This is a true account of a pretty typical moment in the life of Darren and Amanda.

Okay, it may not have been completely typical. It was a great Sunday morning. We'd gotten up early and went out to breakfast. Then, stuffed with pancakes, we waddled around the mall with all the mall-walkers, wishing the stores were open. We returned back to my apartment building and were walking down the hallway holding hands and being in love and all that sappy shit.

So I decided to push Darren into a wall. He outweighs me by about a hundred pounds so I really had to throw my body into it but I caught him off balance and unaware and it was AWESOME. (Anyone who knows Darren knows it's acceptable for me to toss him around every now and then because he's beating the crap out of me more often than not.)

Needless to say Darren wasn't amused and I feared immediate retribution. He told me to stop cowering like a pansy because he wasn't going to do anything, so I began walking again. I glanced back nervously at first, then continued on more confidently when I realized he was serious about not doing anything. I was worried. He was just going to let me win? What the hell was happening to us?

With that, we entered the stairwell, myself in the lead and Darren pulling up the rear. As we huffed and puffed up the stairs, My Favorite Man yanked on the hood of my sweatshirt so hard that I inaudibly choked and phlegm shot out of my throat and landed three stairs up.

I stopped to regain my composure and he continued in front of me. I followed him up, thinking about how awesome the hood thing was and deciding I needed to do something awesome too. I couldn't think of anything to do and impulse told me to do something, ANYTHING, so I reached up between his legs as he tromped up the stairs and gave his testicles a good, hearty squeeze.

As I raced up the remaining stairs to my apartment and Darren reeled in pain, all I could think was, "I hope it's always like this."

I'm going home in a couple of hours to celebrate Thanksgiving with my family. I'll be working Thursday, Friday AND Saturday this weekend because, as you know, Christmas presents aren't going to pay for themselves.

While at work, I will likely see many of my old high school friends as they, too, will be home to spend the holiday with their families. I always feel awkward around the people I spent time with in high school because I truly am a different person now. I'm sure they're different people too, and I'm also pretty sure we couldn't understand each other anymore if we tried.

College has taught me a lot of stuff. Go figure, huh? Not education stuff though. I think the most important lesson I've learned in my three and half years here is this: You've got to be happy with who you are before you can worry about what others think of you. All my life, I have based way too many of my actions and reactions on how others would think of me. Now, however, I don't give a damn what others think of me (well, people I don't care about, at least), because I've learned to be happy with who I am and to make improvements in areas of my life that I'm not happy with.

I've also learned that being "friends" with someone for years and years doesn't mean a thing. After only three years here, most of my "college friends" know me better than my "high school friends" (whom I have known, in many cases, for 16 years) ever will. Thanks to all the people I've met in the past three years who have been supportive and accepting of who I am. Somehow I found a way to be myself around you, even though it took a while. Your friendship means more to me than I can say and the thought of leaving you in a month really pisses me off.

I bowled a 56 this weekend. And no, I did not forget a "1" in front of that "56." I bowled a FIFTY-SIX in one whole game. Man, I should give lessons.

I don't think I should bowl on Saturdays at 2 PM anymore. Because do you know who bowls on Saturdays at 2 PM? Children. Children who steal the only balls that I could bowl as high as 80 or 90 with. Birthday parties, cub scouts, flag patrol kids, you name 'em. The little snot-nosed shitheads left me with an eight-pound Barbie pink ball that had holes half the size of my fingers. It was either that or a 12-pound beast. Do you realize how heavy 12 pounds is?!

However, I got over my suckiness by watching Darren obliterate those dastardly pins by throwing a very heavy ball very hard with very good form to earn a very high score. Wow. I never thought I'd be a sucker for muscles until I got myself a boy who actually had them. Now I'm a bumbling, drool-soaked fool.

Speaking of that lovely young man, would you like to know how to make my heart melt? Be a big, strong man most of the time, but every now and then slip and say something like, "I'm yours forever." Just don't be put off when I say, "What?!" in that completely incredulous tone. I love it. Really.

For at least two weeks out of of any given month, I run the risk of spontaneously bursting into tears over just about anything. Commercials, classes, blogs, thinking about starving children, dead pets, the notable lack of chocolate in my possession. You name it. Last I checked, PMS was supposed to be PRE, as in BEFORE, one's special time of the month. I'm so lucky, though, that I get it the week before, the week during and, in a super good month, for a few days after.

This is what PMS does to me: Last night while obsessively checking blogs, as I do, I started crying. For no reason. Just sitting at my computer with a bowl of boiled potatoes in front of me bawling my eyes out. Perhaps the potatoes weren't as good as I had hoped. Perhaps I'm just fucking mad.

So I realized I was crying over nothing and eventually stopped. Then I got up, dropped my fork on my laptop (that's gotta be good for it, eh?), which froze the movie I was watching and I started crying AGAIN just because it was so much work to restart my computer and find the spot I was at.

Then there's that overwhelming sense of worthlessness. The feeling that you're no good. And ugly. And need a hair cut. (I so badly need a hair cut.) And do you know what? I used to feel bad for the male kind for having to deal with us when we're in this state of craziness, but now I just feel bad for us, the female kind, for having to live with it because we have no idea when we're going to have outbursts and what could possibly set us off.

Okay, so I still sort of feel bad for men for having to put up for us, but I feel way worse for us.

