So i am taking a creative writing class this semester, the only class that i can completely confidently say that i LOVE.
but i have to read a poem in front of the class next Thursday, so stay tuned to hear if that changes.
Anyways my teacher for this class, Emily Dyer, is the greatest teacher i have ever had.
she rocks.
and if i could be like her when i grow up..it would be pretty awesome.
anyways the way she runs her classroom is super laid back, she lets us do our own thing, figure out what we like to write and are best at, and just gives us general assignments that we can run with.
So i am starting to decide what i'm into.
First of all, my favorite writing tool is Humor.
cuz i am a smart A.
obviously.
and it is like a hybrid between, reality and..not.
i like to call it exaggerated nonfiction (or maybe just exactly how my life would be if i was on a sitcom)
in my teachers words, we are supposed to tell a story, but if we make a little up, or tell a lie, she won't know will she?
So that is what i do. i write stories that are real, or that have happened to me, but in the most hilarious possible way.
Like.. i always think in my brain, 'it would have been a lot funnier if he had done this, or said that, or i had, or whatever'
So here we go. a little taste of my exaggeration for the sake of a good laugh.
everyone who is reading this heard the real live story, and will know just how much of it is real.
If anyone else is reading this... give it a good guess. (:
The assignment was to write a paper about an interview.
Quite The Run Around
“So, I was wondering,” as he fumbled to pull my change out of the till, “Could get your phone number, so I can take you out on a date sometime?” Me, being me, of course, I panicked, spit out some cluttered words that in my brain were meant to be clever but by the time they hit my mouth it just sounded like they came from a completely separate language, something inhuman, followed by seven clearly stated numbers. 'YES!' I got asked out. That had never happened before, well, not really. Not to mention, by a guy that I have been wanting to talk to for months, but too scared. He was nearly a part of my daily routine at this point. He worked at the only gas station between my apartment, and my home away from home, which was La Jolla Groves restaurant, where I worked almost everyday. If I was ever in need of a tank of gas on my way home, to insure that my car would start in the morning, or a Red Bull, knowing that I wouldn't be sleeping tonight, but studying instead, this was my go-to guy. He was just the right amount taller than me to be impressive, but not towering, had short blonde hair, blue eyes, and dimples to the likes of which I had never seen anything comparable. Yea, I guess he had caught my attention one or two times before.
So a few text messages later, the date was set for the following night: time of departure; 7:00, activities for the evening; unknown. I still felt uncomfortable with this whole dating thing so I was too nervous to ask. Plus I figured my fear to sound stupid In asking what the plan was would translate in his boyish mind into me being laid back, or cool with anything. He came to pick me up and about fifteen minutes into the date, it was evident that about the only thing we had in common, was a love for those dimples of his I mentioned earlier. I mean, the evening went well enough. We had dinner, and went laser tagging, learned to salsa dance at a small dance club on Center Street, and later faced off in an intense few rounds of Mario Cart, which I of course, being the lady that I am, allowed him to win. Honestly, it was a really good time, but as I alluded to earlier, the more the evening went on, the more I learned about my date, at quite a rapid pace, might I add. Maybe he was just proud of his accomplishments, or trying to impress me, but either way, the evening was a perfect candidate for my 'Interview' assignment.
I learned that gas station boy (I will call him that because it seems like Provo is a really small world, and I wouldn't want to offend anyone) runs track for UVU. Well, he used to at least. He has been running for them for the past two years since he got off of his mission to Montana. The only reason he isn't running this year is because he did something awful to his ankle which summed up to be about five minutes of nonsensical medical jargon that while he explained, I started writing my intro for this paper in my brain. When I snapped back into the conversation, or maybe speech would be a better term, he had moved on to tell me about his roommates, and in case you were thinking that was an odd transition, don't worry, one of his roommates also runs track, so really, it made complete sense.
This roommate also worked at the same convenience store as he did, just at the other location, at the mouth of the Provo Canyon. (Am I giving away too much information about gas station boy?) By the time I met them later that evening I felt like I already knew them all, especially the one that he explained, not to sound rude, to be a bit of a nerd, who came running out with a towel on five minutes after I got there and said, “Hey, I thought I heard a girl in here?” Then proceeded to turn bright red and shrink back into the bathroom when I poked my head from around the corner. He also went on to tell me that he took ballroom dancing lessons at UVU which is why he is SO good at Salsa Dancing. That was a direct quote, so I used it a bit satirically, but in all honesty he was pretty impressive on the dance floor. He also laser tags all the time, which is a good reason I shouldn't feel bad that he kicked my trash.
There was only one thing all night I really couldn't get him talking about and it was a bit disappointing. The original plan was to ice skate in lieu of laser tagging, but after we parked and as he walked up to the door, he looked inside then turned around and said, “On second thought, lets go laser tagging.” When I asked him why the abrupt change of plans his response was, “well, my brother is in there.”
“Wow, you must really hate your brother!” I laughed.
He just looked at me, not even a hint of a smile on his face and said, “You know those guys who ice skate in the fruity little outfits and do spins and crap?”
“You're brother is a figure skater?” I asked, still laughing. He just didn't respond. There was about a three minute awkward silence, and right as I was about to start getting nervous that he was going to just kick me out of the car, he delved into talking about his Major and future career plans and we were set.
