. History. She didn’t feel like breakfast anymore. She would have skipped school altogether if it hadn’t been for her class presentation in health that afternoon. She hated fighting with Abigail. They never fought, and it was ridiculous to have an argument over a dumb play. London could feel the tears forming in her eyes as she went to her locker and threw in her bag. She slammed her locker closed and then jumped at the loud noise it made.

                “London!”

                She turned to see Hyrum walking towards her with a girl who was anorexic skinny and had faded brown hair. She recognized the girl from auditions last night; she had seemed somewhat stuck-up. Hyrum waved goodbye to Miss Pole and gave London a full-size smile. “Congratulations on getting the lead.” He always appeared so confident and comfortable – it made London uneasy.

                “Thanks.” She didn’t feel like chatting with him and tried to make it obvious.

                Hyrum waited a few seconds before picking up the conversation again. “So, I guess you and I will be leads together.”

                “Sorry?”

                “I mean in the play. I got the other lead. I’m John Proctor.”

                London nodded her head and said, “Oh. Congratulations,” in a rather depressed voice.

                Hyrum again waited for London to say something, but she just stood there looking at him. Finally, he folded his arms in front of his chest and asked, “You’re not very chatty, are you?”

                London laughed. “No, not usually, and I’ve had a rough morning – with the play and all.”

                “You didn’t want the lead?”

                London shrugged her shoulders. “To be honest, I didn’t really want to be in the play at all. I only auditioned for my friend, but now she wants me to take the part.”

                “Which you aren’t going to do.” Hyrum seemed disappointed as he said this.

                “I don’t think so.”

                They both stood in silence for a few moments; awkwardness was beginning to be a pattern with them. London didn’t want to seem like a total jerk so she forced herself to speak up. “It’s not that I don’t like plays. I love plays. I’m just not an actress and it will only be a humiliating experience for me to pretend like I am.”

                Hyrum nervously scratched behind his right ear. “I don’t know, I thought you were really good last night. Everyone did.”

                “Thanks.” London rolled her eyes.

                “No, I’m serious.” Hyrum raised his eyebrows. “You did really good. All of your responses were right on. I mean, you actually looked desperate.”

                “I was desperate! You were really scary.”

                Hyrum looked taken aback for a few seconds. “Well, I guess I did better than I thought then.”

                “Yeah, you did, you made me feel like a shameless hussy up there.”

                This time Hyrum laughed. His laugh was very sudden and loud. London could see other people looking in their direction. He stopped just as suddenly as he began. “So you really aren’t going to be in the play then?”

                “No, I’m not.” London began playing with her fingernails. They were short and uneven because she could never stop biting them. She felt extremely spoiled and snobby.

                “That’s a bummer. I was looking forward to acting with someone who wasn’t all emo and depressed.” Hyrum smiled big and began scratching behind his ear again. “Most drama kids are too dramatic.”

                “I know.” London couldn’t help but return the smile. “Everyone knows.”

                They both laughed again. Hyrum held out his hand. “I guess I’ll just have to run into you somewhere else then.”

                London slowly took his hand and felt all warm and tingly again, like she had yesterday when they were acting together. It was silly that they were shaking hands in the middle of the locker bay, but London couldn’t pretend she didn’t like it. “I guess so.”

                Hyrum could see that he was making London uncomfortable. “I better get to class. I don’t want to be late.”

                “Right. Me too.” She quickly dropped Hyrum’s hand and slung her bag over her shoulder. He seemed somewhat unusual, but he was probably the nicest person she had met during all her years in the public education system. Most people were sarcastic or assuming – like her. He just seemed downright good natured. It was refreshing to be around someone like that.

                London walked to A.P. History a lot happier than she had walked to her locker. She would make up with Abigail during gym; it wasn’t hard to make her happy. Besides, being in the play didn’t seem so bad after all.

My Color Red

This is a poem my poetry professor absolutely loved. He simply raved. Honestly, I don't get it. But I thought I would post it anyways.

Remember the apple orchard?

When we would come home with our arms full of red?

The peels would mirror our smiles

The translucent covering so crisp and sweet

Remember the cold?

Remember the white tears drifting down?

The frosted branches and smooth earth

The warmth of your hands

I remember the way in which you sang

So loud, always off key, always with passion

I remember the way you would race

Refusing to run, taking sweet time

Cheering others as they passed by you

I remember the way you waltzed

Eyes closed and gliding

Remember the sound?

It was so loud, swirling and high pitched

Do you remember the sound?

It suffocated me; I was encompassed by the oppressive ringing.

Defeated

I remember lying on that old air mattress together

You would tell me scary stories then I would make you stay with me all night

I couldn’t breathe when you left

Remember that night?

Remember the red?

It was so beautiful and smooth

I watched its gentle flow

It seeped through my fingers

It could not be held back

It forced its way out unseeingly

It covered my hands, my arms, my face

It matted my hair and seeped into my pores

Do you remember the red? Do you remember how it felt?

I remember how it felt, warm and filmy

I can still smell it, a rusted iron

I remember how it tastes, like hot copper

I can still see it, a brilliant red

The color marveled me, so bright and deep

I gazed in wonder as it leisurely wove its stream into every part of me

Do you remember all that?

No, you don't

I do, I still remember

It's Absolutely Repulsive

           When the next person asks me for my current address, I may very well find myself telling them, “I live on 1209 and 3/4 North 900 East of Provo, UT. My residence will be easy to spot; it’s the third cardboard dwelling to the left of the BYU Creamery. Our house is the one with the pink bicycle chained to the box’s handle and the fake flower sticking out of our paper-mache window box.”

            “Why do you live in a box? Especially a cardboard one?” may be the next inquiry from my curious friend. “Are you financially strapped? Did you blow all your money on Café Rio? Should you apply for Section 8 housing assistance?”    

