Overheard at the Zemaitis-Family-Tree Water Cooler:

My 17-year-old cousin: I’m really upset that I won’t get to vote for the first black American President.

My mom: Maybe you can take comfort in the fact that you’re young enough that you’ll be able to vote for the second one.

Writer’s block is a bitch. No, I don’t mean, “female dog.” I mean, “that girl that cuts in front of you in line at Murphy’s and orders 7 drinks for her skank-ass friends.”

For the past month or so, I have been eating a “Gotta Have It” sized portion of Writer’s-Block-Cake-Batter Ice Cream. Writer’s block isn’t some metaphysical condition where you’ve angered the gods and you pray to fairies to sprinkle ideas into your head while you sleep. Inspiration does play a part in the writing process, but it’s not everything.

Writer’s block is creative laziness.

I work full-time. I come home from my 8 hour day. What do I do? Work on a sketch? Tweak a play? Blog on the Lowdown, one of the 217’s latest blogs subliminal message go read it subliminal message?

I turn on Bravo. And watch hours of reality competition shows.

Then I go to bed.

Lather.

Rinse.

Brain rot.

I just don’t feel like writing. I’m tired.

So much of great writing is work. You vomit your thoughts on paper like a sorority girl at Kam’s, but then you gotta clean it up. You actually have to write drafts. In college, I got so used to churning out a decent paper on the first try that this whole “revision” concept is tough to grasp.

I would like to officially declare my writer’s block dead. This week, I finished up a draft of a one-act play I’ve been tinkering with for the past 4 months. This play was a challenge to write. Unlike my previous plays, which have essentially been extended episodic sketches, this one actually has, ya know, relationships and emotional development yadda yadda yadda. But I finally finished it, as frustrating as the process was. And I can’t wait to submit it to the Penny Dreadful Players’ upcoming 10-minute play festival.

Speaking of which, so should you. Every year, my theater troupe does a 10-minute play festival featuring original writing by students. Be creative. Write something. I assure you that you have something interesting to say. We all do. Send your submissions to pdpsubmissions@gmail.com. Deadline is Friday, y’all, so get on it.

If you say you’ve got writer’s block

no excuse.

This LITERALLY happened to me.

Hey there, kiddos, Triple Entendre here. I must apologize for being MIA lately. But enough about Sri Lankan rappers. I’ve had a crazy couple of weeks lately involving transitioning to full-time hours at my current job (academic hourly, what what), a job interview for a big-girl job, and accepting a job offer for said big-girl job (health insurance, what what). In the midst of this craziness, I have neglected you, oh wonderful 217 readers. I swear I was thinking about you the entire time. Let’s never fight again.

A few announcements:

1. God exists. For proof, see above.

2. I will be making my post-graduate debut in the group that I never really left - Fishing with Dynamite sketch comedy. We’ve gone “professional” which means that we’ve stopped pretending that we might use any of the resources the University offers to RSO’s, and that the group’s new executive producer Jon Hansen will have a heart attack at 30 — only one more year to go, Johnny boy! It also means we are going to have a kickass show with a capital “Sha-zaam!” this Thursday (TOMORROW) at the Canopy Club. Doors open at 6 pm for Debono improv, and Fishing goes on at 7 pm. Be sure to get there early to catch Debono, and to make sure you get a seat. Tickets are 5 bones at the door. Dollar bills are also accepted.

3. I will be taking a brief hiatus from Triple Entendre. Now, now, settle down. I SAID SETTLE DOWN PEOPLE! I shall

The first result when you google image search “Triple Entendre.”

return, but for a bit I will be working on a side project on the217. I’m not stopping Triple Entendre by any means, but in the next few weeks, you might not see many posts. What will be the Postal Service to my Death Cab for Cutie? The Ranconteurs to my White Stripes?

The Lowdown, a new blog that recently launched here on thegrandole217.com. It’s a blog with multiple contributors that post about a mish-mash of topics being discussed on the world wide interweb — politics, movies, music, current events, gossip, William Shatner, you name it. I’ll be blogging alongside Charlie “Pessimistic Cynicism” Johnson, Sarah “Hey, I used to have another blog on this site too!” Clemmons, Neel “Frat Boy Lost in Urbana” Chemburkar, and Elle “The Producer of the217″ Destree . The best part for you is that with the 4 of us using our powers for the good of mankind, you’ll never have to go a day without another 217 blog update. In other words, you’ll never have to start your homework when you say you will again.

