In spite of all of my good fortune, however, I’ve known six people in the last three years who have committed suicide. I counted.

First was my freshman year of college, she lived down the hall from FriendBoy.

Then there were four boys from my high school — sophomores and juniors, and they all did it the same way, within 18 months of each other. One of them was my friend’s little brother and lived down the street from me.

Then a year ago, while I was having the time of my life in Madrid, a girl from my abroad program committed suicide, casting a dark shadow of reality over our fantasy world of fun and debauchery.

These people weren’t my closest friends or family, but I still knew them. They were someone’s son or daughter, best friend, grandchild, boyfriend or girlfriend, brother or sister. My life wasn’t drastically impacted by their deaths, but someone’s was.

Each time I hear about someone else, I’m filled with questions of why, what happened, how come no one noticed they were struggling?

I had to do a double take on Saturday when I saw Jarnold’s name pop up on the caller ID. I was so excited to answer the phone — one of my best friends from my semester abroad a year ago, and I hadn’t heard her voice in months.

“So I hate to be such a downer on your Saturday night, but we got an e-mail this morning saying that Lisa died…”

What?

No.

She didn’t.

She couldn’t.

But she did.

A girl from my program of 90 students is gone, and she’s the second one. Two percent of us, just gone.

I have no idea how she died yet, but it doesn’t matter. I’m scared — terrified — that one of these days it will be someone from my family, one of my best friends, that I get a phone call about, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I’d like to think that my friend and I are close enough that we’ll notice when something is off, when someone is struggling more than usual. I’d hope that we would confide in one another, seek out support and not let someone off the hook with an “I’m fine, don’t worry.” I’d like to believe that I could see through the veil of denial.

But what about accidents? What about disease and illness and drunk drivers and airplane crashes? What about the millions of things that are out of my control?

So today, because there is little else I can do, I vow to fully appreciate those around me, and enjoy everything they bring to my life. I promise to embrace their energy and their passion and their quirks, because I love them for them. I commit to embarking on adventures with them, surprising them with visits and cards and cupcakes, having impromptu dance parties and staying up late to share secrets, even when it means being tired in class the next day. I refuse to let a day go by without them knowing how much I love them and how important they are to me, because I don’t want to regret not saying it.

Some say death reminds you of our humanity, of our own limitations and finite existence. They say it inspires us to live each day to its fullest, because we never know if it will be our last.

But I say death reminds me of my friends’ humanity, and it inspires me to live each day to its fullest with them, because really — who am I without them?

I registered for classes this week, for the last time ever. I will never again have to plan out a block schedule, figure out which requirements I need to fulfill this semester, or stalk ratemyprofessor.com to see who the hot easy professors are.

Now I’m almost done. I’m graduating in May, never to return to school again. (Until I decide to torture improve myself with grad school.) I feel like I should be excited by my accomplishment, be proud of how far I’ve come and how well I’ve done. Instead I feel underwhelmed.

I’m not inspired in class anymore. None of the classes offered this semester interest me in the slightest. I don’t feel as though I’m going to learn something so earth-shattering that allofasudden, in that moment, I will finally be qualified to find a job. I doubt I will be that much smarter, that much wiser, that much more well-equipped when I walk across the stage in May than I am right now.

I’m more excited about the prospect of getting OUT OF HERE than of the fact that I’ll have actually earned a Bachelor’s degree. Sure I love my school, and I think that picture proves that autumn in New England is unreal,* but I’m eager to put my knowledge to use and to get out of the classroom. I’m passionate about so many things — nonprofits, philanthropy, social media, using online communities for social change, ALL OF IT. I’m ready to stop talking about it and DO IT.

I know, I know — I should be cherishing these last few months because pretty soon I’m going to be thrust into The Real World to fend for myself, the world of Responsibilities and Bills and Obligations. The scary world.

Except I’m not scared.

I’m ready for the challenge. I crave something new and interesting and out of the ordinary. I long for a new city, new people, new smells and sounds and tastes. I want to know what it feels like to put in your 8 hours at the office and be DONE, to not have another paper, some more reading that you always could be doing.

But while I sit here and whine, I should probably confess that I really don’t have much to whine about. In fact, many of you will probably want to switch places with me, because my second semester senior year consists of 3.5 classes.

Well, only 2 real classes plus 1.5 that are useless.

One math class (TBD) so I can graduate. Public Opinion and Foreign Policy (to finish my Political Science major) so I can graduate. African drumming (to get that last half credit of World Civilization) so I can graduate. And a pass/fail photography class (to take pretty pictures and get back in the darkroom) so I can have enough credits to be considered a full-time student.