I came into college more terrified of public speaking than death itself. In fact, the first "real" speech I ever gave in my freshman-level public speaking class was about an event that had changed my life. That event was a classmate of mine killing himself. As I delivered the speech, my voice quivered with fear and my knees felt weak. However, it worked well because everyone just seemed to think that I was deeply moved by the story. Little did they know I was about to cry for a very different reason.

I just gave my final presentation of my undergraduate college career and I was shocked to find myself less than nervous. No racing heartbeat, no collapsing knees, no loosening bowels. I delivered my speech with a degree of confidence I wasn't aware I had. As I took my seat, fully satisfied with my performance, I realized my fly was down and it had been down throughout the entire 15 minute speech.

I guess it's only fitting.

I called home yesterday and left a message for the dog on the answering machine, since I know she was there, lonely as can be, everyone having abandoned her. My mom called me back and told me when she played the message that my dear little mutt perked up and looked around, presumably wondering where the fuck I was and when I became omnipresent.

I think it's about time I spend a weekend at home. And the good news is...drum roll, please...that's just where I'm going on Thursday! Wahoo!

It's getting to be crunch time. Time for me to start seriously thinking about being done with school. Time for me to look for a job. Time for me to think about what my life has in store for me. Time for me to think about leaving my friends and taking off in whatever direction life takes me.

Time for me to stop shitting my pants because finishing college isn't going to kill me, after all.

Umm...it isn't, is it?

It is now week ten of the fifteen week semester. This is the very first semester of my college career that I have been able to keep track of which week of the semester it is. I usually get sixes and sevens muddled with eights and in the end I'm stupid and, in addition to being stupid, I have no idea what week it is. It makes me sad that I finally can keep tabs on the week and it'll be the very last time I do it. Of course, there may be a slight correlation between the finishing in five weeks and the constant reminding of myself that being done is only five weeks away.

In the end, I'll be a college graduate. It's not all that exciting, really. Lots of people do it. It doesn't even feel like that much of an accomplishment. Just another stepping stone in this great journey. However, I did find out last week that I'll be graduating summe cumme laude (God willing I won't fuck that up by next month), which made me rather happy. (I suppose God's not going to be willing to do much for if I continue using His name in the same sentences as profanities. Sorry, God, You're super cool!)

To deviate from that subject, I spent the weekend with Darren. And man alive do I love that kid. I didn't know anyone could tolerate me as much as he does. I think I'll do what I can to keep him around. Yeah, that's what I'll do...

We watched a total of six movies on Friday and Saturday. Sounds boring, I know, but it's the most fun I've had in a while. It was a nice, relaxing weekend and I look forward to spending another one just like it with him soon. I'm actually kind of excited to finish school and - probably - move to the Cities where, I hope, somebody will be willing to employ me. Then I'll be living in the same AREA as Darren and I'll be able to see him all the time. Plus my sister is down there, so if one of them pisses me off I can go to the other. You just can't beat that, can you?

Did you know it's election day? I bet you didn't, did you?

Seeing as I just finished voting in my very first presidential election, I feel the need to write a somewhat political entry. No, I'm not going to tell you whom I voted for, though I imagine many of you already know. And I'm not going to tell you you're great for voting like me or you're bad for not. I'm just going to tell you about something I find sad: party voting.

I was born and raised on the Iron Range, where blue-collar work is a way of life. All DFL, all the way, baby. Of course, that's confused by the conservative tendencies that monopolize the Northland.

For example...

My grandma turns 92 later this month. She is a devout Catholic. I would even venture to say that most of her life revolves around the church and its teachings, as it does with the most devout Catholics. Catholics hate abortions. Catholics hate the thought of gay marriages. Those are the two big ones that stick out in my mind, though Catholics hate so, so many liberal benchmarks. Wait, I'm sorry. That's not right. Catholics don't hate. Catholics love, but sometimes disagreements come forth as a byproduct of their love.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a Catholic too. But I kind of consider myself a part-timer. I believe what I want and sometimes I bad-mouth the church. Shh, don't tell anyone. I don't need persecution on earth because St. Peter is so kicking my ass once I'm dead.

So where was I going with this? Ah yes, Gram's a Catholic, but she's also an Iron Ranger. Her husband worked in a mine digging up iron ore throughout the majority of his adult life. So she votes Democrat, year in and year out, without even giving a second thought to other candidates. I know, I know. She's old and the liberals help old people with their dreams of cutting prescription costs and killing HMOs. My issue is the fact that her religion is more than likely the most important aspect of her life and she goes along with everything she's told to do as a Catholic, yet she votes against what the church believes.

Call me crazy, but that's what I find sad. I think people like her, who vote for a party without looking at the issues, are uninformed. I fully support people who vote for a person who they think will best exemplify their beliefs, regardless of whom that person is. What bugs the hell out of me is people who make uninformed decisions and vote for the candidate that they think everyone else is voting for.

Maybe I should support the dear old lady's decision because she's not just voting who the church is telling her to vote for. Oh hell, I'm so confused. Either way, damn it, Grandma, you should be voting for a conservative! Would THE POPE vote for Kerry?! (If he were American, I mean.)

I hope that made at least a little bit of sense.

Vote for what's important to you, people. Whatever that may be.

Sorry, Gram.