Every 217 reader’s reaction.

Some people use their blogs to plug Super Fantabulous Gay BBQs. However, I am morally and politically opposed to BBQ’s. It’s a thing I have against acronyms.

Therefore.

I want to use this little corner of the interweb to remind you all about

The Study Abroad Fair
Thursday September 4
Illini Media Center (4th floor)
11-4 pm

I work for both the Study Abroad Office and Illini Media, so it’s like two parts of my life I try to keep separate colliding in a champaign supernova in the sky (oasis-related pun intentional).

Studying abroad is as cool as key lime pie, and you might remember that I listed it as one the things you need to do before you graduate. If you want to cross that off your list, the Study Abroad Fair is a great place to get started. All of our advising staff will be there, but tons of representatives from outside provider programs, Peace Corps, Financial Aid Office, IPENG, and much much more. Students who have studied abroad will be there as well, so you can get the story straight from the internationally aware horse’s mouth.

Oh, I should probably mention that the thoughts and views expressed on this blog do not represent those of the Study Abroad Office. Except the one that you should go to the Study Abroad Fair. For more info about our fabulous study abroad office, go here.

Just go. Or else I spent time putting up posters for nuffin.

Well folks, it’s official: The Chancellor hates the Greek system. I can’t wait for his annual e-mail in late February telling us how awesome Unofficial is, and pointing out the best tips for staying drunk all day.

The whole sha-bang is still being pieced together, as I write this, but a bunch of University e-mail addresses got a fake e-mail from Chancy H talking about, essentially, how fucking stupid the Greek system is. The public relations department then sent out a legit mass e-mail telling us that the Chancy e-mail was a fake. As if we didn’t get that from the fact that he signed it as “GDI,” aka “God Damn Independent” aka “some one not associated with a frat or sorority,” aka, “seriously, does anyone actually use that term?”

Talk about a public relations nightmare. This school is funded by three primary areas: 1) engineer alums 2) Greek alums and 3) Greek engineer alums. I ain’t no math magician, but something tells me this will affect donor relations with at least 2/3 of our Moneybags McGees. Not to mention the element of safety. What does it mean when some one can pose as the esteemed Chancy? I’m interested to hear more about how this whole deal went down and how they did it, and what that means for University security.

But let’s be honest. You thought it was kind of cool.

Because everyone secretly wants to be a hacker. People fantasize about 1) pulling off a successful heist and 2) having the ability to hack into files. At least with the latter, you don’t have to shoot anyone. Usually. You know it’s true. You want to be in a scenario where someone hatches a plot of some sort, and dammit, they can’t do it without your tech-savviness and contempt for authority! You want to be in that scene from that movie where the hacker clickity-clacks a few computer keys and gains access to records and somehow manages to uncover a government conspiracy. Hell, I know I do, but I’m still trying to figure out Excel. I’m not condoning what was done (and I should probably disclaim that neither does Illini Media, its affiliates, the rest of the University, my mom, etc) but there is a part of our messed up minds that takes pleasure in things like that. I learned about it in my English Literary Criticism course. Something about Freud or Nietzsche or death drive or waking up as a giant cockroach. It’s a little fuzzy, but basically, the reason we secretly revere these sorts of things is because we are stuck in our oppressive societal constructs, so it strikes a chord in us when we see someone doing something they shouldn’t be, even if it’s wrong. It’s kind of like when you’re watching Fight Club, and you sort of root for the anti-heroes for the first 2/3 of the movie.

Plus, the Greek system is pretty fucking stupid. I agree with everything Bizzarro Chancy said. Remember, prospective Greek pledges: You shouldn’t feel like you have to pay money to make friends. You go to U of I. You already are!

At first I got giddy when I thought the Chancy had had a moment of inspired badassedry and decided to send up the Greek system. Like, he’d gotten really sauced and had one of those moments like in Jerry Macguire where he decided to tell everyone what he really thought. Once I realized it’d obviously been faked, my next thought was “Woah, this is just like Pump Up the Volume! Revolution!”

You Christian Slater wannabes will most likely get caught in the next few days, and that’ll probably suck for you bigtime. But at least when you’ve been kicked out of the University and facing jail time or whatever, you can remember that most of us were secretly jealous of you for a while.

