Some days are days of icky, irrational ticked-off-ness and general melancholy. A state that the Man in the Chair would call: blue. Those days make you feel like your life is going the opposite direction of what you want and what you want exactly alludes you. You are an un-pleaseable and unhappy creature on days like this, where you feel resentment towards everyone, you rediscover how much the overuse of the lacey cami/undershirt bothers you (oh wait . . .that's everyday . . .people, they're undershirts, as in they go under things, as in don't wear them like a regular shirt, because the shape does nothing for you, except pull and awkwardly in not attractive lace. Don't get me wrong, I love lace . . .just not the ugly hanging off those shirts) and you wish it would rain to match the storm that rages inside you. And you feel like everyone is fulfilling their dreams, while you feel stuck in a huge mud hole, called your existance and you second guess yourself on every little move you make and you become mad with envy. You despise and are insanely jealous of the day, of the world, because everyone in it seems to be together, no one but you is alone.

Today is not an example of such a day.

It is the kind of day that you glorify being part of creation, and everything beautiful and good comes to you and happens to you and everything lovely and perfect is put in your way because you deserve it. The world is magnificent for you. And every song you hear is the perfect song for the moment and your hair looks good (even if it was touch-and-go this morning) and you wear turquoise for you to see and you don't care if anyone notices because it's fun to have a secret, a pretty little secret in the form of a pile of bangles. All the people in your life are more than you could ever hope for or want, and you love, love, love them and you remember what endears them to you. There's nothing special about this day, except that it is a day . . .and you get one more of them. It's the whole "because the world is round it turns me on . . ." there doesn't need to be a reason, it just is. There's something lovely in having a reading room to yourself, looking out the window to a mountain, listening to the Beatles and writing.

Oh and I'm leaving Provo for the night.

The facts are these: there are things in my life that keep it all rolling along, keep the sanity of Caitlin Cotten in tact, keeps the MEOW at bay and breaks the monotony that can be the endless round of physical science studying and health lecture readings.
One would be watching TV via Mac Jacobs (from whom I am writing this). Who thought of it? I could hug them, kiss them on the cheek and then take them to Legends for onion rings, a burger and some Creamery chocolate milk (oh the sweet abrogia of the Gods . . .here at BYU). Especially ABC, those folks really planned with the college student (more specifically me) in mind. Every Tuesday we watch Bachelor (which I do for a giggle) and every Thursday (which could possibly be my favorite night of the week) we watch Pushing Daisies. I actually have no words. . . except: PRECIOUSNESS!!! Everything about it is precious and clever and witty and darling and perfect. I love it so much. Ned (the main guy, who can bring things back to life with his touch) is the very definition of adorable, and so is Chuck (the girl he brought back to life) and Ned's sidekick and Olive and everyone!! I love all the characters. And the costuming and the setting and the writing . . . .oh my goodness. This last week I could hardly stand how fun and wonderful it was. My perfect show . . .basically the antithesis of House, except they are both loved by me and they both make me think about what's going on and what is going to happen next? And here's another thing that would endear anyone to Pushing Daisies, the reader for the Harry Potter books also narrates the show. So there, a dear friend every Potter fan knows and loves.
Next thing would be gym time (oh the rowing machine turns jenky MEOW into holy wow!), then Target/grocery shopping time (it's so sad that the cracker aisle sends someone into a frenzy of solitary and singular joy) and then new magazines. It's a well known fact that I (like all the women in my immediate family) am a graphiholic and can't get me enough of the magazine racks at Target . . .and don't even get me started on Barns and Noble . . .I almost have a siezure from the dancing plethora of beautiful new reading material of it. Oh and packages, packages are the bits of home that I long for all the time. I love the postman, I love the US postal service and I love me a flat rate box that says: 'Caitlin Cotten, this is a container stuffed with all the joy, happiness, bliss and being taken care of you can fit, for one constant and consistant low price.' And of course this dear little secret note . . .which will be written on more now, because I understand how to go about life . . . whereas I wasn't entirely sure of it before.

So here it is and here we are and it's October and the first midterms are beginning and my place of bed and bread is in an uproar. Do you want mayhem? We've mayhem. Do you want foolishness? We've that in spades (right . . .it's spades not hearts or clubs?). These are the words that cause this upheaval in our otherwise peaceful existance: an American Heritage test. That's all I've to say about that . . .honestly.

A while ago I went to a (an?) Hari Krishna festival at this beautiful temple on a hill in the middle of . . . well just before a little place of dwelling known as Salem Utah, right by a llama farm. The place had an aura of insence and curry and fire. There were two parrot-like birds who claimed residency in the downstairs of the temple and the grey and red one would let out a high-pitched squeak every 15.56 seconds (which reminded me of the ringtone teachers supposably can't hear . . .my goal is to always be able to hear that ringtone) causing Erin to declare it a banshee bird. Did that parrot even know what it was doing? I hope it doesn't realize it's a banshee bird. We took our shoes off and stepped on the cool tile floor and for a second it was serene and peaceful and then you looked up at the pandemonium that unfolded before your eyes in the form of the gift shop: stuffed clean full of people, candle sticks, statuettes of elephants, tiny tables, tshirts, bangles (on sale . . .5 for $2!), post cards and of course racks and racks and racks of wearables. The beautiful saturated colors of saris blurred past your eyes as people climbed over each other to grab their favorite pattern and preferred size. We ventured in and I wondered it they put things in such close quarters to make you feel a small smidgen of what a real market day might feel (minus the outside, the dust, the beggars, the dancing plethora of language and humanity and basically the fact that it wasn't India). I bought a white tunic (which probably won't surprise anyone since I have a strange affinity/fetish for white shirting) that crosses in the front and ties. . .the best thing is is that I didn't have to search through the kabillions of racks for it . . .it just sat there on outer pole of one of the men's shirts rack patiently awaiting a Ginger girl to take it home. When something speaks to you in this maner I am a firm believer that you must head the call, because who knows what will happen to you or what you will make happen in that perfect perchase? Perhaps those things would occur without it . . .but isn't so much more fun to have the perchase as not (but this is only if YOU LOVE it . . .no one else can hear it for you . . .unless you faintly hear it and then they amplify the article's cries for you. This is why it is wise to shop with someone you trust.) We watched a pageant and then burned Ravanna in effigy all the while dancing and singing our joy at his demise. So there you go . . .a confirmation of something that I've always known in my heart: Gingers can be Indian too (or anything else they want to be for that matter)