Haddy Birdy, Tiny Kitten.

Today is the birthday of one of my best friends. Her name is Taj, Tiny Kitten, Kitten, etc.
She currently resides in NY and I miss her terribly. Here's a handful (maybe 2 handfuls) of my favorite memories of ours, in honor of her birthday. Happy Birthday, Kitten! I luh you.

I reserve the right to add to this list as I deem necessary.

-The first night we truly bonded: deliriously throwing M&Ms at sleeping Sunnie.
-SUMMER.
-The Beatles.
-Floor-dancing.
-Moulin Rouge.
-Sharing music.
-Taj= Pokemon.
-Painting our faces.
-Our ghetto voices.
-Our phonetic texts.
-Dat haunted house.
-Weekly Battle Plans.
-"Domestic daydream."
-Stealing each other's clothes.
-Using tiny dishes and cutlery.
-Grilled cheeses at the hospital.
-Her glorious eyebrow expressions.
-Bandanas. ALL THE BANDANAS.
-When we'd write each other stories.
-When we played pretend all the time.
-Gifting each other with tiny presents.
-Scouring D.I. and Savers for good books.
-Dressing up as the band Kiss for Halloween.
-Our ambition to be back-up singers for Elvis.
-How freaking adorable Taj looks in an apron.
-Reading peoples' FB comments with varying voices.
-When I made Taj's FB status "I PEE EVERYWHERE."
-Elvis in the car. And all the time and everywhere.
^^ "Just a hunka hunka burnin' love-- WAaaaAAAaahhHH!!"
-Adding money to our "Adventure Fund" (have yet to use it)
-Telling each other fantastical stories before we went to bed.
-"LAMBORGHINI MERCY, YO CHICK SHE SO THIRSTY."
-When she put fake rose petals on my bed on Valentine's Day.
-THAT TIME SHE GAVE ME THE KURT COBAIN POSTER.
-Sitting in the middle of the street in the wee hours of the night.
-When Taj posed as a model for my six-photo series "Death suits you well, darling."
-Meeting Nico Vega, eating the yummiest of sandwiches, and receiving free cookies because the waiter had the hots for Taj.
-When Taj painted beautiful masterpieces as I happily finger-painted like a small child.
-Being there for each other through the crappiest of timez.
-That time when we spent an hour pretending she was dead, and developed our story line accordingly.
-Going on the wrong night to the Area 51 club. And telling ponytail dude we were UVU students with diff names.
-When we would lay in our beds and sing random songs at the top our lungs.
-Sharing a passion for White Oleander, Down With Love, and Moulin Rouge.
-That weird crouching thing she did because she knew it made me feel weird.
-Our Pinterest summer board. Infinitely more awesome than our actual summer. Although summer was great. But nothing comes close to that dang Pinterest board, man.
-That time we wanted to buy kittens, and saw the flier up at Macey's for free kittens, and I saved the phone number in my phone as "cat lady."
-Calling her whenever I was cold and bored, walking home from school, and in need of a story.
-Getting grossed out by overly-affectionate roommates and their respective bfs.
-Discussing our relationship issues and discovering that we are both robots.
-How we always dreamt of having a "gang" like the kids in That 70's Show or Scooby Doo.
-Saying "Yeah, guys. Yeah." as if we had a huge group of friends around us, when it was just us.
-When we created our own new $$ terms: $1= a scoop. $5= a chunk. $10= a wad. $20= a carton.
-That day we went to Salt Lake and visited Matt, who is the best host of them all. We walked away with meaningful gifts and inspiration to fulfill ALL THE LIFE DREAMS.
-The music our white Zimbabwean friends showed us, &the killer dance moves that accompany it.
-Abstaining from desserts//receiving cupcakes//smearing them on our faces since we couldn't eat them.
-When we'd google creative date ideas, but just do the activities together, rather than with dudes.
-When I'd sing "Kitten, I lo-ove you. That's all I have to offer" in the style of that one Saturday's Warrior song.
-Sitting on the floor of the game room with Mike, turning the lights off and letting the mystical color ball entrance us.
-When we were delirious and I'd do that thing where I pushed up her bangs all suddenly and dramatically. And busted up laughing every time.
-The fact that our skull decorations, Henry and Henrietta are in a relationship. (They miss each other right now, and should be reunited soon)


-Getting off the phone with her the other day and fully realizing that she is one of my favorite people on this earth.