Don’t drop the soap,
GDI Triple Entendre

p.s. Please don’t hack into my blog. (You’ve been hacked. –Ed.)

Officials have released this sketch of the suspect for the e-mail hoax. He is considered extremely dangerous, and slightly reminiscent of a young Jack Nicholson at times.

I found some old love letters in my drawer the other week when I was packing up my life. I was sifting through the bits of paper I’d accumulated in my two years at 505 S. Busey Ave. I separated mementos from yellowed DIs, syllabi I had kept for no apparent reason, and notebooks filled with bad ideas for plays instead of actual notes. One pile for “keep” and one pile for “garbage.” I sat on my bed, with the orange and blue striped comforter that I didn’t realize were my school colors until after I’d purchased it at K-Mart two years ago — tricked myself into showing school spirit.

I found some old love letters. Perhaps “love notes” would be the better descriptor. Scribbles of emotions and thoughts, perhaps? Nonchalant words of legitimate feelings written on paper to fill the space between the greeting and the closing.

They were time capsules. Archaic tokens to help us re-construct the past. Artifacts to explain a history to a stranger. Proof of a era gone. Evidence. That there was once a time when you gave a shit about me, and I gave a shit about you. Irrefutable.

I read them.

I tossed them into the “keep” pile.

I continued packing.

A certain electricity is crackling in the Champaign-Urbana air today. The sweet smell of anticipation hangs in the sky. An itch is lingering over the skin of every inhabitant. And no, for once, it’s NOT chlamydia.

The freshmen. They’re coming. And so is everyone else that decided to go elsewhere for the summer. Can you see the sides of the Quad bulge, and the cracks in the sidewalk widening? Because this place is about to explode like a cat in a microwave and turn into the Great American Singin’ and Dancin’ Shit Show Variety Hour. This Champaign is about to pop its cork.

Get it? It’s a pun. An entendre, if you will.

It’s beginning as we speak. Last night, I saw more people on the intersection of Green and Wright than I have all summer. By “more people,” I mean “about 15,” but that’s about 10 more than I normally see. More and more people have facebook statuses akin to “Lisa is OMG I just moved into my new apt and I love it, my gurls are gonna rock it this year!!!”

I’m excited to see this place transform into a living, breathing organism. The Quad will suddenly become a microcosm of frisbee and fire-and-brimstone preachers telling me I’ll go to hell for not believing in God, when in actuality there’s much more interesting reasons why I’ll be going to hell. I’m also looking forward to seeing how many fliers I can throw away on the Quad this year!

However.

It all feels very bittersweet. I am possessive and protective of my Champaign-Urbana summer. I’ve grown accustomed to warm, quiet nights, a small and steady group of (mostly) sober regulars, and more importantly, the Murphy’s summer logo special. And come Thursday, freshmen move-in day, all that will end. The nights will be filled with the smell of ice bombs and vomit, and the sounds of shrieking sorority girls, booming bro-hams, and freshmen making mistakes. And all those friends I’ve created unique bonds with (spending a summer in Champaign is kind of like being in a war together, except for the fact that it’s absolutely nothing like war)? I’m gonna have to share them now. AND DAMMIT, I WANT $2 BLUE MOONS EVERYDAY, NOT JUST THURSDAY NIGHTS, AND I DON’T WANT TO WAIT IN LINE!

And as for the freshmen. Well. I think my friend Charlie put it best when he said, “Fuck, I’m gonna have to make friends with freshmen this year? GODDAMIT!” I’m currently playing a game of life limbo, and these incoming freshmen are 12-year old Chinese Olympic gymnasts — I’ll automatically feel defeated, and want to dispute their legitimacy to be here. I’m old balls (aka, an “alum”) so I don’t feel the obligation like I did this time last year to show the youngsters the ropes and take them under my wing. I am more inclined to sit in the wings and observe their hedonistic tailspins into adulthood, while quietly sipping on whiskey, and letting the string of smoke from my cigarette drift over my face as I make cynical, cryptic remarks and dark techno music plays in background. I don’t actually smoke, but I will still hold a lit cigarette as a prop in order to adequately create this image. And someone find me some dark techno music, quick!

