FOUND NOTE #1

When searching around in my attic, I found this note: super drama, and the UT post-it is priceless.

The text:

"I have some things to ask you
They'll probably strike a nerve
with you but I still
need to know
What were you thinking when
you said you loved him
I'm sure you wosn't(?) it you
just like yo mean it now."

ONE NIGHT STAND DOVE

Last night when Matt finished working for Zingo, I was still up writing, and he's like, "Guess what I found in the park today?"

To explain, this said park is downtown-- one where the hobos sleep at night. (I refuse to disclose the exact location in case it might cause the place to lose it's magic). Matt has gone there several times to kill time while waiting for rides and has always discovered something amazing.

Tonight he says that by the hobo bench there was a dove. As he walked closer and closer to the bench to lay down, the bird didn't budge. Then he reached down to the dove, and it climbed on his hand and he pet it for a while. That's his story anyway.

So I'm like, "asgj!k@$%!, a DOVE?" Yes, apparently it was a real live feathery holy peaceful loving cute-as-fuck dove.

I'm shocked that he didn't call the president or something, like "I deserve a Nobel Prize, I'm cuddling a wild dove." Instead he nonchalantly mentions it to me hours after the fact.

So I plead, "Take me to your dove... and Whataburger sounds good too." We head off to see the elusive bird, and walk into the dimly lit park of all strangeness and mystery. Matt's walking around by the fountain like, "Nope... I don't see it... Oh wait! Here it is. Exactly where I left it." Then he picks it up triumphantly, "See!"

The dove hops off his hand and waddles around on the grass, trudging through sprinklers, and we follow it blissfully, taking turns holding it and petting it. We want to take it home but decide to let it be for the night and come check on it in the morning.

The next day on the way to the park, we pull over on South 1st to get a cardboard box lying in front on Somnio's to put the dove in. An employee is in front of the store talking to Leslie, and when I ask if I can take the box, Leslie turns around and says, "Your boyfriend can have this box!" as he smacks his own ass.

Everything was going so right, but when we got to the park, the dove was no where. I miss Walter so much already. Walter. His name was Walter.

"GETTING RETARDED" IN SICILY

Whilst abroad, there seems to always be that one tourist, or group of tourists, that reminds me why we Americans have the reputation that we do. That group here happens to be from Texas, studying at the same University as my group. When I meet people they say, "Ohhh, you're from Texas." And I quickly clarify, "Not with that group." 

About a week ago I was at a bar with several other girls, and he stumbled up, wearing kaki pants and a light blue polo with the collar popped. 

"How's it goin'?" he bellowed. 

"Is this the first bar y'all have been to tonight?... That sucks! This is like our third one! We've been taking so many shots. It's my birthday. LET'S GET RETARDED!"

He goes on to explain that he's turning 25, so he's getting drunk to forget how "old" he is, to which Lauren responds calmly. "I'm 25." Now people at tables near us are listening in, and they laugh uncontrollably at the exchange. 

Realizing that his efforts are lost after that comment, he leaves saying, "We're gonna have a party at my apartment after this... Well, get drunk for me."

In his defense, this was one of the most quoted conversations of the trip to date. He is like our mascot, in a way. We're always thrilled to see him strolling the picturesque streets of Ortigia, standing out like a true Texan. We pride ourselves on blending in much more, but I'm sure we're just as bad in our own way: a pack of foreign photographers ravaging the town, making the same photographs as everyone else, claiming them as something of our own. 

But at least we're not, you know, getting retarded.