The musician who sold himself

He knew exactly what he was doing when he chose to wear that slim-fit suit with the bronze jacket, his hair perfectly faded and coiffed.

He knew exactly what he was doing as he upturned one corner of his smile, giving us eyes that said he knew us.

He knew exactly what he was doing as he exploded onstage, with his theatricality and his intimacy and his smirks and his swagger.

Oh, how the lights and sounds electrified us. Their pulse directed our hearts.

The magnet in his voice, drawing us closer.

He knew exactly what he was doing as he gave us no other choice but to fall in love.

Music snobs condemn musicians who choose the "sell-out" path. They criticize the musician's choice with a funereal disapproval. These musicians become dead to the snobs.

Screw the snobs.

I think the sell-out path suits Brendon Urie, frontman of Panic! at the Disco. 

It fits him almost as well as that slim, shimmering suit.

Brendon walks down the sell-out path with style.

He chooses to sell himself. And he's so incredibly talented at it; it's the center of his artistry.

It reminds me of Andy Warhol. Art critics would be crazy for calling Andy Warhol a sell-out, because that was the point. His art was about selling out. He made art that seemed to warn against the harm that fame, money, ubiquity and objectification could bring. 

Some might say he warned against selling out. But there he was, making art that objectified; and selling pieces for as much as 105 million dollars. His own actions added to his commentary on our culture. Andy Warhol's life was a performance piece.

Brendon is no Warhol, but he's a master of his own craft. And, like Warhol, his life is a performance piece.

He sings about Vegas. He sings about selling oneself, figuratively and literally. He smirks at fake displays of intimacy in one song, and praises the thrill of night life in the next. Through his artistry, he examines a culture. He takes his audience on a tour. But he's not one-step removed; he has lived in the thick of it. He knows how it works.

So he does what he knows best, and he sells himself.

And it makes for an astonishing performance.

Please enjoy these tiny videos I took at their recent Salt Lake concert.

Life lessons from fellow journalism majors:

During my time thus far in the BYU newsroom, I've collected many golden nuggets of knowledge. Here are a few I found most notable*:

1. Beyonce reigns supreme.
2. Everything is "THE WORST."
3. On a similar note, superlatives are THE BEST.
4. "Hot mess" is a phrase acceptable to describe any and all situations.
5. Broadcast and print journalists are not meant to mix romantically.
6. Moderate stalking behaviors are sometimes necessary, because: JOURNALISM.
7. You can just add "JOURNALISM." to the end of any phrase to validate it.
8. Justin Timberlake. Mmmm. I think we're all in agreement on that.
9. Sometimes you just need to look at pictures of cats.
10. BYU's newsroom is divided almost equally when it comes to opinions on NCMO's.
11. The best kind of people are those who share your taste in music documentaries.
12. In the words of Vampire Weekend-- Who gives a *bleep* about an oxford comma?
13. Channing Tatum's face resembles a variety of potatoes.
14. When you have conversations about your love life in the newsroom, everyone's listening. Whether they're acting like it or not.
15. If you say something witty whilst in the newsroom, it will appear on Twitter immediately.
16. Sometimes relationships reach the point where you just need to go to Guru's.
17. You don't need a Dr. Pepper emotionally. You need a burrito emotionally.
18. You can measure how much you like something by asking yourself whether you'd be in a cult about it or not.
19. Buzzfeed. Enough said.


* I reserve the right to add to this list as I deem necessary.

YOU'VE CHANGED

I love street art. I love street art that is both aesthetically pleasing and intellectually meaningful.

The other day when I was walking to campus I stumbled upon the street art pictured in this photo. I stopped and stared. When a piece of art arrests my attention to the point that I stop and stare, I consider it good art. If the work of art causes me to keep thinking about it after I've left it, I consider it great art. This was great art.

