Hitler's a jackass and Justin Timberlake hates me.

Last night I dreamt that I hung out with Hitler. We were in some sort of large air conditioned cabin, walking around and exchanging jokes. I was really starting to like Hitler, and it wasn't until halfway through laughing at one of his comments that I remembered the whole genocide thing. "So do you like me?" Hitler asked, directly on cue, as dream characters so often do. I smiled awkwardly and shrugged a little bit, building up confidence, and then said, "Actually, I think you're kind of a jackass." Hitler did not take well to being called a jackass. He ran away, crying. What this says about me, I'm too scared to find out.

On the subject of Hitler (Not at all; I just thought that'd be funny), I've received a lot of comments regarding my use of the word "boyfriendthing" in my last blog. To address those concerned, it's not that I'm iffy or unsure about the situation. I've just been friends with this guy for so many years, and it was always him chasing me and me being disinterested. So while I'm happy to finally be a Facebook Official Couple, I simply am not used to it. With that out of the way, I regret to inform you that my boyfriend[thing] is devastated, as his television trivia show career ended yesterday. His team fought valiantly, but they got only third place at the finals. I made him cookies immediately, because that's the only thing I know how to do for sad boys. Booooo.

On the subject of boyfriends (Sort of this time, elohel), I had a nice little heart attack yesterday. I've been doing a pretty good job lately at not letting my feelings/lack thereof for my ex-boyfriend continue to be, as commetor Jordan put it, "a raw, festering wound." I still check up on him in little ways, but I'm no longer saving old texts or frequently trying to smell him on his letters. In fact, a good hour or two had passed without any thought of him whatsoever yesterday afternoon, until I was sneak-attacked. My mother and I were shopping, much to my dismay, for a dress to wear at my graduation and my friends' wedding. I was standing in a dressing room, clad in the spaghetti-strapped coral number, when I received a text message from a mutual friend of ours, whom I hadn't spoken to in weeks. He was eating Chipotle for the first time, he said, and it was "eh." I informed him that the first is never, ever good, and that you have to do it about three times before the addiction starts. Then, because I have the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old, I added, "Just like sex." I returned my focus to the dress, wondering if I'm mature enough to wear pleats if I still think devirginization is hysterical, when our friend responded. "Weirdo. Also I'm with Justin Timberlake. Do you hate him?"

(No, he did not say "Justin Timberlake," but I've just decided that's what we'll be calling The Ex-Boyfriend from now on in this blog. Partly because Justin and The Ex-Boyfriend are similar in that I don't understand their appeal whatsoever, but somehow allow them to convince me that they are, in fact, bringing sexy back. And partly because the idea of my ex-boyfriend dressing like/acting like/singing like Justin Timberlake is positively hilarious. Riddikulus!)

Anyway, it's pretty funny that I was facing a full-body mirror as I read that, because I got to witness my reaction. I stared straight forward, looking sort of like that green-eyed Afghan girl from the cover of National Geographic a couple years back. After a minute, I looked down at my phone, the screen black from being opened and untouched for too long, and typed something along the lines of  "What." A second later, he replied, "I'm with Justin Timberlake. Just wondering how you feel with him at the moment."

This is the part where I say something really intelligent and thought-out, like, "Um I don't know whatever." This is also the part where I glance down at the dress and realize I'll be wearing it at our mutual friends' wedding, and that I will be seeing Justin Timberlake... in this dress. The thought of weddings then took my mind to the scene from The Notebook, when the heroine has just seen a picture of her lost love. She lies in the bathtub, inexplicably wearing her bridal veil, idly turning the faucet on and off with foot. That's kind of exactly how I felt. Suddenly a rush of blood came into my face, and I oh-so-collectively responded, once again, "No, I don't hate him. He hates me." I got an "okay" from our friend, and my own palm to my forehead.

I meditated on this conversation all day yesterday, trying to figure out what I would have said if I'd had any previous notice. Chances are I wouldn't have made a sex joke, for instance. Finally, it hit me this morning. A quote from Stephen Bishop: "I feel so miserable without you, it's almost like having you here." So, Justin Timberlake, to put it in terms you're more likely to understand....

On the subject of boy bands, the show went pretty well last night. The sound guys accidentally played the demo track instead of the instrumental for our big after-intermission strobe light extravaganza, which became apparent when our little baritone soloist started singing along with a scary bass from the CD. Very professionally, our director waved her hands and yelled "take two!" and we started again, laughing all the while. So classy. Other than that, everything was fine. I'm a lot less nostalgic and sad about my last stage production than I imagined. We still have to put on this show about two and half more times next week, but I anticipate no tears on my part. Ah, well.

As for my last small group meeting tonight, I certainly cannot promise dry eyes. Ugh.

Chipotle burritos this year: 18

Subscribers: 16,105

Days left of high school: 6

Bye, guys! Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow. <3