Don't Cry For Me, Argentina...I Love Thom.

Hello, all...It's the Brit. I have a happy life, I'm always in love, and in a constant state of happiness. This blissful state is only interrupted by HW, bad music, and obstreperous personalities. Today, while terrorizing the U of M campus (through devious tours led by a co-blogger), I was introduced to an "echo spot." I had come across these illustrious joys before, but today presented me with an experience that I fear I will attain a proclivity for. So, while experiencing said echo spot, this Brit was seized around the shoulders by a drunk. If that wasn't bad enough, he started serenading me with "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina" by Andrew Lloyd Webber at the top of his lungs. I stood there, completely shocked. I have never wanted to be serenaded, but really honestly? It was kind of pleasurable. My wonderful co-blogger-turned-tour guide couldn't contain herself, and neither could any by-standers; I couldn't blame them...I probably would laugh too. In fact, I believe I did. I basically stood there, being held by a man I had never met, allowing his beer drenched breath to wash over me in song. It was a beautiful, awkward moment that I hope is never trumped. In fact I was so saturated in the magical triviality, I finished the song by harmonizing with him on the ending line. Bring on the cheesy, eh? Oh what a life I live. Now the darned lyrics of said song dangles above our heads like mistletoe that can be so dearly avoided.

Hmmm...how does one transition from that story to another? Let's just use this one:

Later that night, the co-bloggers and I were enjoying steaming mugs of various teas (tonight's choices were Jasmine and Licorice) and cookies (Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup and Oatmeal Raisin, respectively) at a wonderful cafe in Minneapolis named Hard Times. We were sitting there, simply enjoying each other's company and discussing life. I looked over to the kitchen area of the cafe, and behold, a wonderful thing happened. There was a man...a tall man. Being a Psychology major (and a definite creeper), I observed his little bumblings as he made his way around the shoe box size of a kitchen, sighing. I wanted him. He was not good looking, and he certainly didn't have an appearance of put-together-ness,but I wanted him. Luckily, my co-bloggers were willing to indulge me in my dreamy circumstances. We called him Thom, and he was the inspiration (for me, at least) to create this blog. His expression was soft, his demeanor calm, and he can whip up a quesadilla like nobody's business. I love him...at least when he's behind a stove.