"YOU'VE CHANGED." When I saw these words spray-painted on the sidewalk, I had no choice but to enter self-reflection mode. The bold and anonymous assertion cut me to the core. YOU'VE CHANGED. The negative ways that I've changed flooded my mind. My filters of rationalization became temporarily disabled, and I saw my whole self. Not just a leg or an ear or an arm, but everything that I am. I've changed. I can't deny it.

But then my mind turned to the leaps and bounds I have made. I have consciously changed destructive aspects of who I am, and every day I work actively to maintain those improvements.

I have changed for the better.

I don't know what the ratios are for how much I've changed for the worse vs. better, but I can confidently say that I have changed for the better. And it felt good to acknowledge that.

It's OK to admit to yourself that you are making progress. Self-reflection need not just be a rebuking and punishing of self. It is essential to admit to yourself where you have changed for the better so you can maintain that progress.

I loved the physical placement of this message "YOU'VE CHANGED." It lies on the sidewalk that people tread every day, a path they travel mindlessly on their way somewhere else. I find it fascinating that the demand for introspection lay on a travelling path, rather than at a destination. 

I think we often choose to have our most significant self-reflecting moments when we reach a destination. Destinations can be expected or unexpected. When we graduate school. When someone close to us dies. When we are somewhere beautiful. When a relationship ends. When huge opportunities fall in our lap. It's times like these that we sit ourselves down and make assessments.

However, it is so important to look inwardly and make small necessary changes as we go. While we're on our way to our destinations. If we do not make assessments of how we've changed as we go, then we will often come to harsh realizations when we reach landmarks. We will see our leg and our ear and our arm for what they are, and we may not be pleased with what we see. So think about it now. YOU'VE CHANGED. How have you changed?

The lady at Walmart thinks I'm artsy

This story is true. I'm not sure if it's a social commentary on the culture of the people of Walmart, or if it's just a piece of prose I wrote to amuse myself. In any case, I feel obligated to memorialize it. If not for your sake, then mine.

The other day I felt the need to print some photos I took. So I ordered photo prints online through Walmart. Unfortunately, my photos usually end up over-saturated when I print them there. This dampens my spirits momentarily. But then I remember how inexpensive they are and I cope because I am a poor college student.

I also felt the need to purchase a book I've desperately wanted to read for quite some time now. I was surprised to find that Walmart sold it online, and through its Site to Store Pick-Up, I could buy it for a cheaper price than anywhere else. So I did.

On a Saturday afternoon, I traversed to this magical place to collect my treasures. I quickly bought some groceries so I could sooner start the fun part: retrieving my photos and new book. Bananas, strawberries, avocados, wheat pasta, almond milk, guilty pleasure chocolate protein shake. Check.

I hurried to retrieve my book from the Site to Store Pick-up section of Walmart, where a tall brunette man materialized from a back room. I revealed my intentions of picking up the book. His eyes reflected subtle surprise, and he informed me that people hardly ever order books at Walmart. He gladly gave me my book, I gladly received it, and I was on my way to the photo department.

The Lady sat. The Lady sat in her apathy. The Lady sat in her apathy until she mustered the will to ask, "Can I help you?"

I smiled and said, "Yes! I'm here to pick up some photos under the name of Kristina Smith."

The Lady found my photos amongst her files. She pulled two of my photos from their sleeve and asked "where I got them." I told her I photographed the images, because I did. She gave me a pointed look that undoubtedly carried the subtext: "AND I'M THE QUEEN OF SHEBA." The Lady returned the photos to their sleeve without a word, acting like she'd let me slide on this one.

I asked The Lady why she questioned the origin of my photos. She replied, "Well. they look kinda like...artsy. So if you got them online [here she paused and gave me accusing eyes], they're probably copyrighted or something, and you're not supposed to print them without permission."

I reiterated the fact that I took the photos. I even told her the shots' locations. A smirk sat, fastened indefinitely to her face.

The Lady clung to her opinion like a tiny starfish on an artificial boulder. However, as she married her opinion, she also entertained her apathy. Drenched in her indifference, she ultimately permitted me to print photos which she presumed I stole from the Internet.

As I walked away from this strange scenario, I was mildly ruffled because of my inability to penetrate The Lady's mind with truth. However, feelings of amusement and even gratification prevailed.