So with that schedule, and no classes on Friday, who wants to trade?

* Yes, that is my campus. Gorgeous, right?

Since the venue was a little far away and we didn’t have cars, we needed to plan our public transportation wisely. The boys insisted on taking care of all of this, figuring out which commuter rail train we needed to be on and even arranging for a taxi from the train station to the stadium. (Nowadays the stadium has its own stop, making this trip infinitely less complicated.)

We made it to the concert just in time to see Kanye West open, and enjoyed a night of dancing to the Stones like rocker chicks pretending to be rocker chicks. After we got out of the concert, however, things started to fall apart.

We had roughly an hour to make the 10 minute drive from the stadium to the train station in order to catch the last train back to school. To avoid traffic and congestion, the taxi company told us to meet them at a gas station where all of their cabs were congregating, so we started walking south per their directions.

Or so we thought.

Turns out the boys had turned us north, and we managed to walk 25 minutes in the wrong direction before realizing their mistake. We were kind of stuck — by this time, even if we made it to the gas station, we would probably miss our train. We tried calling hotels in the area, figuring it would be cheaper to spend the night than to take a cab alllll the way back to school. No luck, all the rooms were booked.

By this time, Roomie was near tears thinking we were going to have to spend the night in the woods. The boys were still looking at each other, confused as to how we ended up in the wrong direction because all men have perfect internal compasses. I, being the calm and rational and responsible one, started plotting.

I spotted two Massachusetts state troopers up ahead who had just finished directing traffic out of the parking lot. I told everyone to shut up and let me do the talking. I went up to them, told them (in my sweetest, most innocent voice) that we had a small problem: we missed our train and didn’t know how we were going to get back to school.

After them making fun of us a bit for being smarty-pants college kids who couldn’t seem to find their way home, the man turned to the woman, told her to finish up there while he did a good Christian deed and drove us back.

We hopped into the police cruiser (me in the front, of course, because I EARNED IT), and this nice officer drove us 45 minutes back to school, going 100 mph down the Mass Pike the whole time. He wouldn’t let us pay him or anything, so we got his business card and sent him a nice sweatshirt with our school logo on it as a thank you.

It was quite the eventful night, and needless to say my parents were less than thrilled when I told them of the adventures I had, seeing as how they had dropped me off at school safe and sound less than a month before. But all’s well that ends well, right? Besides, it makes a great story, don’t you think?

Do you have any crazy adventure stories or times when you thought you were royally screwed?

Note: I’ve been having problems with my RSS feed I think, so I’ve transitioned over to Feedburner finally. I know, I know, I should have done it ages ago. Get off my case. But if you could just click this adorable little elephant and resubscribe to these words of mine (using the RSS reader of your choosing) I would love you forever. AND EVER AND EVER AND YOU’LL NEVER GET RID OF ME.

Derek recently wrote a thought-provoking post about who we, as bloggers, are. He said, “We, as authors, bloggers… We are not who our blogs say we are.” And he’s right. I am not who I am on the Internet — I’m so much more.

In both of my worlds, I try to be honest. I write and speak truthfully and will never shy away from difficult discussions or questions. I share my real life world in the internet easily, but I’m not so forthcoming about my online world in my real life.

I’m struggling with this. I can no longer deny that I am a blogger. I am proud of it, I love it, and I wouldn’t change it. But where do I draw the line? Only recently did I tell my two best friends about this place. It was getting hard to keep it a secret, especially after traveling to DC and spending so much time this summer with amazing Chicago bloggers.

I want to be out. I want to tell people I have a blog, let them into this world that I enjoy so much.

But I’m scared.

I’m worried that my outlet will be gone, that my release, my secret hiding spot will be contaminated. Where will I share my secrets? Where will I gossip about dates and boys and weekend silliness? Where will I put my fears into writing in the hopes that the words will inspire me to conquer them?

I could password protect posts, but I would hate to leave anyone out.

I could go balls to the wall and just do it and take a chance that a potential employer will see it and not hire me, or that I will hurt one of my friends or someone in my family.

I so admire people like Doni who made the transition from anonymity to openness. I want that, but I think I need to take baby steps. I value my privacy too much at the moment. I’m not ready for everything I write to be broadcast to the world, with my name attached front and center.

How do you blog? How do you reconcile your private life with your online life?

I know this because I drove to Delaware on Friday. And then I drove home on Saturday.

Bee’s best friend from high school goes to UD, and she’s been dying for us to come visit. So we finally hopped in the car and hauled our asses south.

