::But He's Gonna Get One...::

I don't really remember what's happening in my life, so here are some Hannah quotes that I saved on my phone.  Unfortunately, I don't remember the context entirely.

Me (after she got offended about something):  "Well someone's a little defensive, aren't yah?"
Hannah:  "How about I punch you in the face?  Then we'll see who's defensive."
I think this was just a minute later, she was probably still a little annoyed with me: "Dad wants to leave because he hates you."

When I said something like, "Well, he can't change if he doesn't want to go out with me," she said: "Well he may not want a swirly, but he's gonna get one."

I also have entered a dress design contest.  That took an absurdly long time to make, but it would totally be worth it if I won.  (The winner gets their dress made, and a free dress.  So, you know.  It's worth the risk of wasting all that time... since I don't have any time I could possibly spare here... alone... at my job...).  You can see it on facebook here along with the other dresses: beautifully modest.

And here's a random story excerpt that came to my disturbed mind one day; I read this in my creative writing class at school and most of my classmates seemed to think I was a weirdee.  It was quite funny when I finished reading it.  Everyone just stared almost as though they were disturbed, except for a couple girls who laughed and were like, "That was cool."  I think Mormons try to avoid things that are a little bizarre because they think it's Satanic or something... but personally...  I thought a few my classmates writing was risque...  and I'd rather be my bizarre self than accepted or risque.

If you're wondering if there's more after this, there isn't.  It's a scene that died right here, but I'll use it in something eventually because I like it so... and I write like a billion stories...

Terrence was sweating. A lot. He never would have guessed how suffocatingly hot it was to wear a dress with bloomers and lace and undergarments. He sure hoped that women did not sweat as much as men—and if they did—perfume was starting to mean something more to him.

He could hear a shout in the far distance: “Where is she!? KILL HER!”

It was getting dark now, the stars were coming out, and Terrence thought he could see smoke in the distance. Then he could see little orange lights and small faces just a mile or so away. They were coming. Quick.

Terrence ripped off his bodice and pulled his arms out of the sleeves of his dress. He sighed in frustration at the frilly white under-dress—what was the purpose of that anyways? Why would any sensible human being decorate something that wasn't meant to be seen? That didn't matter? (Then again, if that “sensible” human being were a woman . . . there was no end to over accomplishment.)

Terrence (immodestly) hitched up his skirt past his knees revealing hot pink, striped stockings. He wondered how well he could swim in a dress. He heard more shouts of rage as the mob rallied and grew. Terrence stared down at the black water.

He decided to try.