I don't how much fulfillment a human being is supposed to feel when a Walmart employee deems their photography to be professional in quality. And I don't know what it says about a person when they feel flattered in such a scenario. But for a good five minutes, I felt pretty good about myself.

The lady at Walmart doesn't know it, but she thinks I'm artsy.

An average night in the Smith household: junk in the trunk, The Perfect Eldest Brother, and an eerie angel voice

Here's an average night in the Smith household.
After re-reading what I wrote here, I realize that Justin is somewhat the star of the show. Not intentional. I guess it just happens. Anyway, read away.

It begins as a still Sunday evening. Justin and I wander aimlessly throughout the house, not sure how to entertain ourselves in this house which used to be our home a few years ago. We decide to play a game as a family and to eat dinner shortly after-- the game is some variation of Scrabble, but in card form. It's fun, but has a short run. Justin quickly wins three rounds and insists that we all vocally acknowledge his victory.  We admit this subserviently and move on to the next game, Loaded Questions.

In the game Loaded Questions, a question is asked, each player submits their written personal answer, and another player guesses who put each answer. It's great fun. Always guarantees huge laughs and sometimes, spilled secrets. At one point as we play, the question is asked: "What is one character trait you wish you had?" Naturally, Justin's answer is "junk in the trunk." After some hearty giggles and helpful explanations of modern terminology to a few less cultured folk, we move on to other questions. Here and there, Justin makes simple and silly comments that send our laughter through the roof-- we laugh for his silliness, we laugh for his wit, we laugh for his unfiltered love for life and all things potty humored. We laugh, we look at each other, we laugh again. There's no stopping it.

In this moment, nothing in the world seems more delicious than laughter. Laughter is something so sweet and ripe, something you unknowingly crave for a lifetime. In this moment, we get to indulge in it shamelessly. I want to gather it all and keep it in a locket, close to my heart. Laughter with loved ones is something to live for.

We suddenly recognize just how famished we are and realize that it is way past the time that we thought we'd eat dinner. My mom and I reheat the food and make last minute dinner preparations as the boys laze comfortably on the couches. Finally it is time, and we eat like Smiths. Mom eating delicately and mindfully; Scott eating delicately and absentmindedly; the rest of us eating like we are just now discovering this miracle called food.

Throughout dinner and the rest of the night, there are many more mentions of "junk in the trunk." Justin says he loves the fact that he can continually get away with saying it in our household. At some point, someone suggests we go around the table and say what we like about each member of the family. They talk about me first. Scott says something about my teeth being white. Everyone else says slightly more meaningful things. We continue, saying things we like about each family member, present and not. Dad genuinely cares about people, Mom loves learning, Spencer is thoughtful in gift-giving, orderly and diligent, Scott has attention-locking eyes and a good sense of right and wrong, and Justin...well, we all know Justin. Along with his craziness and hilarity, he is also a very just person, and kind.

When we get to Ryan, I go first. "What I like about Ryan is that...HE'S PERFECT. The end." We make several jokes about the perfection of Ryan, this eldest son. When it's Justin's turn, he says he's glad Ryan doesn't pinch him anymore, like he did here and there in their youth. I suddenly realize that THAT counted as a flaw, but then I remind the family that Ryan only did that before his baptism, before his sins were washed clean, so he's good to go now. We all laugh, and I relish in the victory of making an acceptable joke, realizing for a moment how it must feel to be Justin. Then we start discussing how incredibly intelligent, talented and perfect Ryan's children will probably turn out, and Justin suggests that Ryan's whole family will probably get translated. He describes how one day, Ryan's family will be eating dinner, and suddenly their whole house will begin floating, straight up to Heaven. I wouldn't doubt it for a minute.

After dinner, the house is alive. Dishes rattle, Scott's trumpet pierces the air, voices converse. I sit down on the family room couch with my laptop, to write. It's an L-shaped leather blue couch, and Justin sits on the other side of the L. I don't pay too much attention.