Let me just say — the University of Delaware was not prepared for us.

Upon our arrival, we headed immediately to Happy Hour at a Mexican restaurant where it only took two delicious margaritas before I was drunk. Not tipsy — DRUNK.

(By the way, each margarita was only $3. MIND BLOWN.)

We showered, dressed, and stopped by a house for some beirut and some pregaming before heading to a bar called Timothy’s.

If we had a Timothy’s near my school, I would be fat and I would be an alcoholic.

It’s basically a huge bar with a dance party on the second floor. The DJ plays all night and drinks are $2. YES I SAID $2 AS IN $1 plus $1 = A VODKA CRANBERRY.

The only way I can justify this cheap alcohol is that Delaware is tempting people to come live there, because otherwise it makes NO SENSE.

Bee found a hot boy to make out with, and I spent my night dancing with a celebrity.

(Well, not a real celebrity. But he looked exactly like my favorite character from Criminal Minds, so it was close enough.)

When the bar closed, we disappeared mysteriously into the night with not so much as a goodbye to our men. It was all very dramatic and exciting, especially when Bee’s friend got a text the next morning inquiring on the boys’ behalf whether we were staying for another night. WIN.

We hit the road on Saturday afternoon and spent the rest of the weekend recovering, as you can probably imagine.

What I loved most about this weekend was being at a big school like Delaware. When it came to my college choices, it was narrowed down to my quaint little Division III school or a major state university. I ended up at the small school, choosing academics over the party and athletic scene. I love it here, but wonder what life would have been like if I was immersed in tailgates, happy hours, and thousands of other students.

What was your college experience like? Did you go big or stay small?

But not as strong as you think I am. Not as strong as I pretend to be.

When you cut me, I bleed. When you push me, I fall. When you hit me, I bruise. When you hurt me, I cry.

I just never let you see the wounds you cause.

Instead I hurt alone, because I’m too proud to tell you the truth – that I’m fragile, that I’m real, that you have power over my emotions.

I’m a fantastic actress. I put on a great show to hide the fact that I’m vulnerable, that you have the ability to hurt me. It’s a beautifully crafted façade designed to shield me from your fickle emotions and empty words, yet I am defenseless against you. You unknowingly and effortlessly penetrate the walls of protection I’ve built, as if they are walls of ice and you are the sun.

Maybe one day I will scream at you and tell you how much I hate you, and how dare you treat me like this, that I deserve so much better and that you’re not the man I thought you were. But for now I’m done with you. You no longer deserve my thoughts or emotions or time.

One day you’ll realize who you’ve lost.

I’m not talking about a “grrr get out of here I’m sleeping and if you want to keep your genitalia intact you’ll leave 10 seconds ago” kind of freak out.

I’m talking about screaming and tears and terror kind of freak out.

FriendBoy and I obviously found this hysterical and it became our new favorite prank. It was only expounded by the fact that Roomie had a knack for falling asleep in the middle of doing something, like watching a movie at 11 pm, with the lights on and people hanging out in the room.

We put her through this torture many times before we finally caught it on camera sophomore year.

(FriendBoy wakes her up while I film and laugh in a squeaky voice.)

This was a pretty mild reaction from her — I think she’s finally desensitized. The first time he did it, we had no idea what would happen. She ended up sitting straight up, screaming bloody murder, with tears streaming down her face.

Who wants to live together?

1. Taste tester: Need to try out a new recipe? Unsure if a dish contains nuts you’re allergic to? Want some feedback on a new flavor of ice cream you created? Call me. I’ll try it. I’m not allergic to any foods and I love eating, so I’m basically your ideal candidate.
2. Nap taker: Don’t have the time to get in those 8 hours of shut eye each night? Need a quick cat nap at work? I’ll be happy to absorb your extra hours of sleep. You just invent a way to transfer the restful feeling from me to you, and I’ll be happy to put in the legwork (bedwork?) to get you on your way to feeling refreshed and rejuvenated.
3. TV watcher: I watch a lot of TV, and I wish I could watch more. It’s just so easy. I don’t discriminate either — I’ll watch anything. Real Housewives of New York City,  HGTV, Tool Academy, Law and Order: SVU, Glee, Man vs. Wild… I have diverse tastes. Someone please pay me to do this.
4. Form filler-outer: You know those forms at the doctor’s office where you have to check off all your medical history and it seems like they ask you the same questions EVERY time you’re there because they’ve probably forgotten your answers or lost your answers in a paper shuffle? I love that shit. I love filling out forms and would gladly take those off your hands. Same goes for surveys — I never turn down a survey. Call me a nerd, but you know you wish you didn’t have to waste your time on silly things like that so for a small generous fee, I’ll do it for you!
5. Life coach: My unwavering optimism makes me an ideal life coach. Failing classes? No problem — you can do it! On the verge of a divorce? There are plenty of fish in the sea! Got fired from your job? Look how much free time you have now to sleep and watch TV and fill out forms! Depressed about something? Stop whining and be happy!

