Fall

Fall. Autumn. Football. Colors. My birthday. Rain. Puddle jumping. Beauty. Hot chocolate. Excitement. Galoshes. Cozy blankets. Movie watching. Thanksgiving. Sweaters. Jackets. Cardigans. ALL fall clothes. Pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. More football. Halloween. Boys wearing flannel. Fabulous scarves. Partying. Carving pumpkins. New seasons of my favorite shows. Leaves in the canyon. Cornmazes. Raking leaves. Jumping in leaf piles. Raking again. Wind. Boots. Moccasins.
Seriously, I just love this season. I wish it was longer.

Fake fall.

Sometimes I absolutely can not focus on studying. Even if I have a midterm tomorrow. So I write blog posts instead.

I love fall. But some days fall forgets to show up and it hands the torch to winter. And by torch I mean icy frost.

Today was one of those days. It was beautiful. Just not fall.

Harold.

So I hang out with Harold every night. Literally. Every night last week. In fact, I'm with Harold right this second. You would think that our relationship would be getting stronger, but alas, it is the exact opposite. The more time I spend here, the more I decide that Harold and I have a love-hate relationship. Emphasis on the hate. You could say I spend an unhealthy amount of time with him.

Harold tries to offer me everything I could ever need. Yes, he does have an exorbitant amount of knowledge to share. And yes, he does occasionally allow for some hilarious memories. But overall, my time spent with Harold is anything but enjoyable. In fact, it might even be called painful. He forces me to do homework more than the normal person should. He makes me sit in uncomfortable wooden chairs. I've been told he plays music late at night, but he's never played it for me.

I definitely would love to tell Harold that I never want to see him again, but it's just one of those relationships that I am forced to continue. Sadly.

Harold, you see, has many names. He is also known as the HBLL. Or, for you non-BYUers, the Harold B. Lee Library.

We have a rocky relationship.

Sister Yoshi.

It's a really strange feeling when your best friend/roommate is old enough to open her mission call. That means she's 21. That means she's a full blown adult. That means that I'm older than I feel. Here's the story:

Kendra at 6:00: "I'm opening my mission call at 6:15!"

Kendra at 6:20: "I'm opening my mission call in half an hour!"

Kendra at 6:50: "They'll be here in 15 minutes, and then I can open my mission call!"

Kendra at 6:55: "5 more minutes! Ahhhhhhhhh!"

7:00 - Walbeck's arrive with the fated mission call.

7:01 - "Sis. Walbeck, you have been called to labor in the TOKYO, JAPAN MISSION!"

7:02 - Mass screaming ensues. Hugs are thrown about. Tears are shed.

7:03 - "Finish it! When do you leave?!"

"You will enter the Provo MTC on December 28!"

Mandy: "You won't miss the wedding! My heart almost stopped!"

The rest of the evening: Mass hysteria and happiness and phone calls and smiles and tears.

Sister Walbeck, You are the best roommate ever, and you will be the most amazing missionary. I love you. Go teach you some Asians and connect with your native country.