But then, he is singing the Lord of the Rings theme song, using gentle "ah's" to slide from note to note. Normally, in these types of situations, I avoid eye contact. I usually don't want to egg him on. However, in this instance his voice is eerily on pitch and angelic-sounding. I look up from my computer, and am surprised to find Justin looking straight ahead, with pure enjoyment written on his face as he sings. I had expected him to be staring in my direction, breaking into silliness at any moment, waiting for a reaction. But instead, he is simply staring ahead, singing like an eerie angel of an 1800's boys' choir, and enjoying life. His eyes dart my way as he realizes I am staring at him, and we both laugh. He continues to sing, relishing in the victory of this moment. Justin smiles triumphantly as his voice reaches each note with clarity and ensuing vibrato; not only has he penetrated my indifference; he has amused me greatly. Once again, Justin has won.

Why my little brother is cooler than yours

Scott Anthony Smith.

Tall, lanky kid with muscles like a green bean that has been working out.

Skin that tans instantly, eyes that open easily.

His eyes are my favorite, because they're so big and blue and full of understanding and silliness.

It pains me to see his blue eyes clouded at times-- when he is contemplating injustice or internally discovering a new melancholy place.  

His adam's apple is so endearing for some reason; why, I couldn't tell you.

His hand gestures mesmerize me as he explains something with intelligence, conviction and fluidity.

He condescendingly insults me as he brings his eyebrows together, makes his sparkling eyes so big, and pushes his lips to the side, stifling his charming little smile.

I give the pretense of offense, and we banter for hours, saying more with our eyes than our words.

I love my little brother.

He understands me in a way that no one else does.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

I love my father.

I love my father because he introduced me to music with texture.
I love my father because he values ice cream and movies.
I love my father because he's creative.
I love my father because he's a problem-solver.
I love my father because when he gets in a fit of laughter, it's contagious.
I love my father because he gave me a job during high school.
I love my father because he would insist we share 3 things about our day during dinner, and waking up, going to seminary, and going to school didn't cut it as our contributions.
I love my father because he helped me with math, but refused to give me the answers easily; I had to put forth significant effort to learn.
I love my father because he took me on Date with Dads.
I love my father because sometimes he makes hysterical unexpected jokes that catch you off-guard.
I love my father because he loves board games. And he is hilariously competitive at Uno and Yahtzee.
I love my father because he still pursues cool new music to add to his collection; most adults don't do that.
I love my father because he seeks joy in life.
I love my father because he's a good story-teller.
I love my father because he doesn't dwell on misfortune.
I love my father because he magnifies his church callings.
I love my father because he was patient during my adolescent years.
I love my father because he taught me the value of hard work.
I love my father because he has given me tough love.
I love my father because he has given me tender love.
I love my father because he taught me the thrill of serving others.
I love my father because he genuinely cares about making our family feel like a family.

Happy Birthday, Dad.
I love you!

-Kristina

HEY MICKEY

OH MICKEY YOU'RE SO FINE, YOU'RE SO FINE, YOU BLOW MY MIND, HEY MICKEY.

Her little legs, rainbow striped leggings and all, move her swiftly around the living room. Everything is happening right now. Why wait to live? She twirls and twirls and twirls. She dances around and around on the huge rugged oval blue carpet, to which she is tiny in comparison.

This rug is her stage; the world is her audience.

The warm light gleaming through the fingerprint-smudged door,
the sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen,
the excitingly abrasive feel of her tiny soft feet meeting the rough carpet for fractions of a second at a time;
it's all part of her performance.

Everything is her audience, everything is part of her act.

OH MICKEY, YOU'RE SO PRETTY, CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND? IT'S GUYS LIKE YOU MICKEY! OH WHAT YOU DO MICKEY, DO MICKEY. DON'T BREAK MY HEART MICKEY.

This song is the anthem of her existence. It moves her, breathes life into her, charges her with some unknown and previously unchanneled energy.

Who cares what the words mean? Right now, she struggles to write even her name on a piece of paper without writing the "a" backwards. Words don't need to mean too much yet. She'll have plenty of time to get caught up in those later.

Right now, she lives. Alive in the music, she lives fully, completely, unapologetically.

OH MICKEY WHAT A PITY, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. YOU TAKE ME BY THE HEART WHEN YOU TAKE ME BY THE HAND.