If anyone comes across any of these job listings, you just let me know. I’ll be forever grateful, and might even fill out your forms for free for a discount.

If you could create your own perfect job, what would it be?

Last Saturday evening, however, Bee and I combined our ability to entertain ourselves with our single girl status and created an infallible scientific formula for our perfect husband.

First, we made a list of 12 guys we know that we want to marry. These are guys we have no interest in dating, or hooking up with, but for some reason when their name comes up we go all, “Awww he’s so great, I want to marry him!”

Second, we made a list of 12 superlative-esque characteristics, like “Best dinner party host” and “Little league dad”.

Third, we assigned each boy their own superlative based on what we think they would be best at. (So the outgoing charmer got “Best dinner party host” and the responsible and athletic one got “Little league dad”, etc.)

Fourth, we chose our top 5 five superlative characteristics and weighted the importance of each one by percent (totaling 100%).

Finally, we matched the percent of our top 5 superlatives with the guy we had assigned them to earlier to create our perfect formula for a husband. It looked a little something like this:

20% of Boy 1 + 25% of Boy 2 + 15% of Boy 3 + 15% of Boy 4 + 25% of Boy 5 = Our Ideal Partner

Before you judge us, just try it yourself. You’d be surprised at how accurately it turns out.

Also, someone save me. This is a slippery slope and before you know it I’ll be the crazy cat lady who answers the door in her underwear and all the kids in the neighborhood are afraid of.

That actually doesn’t sound like such a bad idea…

Over the summer, this boy and I were chatting and he mentioned he was going to visit his ex-girlfriend, and he thought they might get back together. I congratulated him, told him I was happy for him, and I genuinely was. Why? Because this boy and I had NEVER HAD A RELATIONSHIP. No relationship whatsoever. No feelings, no lovey dovey phone calls or e-mails, nothing. Just sexy texts and one delicious evening in a Manhattan hotel room.

That conversation took place almost three months ago, and we haven’t spoken since.

So imagine my surprise when I received the following e-mail on Sunday night:

Given the interactions we’ve had in the past, I really do not think it is appropriate or fair to my current relationship that you and I have any kind of contact.  I have made more than a few indiscretions in my past, and have not been honest to people that matter to me now about everything that has happened between us.

In order for me to move on and make sure that I can know with certainty that I’ve cut out any kind of temptation or attachment that remains from our previous interactions, I ask that we do not have any contact of any kind so please do not call or text or IM me.  I need to move on to the things and people who are most important to me and I can only do this if I honestly and entirely cut off connections with some parts of my past.

The end. That’s it. No introduction, no name, no polite greeting. Just that e-mail.

Are you as taken aback as I was? No? What about if I told you he also unfriended me on Facebook and blocked me on Twitter. Confused yet? ME TOO.

After some reflecting and laughing and discussing with my resident expert, we decided a few things:

1. I was definitely not the only one that received that e-mail. My name was nowhere to be found, and our texts were described as generic “interactions”.
2. There had to be a girlfriend or priest or therapist that was also BCC’d on that e-mail as proof that he sent it.
3. Even though my first instinct was to be offended, that e-mail very clearly had NOTHING to do with me.
4. This boy’s girlfriend is “evil”, and Peter wants to meet her.

But really? I’m just so confused. I get that it wasn’t about me, but I hate the insinuation that I’m someone who would deliberately contact a taken man, or intentionally sabotage a relationship. I never suspected that I would get an e-mail like this, especially not such a curt and formal one from someone I’ve known for a while.

Oh well – c’est la vie, right? He definitely knows about this little blog, but I presume that since he wants no contact with me he won’t be checking. If he reads this, well… I’m sorry. Except not. Because I didn’t deserve that and it was completely transparent. But best of luck.

Has anyone else been blacklisted by e-mail? Have you ever blacklisted someone?

NOTE: Instead of playing around with my old theme to make it cleaner, I just found a completely new one to try out. I’ll have to come up with an image to display instead of my giant face… Perhaps Maxie can rework the great headers she created for me yesterday. (Click through your reader to see her artwork. There are 3 of them so make sure you experience them all. They’re amazing.)