Do ya'll remember this post? It's pretty entertaining, if I do say so myself. If you haven't read it, you should.  My want ad for a boyfriend? Wow, it sounds utterly pathetic when I write it that way. Don't judge me, please. I write about stuff like this because, let's be honest, it's great fodder for a blog and I get more comments when I do. I know. You now can see that I'm a shallow comment whore. I'm sure you'll get over this shock. Also, I'm a single, Mormon girl over the age of 16. It's bound to come up and I've accepted that. Most of the time. I still have my days, which I suppose is understandable. Anyway, the whole point of this post is that I found something else to add to my want ad: Someone who is willing to constantly build/put together bookshelves for the constant flow of new books that seem to find their way into my life. It's one addiction that I'm not willing to give up. 

Playing grown up...

Do you ever feel like you're just playing at being an adult? Let me tell you something: even though I have been counting down the days until graduation, it still felt like I was just pretending. As I sat in a sea of black and red clad graduates all wearing those ridiculous mortar board hats (Can I pause in my seriousness to say that I want to find the person who decided what graduation attire should look like and give them a swift kick in the shins? Everyone looks terrible in that get up AND it screws with your hair. Okay, rant over), I couldn't help but have a slight moment of panic at the idea of entering the real world. 

I've spent the last few days telling people that I still have to go home and finish my homework or contemplating which classes to register for next semester only to come to the jarring realization that all my homework is done and all my classes completed. I suppose that being a school nerd makes the transition slightly more painful because in reality, I'm going to miss school. (Not enough to start grad school right away, mind you. I'm not that nuts.) Part of me is going to miss the papers and the lectures, the assigned reading and the study groups. 

School was safe because it was something that I knew for sure that I was good at. Now I'm required to make all of that knowledge useful somehow, and I'm at a loss for how to do so. I know that a history degree is basically useless without a master's and most places that I apply to work won't care about my views on the Cold War or that I know all about FDR and his alphabet soup. 

But I am determined to make the last 8 years of my life worth something on the grand scale of things. I've already been offered and turned down 2 jobs because they weren't what was right for me (trust me when I say that I know it sounds completely crazy. Take it up with the Lord), and I just have to trust that someone who is much more intelligent and has my best interests at heart is directing things. As long as I follow His plans and His inspirations, I'll end up right where He needs me to be and what could be better than that?

Call me vain if you must.

 But I simply LOVE these pictures that the brilliant, talented and simply delightful Emily Mangum took for my graduation. I know, I know, I stuck them up all over Facebook, but this girl can't get enough exposure and let's be honest: I'm self centered and egotistical and I like them. 

A thought...

The molecules of your body are the same molecules that make up the nebulae, that burn inside the stars themselves. 

We are starstuff. 

--D.C. Fontana

The group project from hell and other random ramblings from a brain-dead-almost-college graduate...

I've said it before and I'll say it again: group projects are a special kind of torture that can only have been contrived in the deepest and most unholy depths of Hell. You think that, as per usual, that I am exaggerating for dramatic effect? Oh on the contrary, my dear reader. There is not even the slightest hint of exaggeration in that statement. In fact, it might not be strong enough. I won't give you exact details, mostly because just thinking about them makes my blood pressure rise to an unhealthy level, but here's a brief overview:

-A crying 20 year old who didn't do her portion of the project and tried to make everyone feel sorry for her (*sob* "It's the week before finals! I'm so overwhelmed."*sob* My advice? Find your boot straps, pull 'em up and quit letting your lack of preparedness affect my grade.) 

-A fellow senior who shows up to class, at best, once a week

-3 football players who somehow have gotten the idea that we're friends, so I should help them with their project

-2 hours that were supposed to be spent on an upcoming stats project frantically wasted reluctantly recalculating the crying group member's bad math

-One temporarily lost notebook that had my entire semester's worth of work in it

-A mad dash to the Stadium to reprint said project as I was the only group member without another class that morning and easy access to a free printer

-One computer that decided not to open or print any Windows documents

-Yet another mad dash, this time to President's Circle

-One asthmatic running up a set of stairs in order to turn in a now late group project

What does all that equal, you may wonder? One insanely stressed out Mallorie who did her entire portion of the project days in advance, but still ended up with all the stress. 

Now, I'm pretty good at simple math (shout out to Sara the Theatre Fairy who helped me conquer my paralyzing fear of the subject. You're a magician), but that doesn't seem like a balanced equation to me. But maybe all of that insanity has clouded my superpowers and my better judgement. Anyway, I have returned even more firmly to the resolution that group projects are meant to torture good and prepared students. It's how professors manage to give out lower grades and make their classes seem more difficult. That, along with the dreaded comprehensive final, are currently the bane of my otherwise fantastical existence. But do you know what the cure for a horrifical day is? 4 pairs of new shoes (all purchased on sale, mind you) and dinner with one of your best friends. The best part is trying on shoes some place like Ross where all of the shoes are connected so you have to shuffle around. If that doesn't cure your bad day, then you, my friend, are not human.

Poor, obscure, plain and little...