At the very least, the freshmen influx will serve as a reminder to all of us jaded alums and upperclassmen of the inherent possibility and opportunity that surrounds us. And that Station sucks. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. Seriously, don’t go there.

But I look forward to rekindling friendships that were put on ice for the summer, feeling the energy of a campus bursting at the seams (not including the freshmen 15), and seeing how the future molds us. I’ll get used to the hustle and bustle quicker than it takes a freshman to wake up in someone’s else bed and remember the name of the person next to them.

Or I might not even live here, and not have to deal with any of that shit. Please life, get figured out soon.

It’s the end of the summer. And hopefully, the beginning of many other things.

Get ready.

This picture is metaphorical not only for the sudden influx of freshmen, but also for fun mistakes they might make!

So, I wrote a blog this weekend. About bats. Vampire bats, to be exact. They’ve caused an outbreak of rabies-related deaths in Venezuela. Quite sad, actually. But I wrote a meta-paranoid blog about how this is proof that vampires exist and are plotting to create the apocalypse. It could have been quite clever. But, truly, it was shit.

I didn’t write it because I was inspired. I didn’t write it because I had an important life experience that I felt was interesting or funny enough to share with you, or because I felt it would make a comment on religion, sex, or any of the other forces that drive our lives in the contemporary moment.

I wrote it because I thought it would distract me from the real world.

You see, I’ve had the real world on the brain lately. I’m not referring to the true story of seven strangers picked to live a house, have their lives taped, find out what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real. I mean events and decisions that will determine, at minimum, the next year of my life. This is a very exciting time in my life because there is so much possibility, but it is at the same time absolutely frightful. I’m finally at the point where I’ve been setting up and going to job interviews, which in and of itself is a wonderful step in my life. But the prospect of possibly having to make a decision about my life scares the living bejezzus out of me. I also spent the weekend at my parents’ house in the suburbs, aka, that place where I have no friends and nothing to do except watch a marathon of “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” and nap. And when I start to think about things like that with nothing to occupy my time, the thoughts build and build and build, until my mind is consumed by “what-ifs” and hypothetical situations.

And it started to get ridiculous. My mind started to run like a choose-your-own-adventure book (which by the way, is sort of a fitting metaphor for the post-college transition). So I decided that writing a blog about a completely different topic would get my mind off matters, and result in a much better perspective. Plus, I’d have written a blog, so that’s productive, right?

WRONG. I wrote this blog, and (pun not intended, but definitely appreciated) it sucked. It sucked vampire balls.

Because I have to write about what’s on my mind. I can’t write something in an attempt to replace my current thoughts; I can only displace them onto paper or a computer screen. It is then that they take a tangible form and make sense. It is then that I can work out the problem in my head and begin to think like a rationale human being again. If I’m thinking about vampire bats and write about vampire bats, it’ll be the best damn piece about vampire bats that you’ve ever read in your life, and you can quote me on that. But thinking about your future and writing about bats is just stupid.

It’ll drive you … batty? Hmmm?

When I write, I need to let whatever’s inside of me at the current moment pour out. Normally this results in something humorous, since I’d like to think I have a sense of fun and joy pumping through my blood usually, and I constantly want the surreal situations I have bouncing inside my twisted mind to become reality (if you’ve seen my Liza sketches at a Fishing with Dynamite show, you know what I’m talking about). And when I wrote about Jesus camp, it’s because Jesus camp was on my mind. And when I wrote about sex ed, it’s because I read an article about abstinence-only education and remembered how much that pisses me off. But in the rarer times when I’m overwhelmed with heartbreak, or depression, or anger, I need to let this live on paper too.

Once I puke out my mind-guts on paper, then the shaping begins. Edit edit edit, tweak tweak tweak. I know at times it might seem like this blog is word vomit glued on a web site, but I assure you I take great detail in arranging that word vomit just so. And I take pride in the writing I release to the public, so I wasn’t going to let a post laced with dumb jokes and allusions to Buffy represent me in the interweb. Which is what I decided when I took a second look at it during the editing process.