            “Why of course not!” would be my shocked response. “My husband and I are doing just fine financially; the third cardboard box was the best place available. In fact we are paying the big bucks for our spot so close to the ice cream. Sure the place has its problems. We have to replace the roof every time it snows or rains, and last month when there was that horrible hail storm, I had to take my husband to Urgent Care because an ice rock cut through our soggy, sagging roof and split my husband’s forehead. But I know a couple that pays $625 for a double wide box that is all the way on the other side of Wyview single housing. And we only pay $475!”

            In reality I do not live in the third cardboard box to the left of the Creamery on Ninth, although the location would be ideal for my frequent Graham Canyon cravings. Instead I live in a quarter of a house probably built in the 1730’s, made to hold a family of four that now holds four families of two. Fortunately, this house is only a four mile walk from the beloved waffle cone. Four miles may seem to be a long distance to the single student who lives in Helaman Halls that can practically walk out of his or her dormitory building smack into the middle of lower campus, but to us married folk, four miles is a big bowl of yummy housing gravy.

            We married students of BYU living in the 21^st century live a truly hard knock life. But the fact is married couples at BYU were not always in this position. I often hear from the BYU Married Veterans magical stories about a time when there was on campus housing provided for people like us. To my great despair, those days, when sex, violence, and drugs weren’t on TV, Buddy Holly was on the radio, and you could survive as a married student, are over. The bloody fingerprints caused by changing Wyview Park from Married Student Housing to Single Freshman Housing are everywhere. Every time I have to de-bug my bathroom before taking a shower because the window in it won’t close is a time I personally witness one of those bloody fingerprints. It serves as another witness to the incredible injustice done to married students every day.

Just the other day I saw a colossal spider crawling across my bookcase. It managed to escape by hiding between the pages of The Dummy’s Guide to Removing Asbestos from the Ceiling. I am now forced to wear a mosquito net while I sleep in order to ensure she won’t crawl into my ear at night and lay eggs that will then hatch. The resulting baby spiders would then have the chance to crawl into my brain and cause permanent brain damage. My husband and I are just another married life horror story exhibiting the incredible injustices suffered by the young and in love. Sad to say, we are not the only ones. There are hundreds of stories just like ours.

            Many people may begin to wonder, “Why is it, that married students are forced to live in such degrading conditions? Why doesn’t someone do something about it? For example, why doesn’t BYU offer housing to married students?” Believe me; I feel the pain of trying to solve such a puzzle. This very question has been occupying my mind at 4 a.m. many a sleepless night. The only reason I can rationally produce is that BYU no longer cares for the married students. Everyone knows it is the unwritten rule that along with earning a bachelor’s diploma you should have earned a marriage license as well, or else you have failed to receive the full BYU education in the mind of every Mormon you meet thereafter.  

            In reality, Cecil Samuelson and his powerful buddies have decided it would be more valuable to humanity if all available housing go to those single students who remain menaces to society, thus enabling them to meet that special someone who will remove the disgraceful single stamp of shame. We married students have accomplished the goal and the housing authorities figure that if we gain nothing else from our BYU experience, we have at least gained the most important thing – our eternal companion. And when they stand before that judgment bar at the last day and Paul asks them why they neglected so many poor married students forced to live in soggy boxes, they will reply, “It is true I neglected the married, but how could I possibly have made housing available to them when I had those three thousand freshmen to marry off?”

            Please don’t misunderstand me; I am not judging that housing authority. He has a very difficult job and we all knew we would come to this earth in the midst of trial. But in my opinion, the unspeakable suffering that married students have had to endure for the past century has been too much. No one told ME that mold would grow across my walls in the pre-mortal existence. Ours is an untold story, but now our story will be heard! We alone have the power to change the fate of every married student to live at BYU hereafter and ensure they never suffer as we have. I use this paper as a Title of Liberty for all you married students within the reach of my voice. I call you to arms in the defense of your family, your personal integrity, and most importantly, your right to centipede-free showers. Together we can rise up, seize the BYU throne from under Cecil Samuelson and send him back to where he came from – The University of UTAH!

            I understand these bold words may come off as offensive to you, initially. I only ask that the next time you awake at 6 a.m. because your housemate’s baby is hungry and the wall is only a quarter inch thick, think on my words. Or the next time the rain falls through your cardboard box of a roof onto your baby’s cradle causing her to cry, awaking all of your neighbors – remember. The next time the heater breaks and you are forced to sit in front of your open stove, wrapped up in blankets with your beloved spouse, who is currently suffering from a severe cold, as you rack up the gas bill – remember. I only ask that you remember every time you must endure the atrocities prevalent in every married student’s living condition. I ask you to remember the suffering only we habitually endure – it’s absolutely repulsive.

The Tragic Deaths of Fluffies 1 - 5

I have a love for hamsters
They are so small and fuzzy
My favorites are the white ones
I always named them Fluffy

I went through many hamsters
Actually, five in all
And just how each one perished
I can still recall

Some suffered a tragic death
My dog Oscar ate a few
I believe there was some pain
For Fluffies four and two

Fluffy one’s was not much better
In fact it was rather sad
He rolled himself down our stairs
His bones were broken bad

I feel worst for Fluffy five
How could I have known better
No one told me not to bathe
My Fluffy in cold water

I tried to save his life, I did
I used my mom’s blow dryer
But by the time I turned it off
My Fluffy had caught fire

So parents please do not buy
Your six year old a pet
It will either roll down stairs
Get eaten, or too wet

Just let the creatures live a life
Of peace and hamster pleasures
For we will only kill the dears
In spite of all our measures

P.S. Yes all of these things did happen. This poem was based on real events, and sadly enough, I am guilty of the deaths of 5 adorable hamsters.