I've been on a massive Jane Eyre kick lately. It can really be blamed on Sara, the Theatre Fairy, if you're up for playing the blame game. It's her all time favorite book and when the new adaptation finally came out in Utah (apparently a March 11th release date actually means April 1st in Utah. It must be the whole Mormon Standard Time thing interfering), Sara insisted that we squeeze in a viewing and, let's be honest, who was I to argue? I hadn't read the book since Mrs. Shelton's AP English class and I only distinctly remembered two parts: where Jane is locked in the Red Room (the room that, as a 10 year old, she's beyond positive is haunted by the ghost of her dead uncle) and the end, where she returns to find a blind and broken Mr. Rochester after which she says, "Reader, I married him". Did I just spoil it for you? Well, I don't even feel a little bit bad. The book has been around for over 150 years, so if you don't know the ending by now, that's your own dang fault. Anyway, I remember enjoying the book, but I've always been more of an Austen girl, so I hadn't re-read it since I was 17 or so. After two delightful Mr. Rochester filled hours, I was more intrigued and drawn to the story then I ever had been before. I was reminded of why I actually finished the book (as opposed to Wuthering Heights, which I'm only slightly ashamed to say was finished with the generous aid of Cliff's Notes. Don't judge. Even its delicious creepiness can't make up for the fact that there isn't a single likable character in the whole blasted book): I saw much more of myself in Jane that I had in any character in a book up to that point. That's not to say that our lives were similar in the least: I come from a fantastic family and had an incredible childhood. I was loved beyond all reason and rarely wanted for anything. On my more self deprecating days, I identify with the fact that Jane is plain. Now don't get your panties in a twist. I didn't say that I was ugly. And neither is Jane. She's simply one of those people whose beauty isn't visible to the random passer by. That's not to say that most people can be judged by their covers, but some of us have less remarkable and stunning packaging than others. And more often then not, I feel the same way. I mean, please. I'm called adorable. Cute. Sweet. Lovable. Darling. Sometimes I feel more like a puppy or a baby chick than a woman. In reality, none of this is of great consequence to Jane because what makes her such a strong and desirable heroine is the ability to persevere through even the most weighty and unpleasant of circumstances. That chick is a survivor if that I've seen..er, read one. She's intelligent and independent. She has to make her own way in the world and is willing work for what she gets. Though she may be (in Mr. Rochester's words), "poor, obscure, plain and little", she has a huge impact on the lives of those around her, which has always been my goal. It's her heart and her kindness that make her great. Her ability to see the good in others, but not to let even that sway her into doing something that she feels to be morally wrong. I love Jane because she's everything that I want to be when I finally decide to grow up.

So dish. Who's your hero?

"Although how can you know who you are till you know what you want?"

I've never been a champion decision maker. Ask anyone who knows me well. I don't like picking movies, restaurants, clothes, music, or what to do on a Friday night. You name it. It's not usually a problem of not knowing what I want; it's a problem of being the classic people pleaser. I just want everyone to be happy, even if it means that I'm not always happy. This doesn't mean that I never make choices. I do; all the time. For example, just this morning I decided to wear my khakis instead of my gray dress pants. See? I can make decisions. You can clap for me now.

I just don't like making the life-altering-move-half-way-across-the-country-decisions. 

Just for the record, I did get into Teach for America. 

Hold your shouts of jubilation for a moment because I turned the job down. 

Don't yell at me!!

It wasn't an easy choice. Especially for a girl who hates making huge decisions. Here's the thing, people: the closer it came to finding out whether I had been accepted or not, the more that I hoped and prayed that I had been rejected. This is not a normal reaction when one has the chance at their "dream" job. I was a little ill about the whole thing. Me being me, I just figured that it was the stress of waiting (I've never been known to be a patient person) and that I'd feel better about it when I knew if I got in or not. About a week ago, I was chatting with one of my favorite chatting buddies, Sara (also know as my own personal Theatre Fairy) and I came to a realization: I applied for TFA because I felt like that was the only option I had as far as a full-time, fulfilling job goes upon my graduation from the U. I loved Salt Lake and didn't really want to move away. I have a life here. Friends. A schedule. I didn't WANT to leave. That very night I prayed harder than I ever had that TFA wouldn't accept me. Especially now that I had decided what I thought I wanted to do. In the next 4 days, two amazing potential job opportunities opened up. Things that I was interested in pursuing. 

Then the day came. The dreaded day of April 4th. The day TFA was going to reject me. I was so sure that I wouldn't get in because I'd already made my decision. Learning process over, right? 

Wrong, my dear readers. Wrong.

 When I opened that acceptance letter, I bawled my lovely blue eyes out. 

I realized that was probably a bad sign.

A huge part of the bawling had to do with the fact that I now had to make a huge, potentially life changing decision. I hate life changing decisions. There's just SO much pressure involved in making them. And pressure gives me migraines. I soon realized, though, that this was not something that I could hide from or push off onto someone else's plate. It was time for me to make my own choice and to determine exactly what I wanted.
Armed with the essentials: a Diet Coke, my cell phone (to call my mom, Aubrie or Sara the Theatre Fairy, all of whom help me make huge decisions) my scriptures, and a whole lot of tissues, I set out to do it.  

I was determined to make a choice based on what was best for me, even though I despise making choices like this one. It reminds me of one of the songs from Into the Woods, where Cinderella is talking about standing on the steps of the palace and how she doesn't want to make the choice about the prince so she chooses not to decide. That's usually  how I roll. Let the circumstances make the decision for me. But not this time. Because just like Cinderella says, "How can you know who you are till you know what you want?" (See! Everything you need to know in life can be learned from a musical.)

And I have decided what I want. 

I want to stay in Salt Lake, close to my family, in a city that I love, with friends that I adore because to be honest: I am happy here. 

Why fix something that's not broken?

So. Whether you think I'm crazy or I'm sane doesn't matter because I made the decision for myself.