I don’t know why I decided to try to be “cute” when I didn’t feel like it, or why I wrote about bats. There were so many other things going through my head that I would have rather written about and somehow developed into an entertaining blog: how I watched SNL’s Best of Chris Farley last night, and I thought about how the funniest comedians tend to have these really dark, tragic sides to them that no one ever really sees. I don’t put myself into the same realm as these great funnypeople, but I see myself having similar characteristics, like using humor to hide pain. Or I’d rather write about my interesting bus ride home to the suburbs, where I sat next to and talked to a black man from the ghettos of Chicago who made me realize how privileged my white middle-class ass is. Or I’d rather write about how obsessed I’ve been lately with the musician Ben Lee, and how I can’t stop thinking about the significance of his lyric “And they all say that to pour, it has to rain,” which makes me think of how things sometimes have to get shitty before they get really awesome, which goddamn, I hope is true.

I guess what I’m really trying to say is, I tried writing a blog about vampires, and it was really bad.

And I hope this one was better.

Thanks, Ben!

Hey folks, long time no blog. I apologize for my lack of witty musings and paranoid confessions lately. After the wedding, my life took a sudden turn for the stressed out and confused. We are talking Britney-and-K-Fed chaotic. I kind of had to get some space from a few personal issues before I wrote about them. When I tried writing a blog in the midst of them, everything came out whiny and angry and rambling. And this is not TeenOpenDiary. This is Triple Entrendre. KA-ZAAM!

(Angry, whiny Mary disappears in a cloud of smoke)

So let me tell you about my life lately.

A little more than a week ago, this is what I held to be true: I was going to have a gay old time at my sister’s wedding, ride out the rest of my lease in Chambana, move back home, get a job in Chicago, and find an apartment with my Lez-Be-Friends-4-Life Amy and Kathryn, and live happily ever after in our bat-shit-crazy-single-women haven we would create.

Oh, what a difference a week makes.

A few hours before my sister’s wedding rehearsal, Amy and Kathryn hit me with the Hiroshima-sized bomb that they would both be accepting (good) job offers here in Champaign and were hustling to find an apartment.

I also almost fainted at my sister’s wedding out of exhaustion, in case you were wondering. But I digress.

I’ve tried to write this blog many times in the past 10 days, and I’ve failed every time. What makes this entry hard to write is that, though I have moved towards a level of acceptance with this situation, I keep trying to write about what it was like during the few days when I was angry and highly resentful of my best friends. And like a ‘Nam flashback, I start reliving those days again and experiencing those emotions again.

Don’t worry, this blog ends on a note of optimism. But getting to the optimistic ending will be ridden with frustration.

Just like life?

Did I just blow your mind?

Because I don’t like being an angry person who resents her friends’ successes (and also because Amy and Kathryn read this blog), I am trying to discuss these events as rationally and mature as possible.

(Cut to me crying in a playground sandbox, screaming “WHY…WON’T…MY FRIENDS…PLAAAAY WITH MEEEEE?!”)

Essentially, I felt left behind. Abandoned. Ignored. Very angry that my friends had been telling me all year they didn’t want to live in Champaign, then suddenly did. What about our (drunken) plans we made (at Murphys)?! I didn’t want to talk to them or even look at them. Even when I was experiencing this, I saw how counterproductive this passive aggression was — “Hey, I’m angry that I’ll have limited time with my friends. Let’s NOT enjoy the moments we have left! Yaaay!”

To be completely fair, once I told my friends how I was feeling, they suggested we look for 3-bedroom apartments together. But I turned them down, because signing a year-long lease without a full-time job lined seemed like a recipe for delicious disaster with a poorly-thought-out-idea hollandaise sauce. And besides, acting like a selfish child was much more fun!

Any ill feelings I had towards my friends were based in pure love. Well. Probably a lot of jealousy and bitterness too. But mostly love. I was mad because honestly, I don’t know what I would do without these two gals in my life. They are the Rachel and Monica to my Phoebe (let’s me honest, I’m totally the Phoebe. Amy, in case you’re wondering, you are Rachel). Without them, I was going to be alone in the suburbs. With no job prospects. No creative outlet. WITH MY PARENTS. The term “solitary confinement” comes to mind.

I started thinking about what my life would be like if I stayed in Champaign longer. And I liked the life I saw.

Now that you’ve indulged my selfish resentment of my best friends, let’s get to the optimism, eh?

