Gotta love how I so carefully avoided plagiarism in my title. I’m not so sure that it would matter all that much if I did use the entire title of Shakespeare’s magnificent work, but nevertheless, I felt the need to Courtneyfy it. That is one funny looking made-up word.

Anywho, this week has been muy interesante. To say the least. I’m facing a weekend of parties and Anatomy study. Black and White party for InterVarsity Christian Fellowship tonight, my practically life-long friend Sarah’s bachelorette party Saturday afternoon (or would it be called a bridal shower?), and Anatomy today and Sunday. I feel optimistic, for some odd reason, like everything is going to be okay, and I’ve got this strange excitement rising up inside of me.

At the same time, I’m beginning to feel a bit more like myself. I have to admit, “me” came back after spending time with my lovely friends at the last ever Community Group yesterday and after a couple of hours on the phone/texting with my brother Mike, aka December. Amazing how much effect friendship has on me. I never gave it credit before. I used to be more “independent.” Yes, I loved the feeling of belonging to a group, calling them family even if they didn’t consider me the same way, but I was once content to be alone. No longer; now I go a little insane if I spend the day not seeing/talking to anyone I really know. It’s gotten a little more difficult to spend time with close friends and family since getting my license and starting college, but that simply makes the time all the more precious.

I didn’t write at all yesterday, which was quite peculiar, and I’m still not quite sure what is wrong with me. I’m realizing through not writing that my mind is indeed a delicate balancing act that requires much careful attention and maintenance. I suppose the mastering of this act is what we call “growing up.” I like to think that I know who I am, that I know myself. Indeed, I would say most confidently that I know who I am. But the in’s and out’s of my functioning are still a certain kind of mystery to even myself. Good luck to any guy who thinks he’d like to figure me out.

Part of that mystery has been brought to my attention by my reaction to something recently. It did scare me, a little, because I’d like to think I’m a bit more stable than I displayed, but apparently I’m much more affectable and vulnerable than I thought, no matter what facade I put on for the world. I’ve given this thought some prayer, and decided rather more whole-heartedly than expected, to simply surrender the situation to God. As much as I care and hope, I’m giving up: the good kind of giving up described in Ingrid Michaelson’s song. “I am giving up on making passes, and I am giving up on half-empty glasses, and I am giving up on greener grasses, I am giving up for you…” (P.S. Ingrid is my secret twin. I heart her.)

I am rather sick of working so hard for something that never seems to come. Where is all my effort going? Several songs are coming into my head now. “I needed a raise, I worked so hard for this love of mine. Still I’ve got nothing to show for it,” Sara Bareilles sings in “Love on the Rocks.”  Another fitting lyric: “…Could I be wrong? The time that I’ve taken, I pray is not wasted…” from another Sara Bareilles song, “One Sweet Love.” I seem to give the very essence of me only to scare off the object and be left with nothing once more. How very depressing! I don’t want to have to work for it; I want it to work for me. It’s settled then: no more shall I give and give and put forth effort and continue to receive nothing in return. It’s over. “What is meant to be will be” -Lauryn Hill, “Everything is Everything.” [Oh, dear Lord, I can't escape it...]

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