Her mother, relentlessly scrubbing a casserole dish in the kitchen, takes a break and smiles at the living room scene as she takes it in. She looks at her daughter. Her blonde, stringy hair is wild as it suspends in the air. She moves deliberately, with no self-awareness at all. She dances fearlessly, unconscious of her audience. Nothing is held back. Perhaps she knows her mom is there watching, perhaps she doesn't. It does not matter to her either way. She is alive.

A Walk Down Memory Lane (Cheesy sentimental title? Check.)

A few days ago I took the time to read through tons of old letters and notes. It was definitely a whirlwind of memories. I'll share with you some of my favorite one-liners and quotes. These quotes will likely be a healthy combination of sentimental and silly. Here we go.

-A purple construction paper note I once found on my bed freshman year:
"Kristina...I love your face. But...he is all mine! I saw him first! (Jk, you can have him, he was probably drunk.)" <3 always, Kiffyn

-A note left on my bed after my Uncle Tony & Aunt Jessy stayed in my room once:
   "It was really fun to see you- good luck with the rest of the school year. I don't even know if you like this candy, but next time you see me just pretend you did and I'll be happy." -Tony

-"If I could offer you some advice from my college days...Put studying before girls. I mean boys."
   -Zach Cipriano

-"Life with the opposite gender is like what you described. You can always get what you don't want and have to work hard for what you do want."
   -Cody Hansen

-A letter from Chantal Hopper listing things she loves about me:
   #9: She's as sweet as candy! (even though she doesn't eat it)
   #13: She will most likely appreciate this scratch and sniff sticker...
   #15: Her addiction to water makes her pee clear
   #17: She likes skulls "in moderation"
   #34: She's kind of like a white Asian

-"I decided not to write expletives all over your locker. You are so lucky."
   -Josh Osborne

-"There might be people that upset you, but if you just love them, then it doesn't matter."
   -Ben Dyas

-"I'm sure you will have music in your future home. Someday you will rock a tiny infant in your arms and sing it to sleep and be filled with so much joy."
   -Molly Rowan

-"Though I know I have limitations and weaknesses as a mom and teacher, I hope my testimony comes through."
   -My mom, Eva Smith---note to you, mom: Your testimony DOES come through by the way you live your life. Thank you :)

-"Thank you for being my mentor, peace of mind, long lost sister, walking dictionary, and most importantly-- my best friend."
   -Sierra Schaefer

-"I'd just like to say, although I publicly proclaimed it, that I am NOT a flaming homo!"
  -Daniel Squires

-"Every day you walk out of your room, I immediately regret the outfit I put on."
   -Bridget Funk
      -But the funny part is that you have it totally backwards, Bridget.

-The last birthday card that Juliana Duran made me:
   "I hope you like the cover because it took a lot of ink...I was going to put your head &the guy from August Rush's head on top of pictures of people like you did for my card, but I figured you would show it to your mom and soil my good name in the Smith household."

- "Dear Kristina, Thanks for the sweet, groovy, awesome, killer, cool, terrific, spectacular, mind-boggling, stellar, great, super birthday card. Thanks for taking your time to make me a special card. I love you.
Love, Spencer"

-The tiniest note made out of a philosophy bbq handout from class:
  "Dear Krishna, Wow! Thanks for the barbeque! It made my bday awesome!
   I ALL the love you!
   <3 Kitten"
           ^That's Taj :)

-A few excerpts from a letter from Grammy (Grandma Smith) :
   -"Remember when we danced and twirled on the front lawn in the wind to dry our freshly polished finger nails?"
   -"One fall when the family was gathered at our home, I overheard a little conversation between you and Jason:
       Kristina: 'How ode ahh you?'
       Jason: 'I'm foe.'
       Kristina: 'I'm foe, too!'"
   -"Once when you were a little older, you told your mother you needed to spend more 'quality time' with Grammy. I was very flattered."

-"Understanding the Atonement of Christ will probably take a lifetime, but I can testify that believing in Him and trying to live like He did helped me find peace and happiness. As a little reminder I got you this little statue of Christ. No...it is not for your dashboard."
   -Kim Romero-- Thank you so so much, Kim. I still keep that little statue on my desk today. Not only does it remind me of Christ, but it reminds me of you and all the valuable things you taught me as my YW leader and my friend. I love you!