When I was mingling at my sister’s wedding reception (and chuckling at my relatives’ jokes about how I almost fainted during the ceremony — listen, I can’t let HER have all the attention, can I?), I started chatting with my cousin Julie. Julie is a better person than you are, for numerous reasons. But what I like most about her is that she’s a globally-conscious, liberal-arts-educated, gonna-save-the-universe-minded person who does more to change the world in a week than you will your whole life … but she will never rub this in your face. She’s totally aloof to the fact that you probably aren’t worthy to talk to her. And she watches Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Score.

I was chomping down some saltines (gonna get some food in my system after my borderline fainting spell) and sipping on some champagne (ok, maybe I’m not that focused on my own well-being), and she was asking me about what’s going on in my life, what my situation is. I very half-heartedly replied, “Oh, just gonna live at home with my parents for right now. I don’t know, a bunch of my friends told me yesterday they are staying in Champaign. But I don’t have anything lined up.”

Her response?

“That’s so exciting! ANYTHING can happen to you!”

Goddamn, that girl is gonna change the world. Her optimism penetrated my anger, and this idea has kept me warm for the past 10 days (that, and the awful humidity in Urbana). It’s so true! I’m at a point in my life where ANYTHING can happen to me. This is both terrifying and thrilling. Crippling and liberating. I love it.

I decided that living here a bit longer would be better than being a sad bastard in the suburbs. I’m currently squatting in Hot Town’s apartment, working at my current job, and trying to figure out my life. I’m lucky enough to finally have some job interviews lined up, thank you, non-existent God. The past ten days have been trying to teach me that, at this point, my life could take me anywhere. I believe it was Shakespeare who said that it is futile to make plans. Or maybe it was the Joker in The Dark Knight. But regardless, you have to realize that the events of your life might not go according to what you’ve planned with your friends drunkenly at Murphy’s. Life doesn’t always take you where you expect it to.

It might take you somewhere even better.

I’ll miss Tuesday nights like this.

My sister Laura is getting married today. But she has three possible fathers! Oh Mamma Mia!

It is about 8:20 am as I write this, and I can assure you that I’ve already made this exact joke to my family at least 3 times today already. But how can I resist, when a major family event coincides with such a cinematic milestone like a Streep/Brosnan musical?! It’s like, if my dad suddenly carved up my mom’s face with a razor, I’d have to be like, “OMG, this is sooooo Dark Knight!”

I completely despise the fuss, pomp, and circumstance of all weddings, including my sister’s. At the rehearsal dinner last night, I smiled to myself and thought fondly of my future elopement, and the eventual familial disowning that would follow.

I would never dare shit on my sister’s big day with my cynicism though. Just because I’m a weirdo who wants wedding pie and a cult-classic celebrity to officiate my ceremony doesn’t mean I can piss on her parade.

So I put a big smile on my face, wear my black bedazzled “Bridesmaid” t-shirt with pride, and do what all moderately funny people do in these situations: Use humor as a coping mechanism. Hey, if it worked in high school, it’s gotta work for weddings, right?

This is why in the past 3 days, I have insisted to my sister that my gift to her is that I’ve hired a man to object at her wedding. Even if they don’t ask for objections. He’ll just storm in. Because every girl deserves a little bit of cinematic flair on her big day! I’ve given her three choices.

1) A dramatic, The Graduate-esque objection, where the man yells from the choir pit, “Laura, noooooooooooooo!” There’s no glass window overlooking the church, but we can make do. She then retorts “You missed your chance!” and the ceremony resumes. The next day, he kills himself.

2) A comedic, Wedding Crashers style objection, where the man interrupts the wedding to make an impassioned, yet clever speech about how she is making the BIGGEST mistake of her life. He gets into an argument with the groom, and knocks out the groom. My aunt Fran then punches him in the face. The wedding resumes at the emergency room.

3) My personal favorite, the 90’s teen movie objection. It turns out that the man objection isn’t in love with Laura, but instead is an old-friend-turned-enemy of the groom, who chooses this moment to reveal that Matt only dated Laura because of a bet. Through tears, Laura asks, “Is this true, Matt, is this true?!” and Matt softly says, “I went out with you because of the bet…but the true prize was falling in love with you.” They kiss, I start a slow clap, and a ska band starts playing a cover of “I Melt with You” in the choir pit.

And the objector? You guessed it, Neil Patrick Harris, star of Doogie Howser and How I Met Your Mother!

You know what? Screw it. Those are too good. I’m saving them for my wedding.

See you at the open bar.