Be Happy

When I listen to this song, I just have to get up and dance:



The best part is the bridge: Can't nothin bring me down,/ can't nothin bring me down...

I'm trying to just be happy.  It's kind of hard to do.  Not worry about things not being completely figured out, just totally resting in God and enjoying the now.

I really need to be working on this article.  In a bad way.  But first I have to gush about all of this stuff.

I talked to my professor today about my trip to Boston. I was totally nerding out. She started name dropping like mad, telling me all of the scholars and writers that she was going to introduce me to...oh, my God.  I could not contain my nerdish glee.  I have to buy a couple of books so I can get stuff signed!  I'm really big on getting books signed.  I'm going to be in nerd heaven for two whole weeks.  I cannot wait.

I am totally enamored.  Can I admit that?  I love the sound of his voice and the way he says stuff with his Western Pennslyvanian accent.  "Are you cool'd?"  (How it sounds to me if he's asking if I'm cold.)  "I have to go to my office to get this foolder."  I love how he adjusts his glasses.  I love his dimple.  I love how long his eyelashes are.  I love the determined look on his face when he's bent over his laptop doing work (and when I'm not, obviously, if I'm observing him).  I get to prayer on time on Wednesday nights now because of him.  I know who Sufjan Stevens is because of him.  We speak in Spanish to each other and directly translate things and laugh about it.  Every day I hear that I'm beautiful.  Every day I hear that I'm loved.  I love that he loves things that I love.  Like picnics.  Like playing the guitar.  Like Nutella.  Like cream soda.  Like a large one topping pizza from Papa John's on Tuesdays for only $4.99 topped with amazing slightly spicy peppers canned by his mom. I got a tambourine because of him.  I can be weird and nerdy and indecisive and hyper and my hair can look terrible and he doesn't care.  He says that I'm the best and that he's the luckiest.

I got my official letter in the mail from the Graduate School telling me that I've been officially admitted to candidacy!  It's totally up on my fridge right now.

I need to do work.  But I don't want to.  But I have to.  But I want to go to sleep and wrap myself up in my blanket and eat slice after slice of my pound cake.  Of course I gave some to my bespectacled, freckled, dimpled guy, but not a lot.  I refuse to be held responsible for letting my man blow up.  Naw, son.  Not gonna let it happen.