I want you to do something with me. On the count of 3, I want us all to share in one huge collective sigh of relief. Ready? 1, 2, 3... (This is the part where I'm supposed to ask you "did you do it?" But since you and I are big kids, we can cut the charades since obviously no one ever does anything the internet tells them to do.) The reason I want us to share in this relaxing formation of carbon dioxide is because I just had what is sure to be the longest day of my year. Since noon yesterday, a total of 5 teenage girls have been guests in my home as together we watched all 8 of the Harry Potter movies. It was chaotic and incredible. There was butter beer and amortentia potion and lots of talk concerning Rupert Grint's biceps--so, you know, your typical girl stuff.
Look, I love my friends. They are crazy, wonderful human beings who I am so thankful like me and choose to spend their time with me. But over 24 hours of constant human interaction can really plum-tucker a girl out. I feel like when people hear the term "introvert", they automatically think "anti-social." This could not be further from the truth. Nothing gets me more excited than sharing giddy talks with my friends that focus around pale, British movie stars, (Oh, Dan Rad: the king of awkward, pale Brits) but after awhile, I start to miss my quiet room, with my desk lamp lighting the pages of a book. (Or in this case, my television lighting the blank stare on my face as I lie on the sofa, cramming all the junk foods down my throat.)
What I think is really important here is balance. I can't become a hermit--unbathed and hissing curses at the sunlight. But I shouldn't force myself into strenuous social situation; I want to enjoy the time spent with my friends, not suffer through it. Argh. All of my thoughts are clouding in my mind. Seriously, it's like if you smashed a bunch of mugs and compiled all their pieces into a huge mountain of cracked china--all the pictures of kittens meshing with multiple depictions of Peanuts characters--that's my brain right now. Oh dear goodness. That radioactive spill of a metaphor is the perfect justification for just how tired I am, isn't it? A PLAGUE ON YOU, CRAPPY METAPHOR. A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES. (Who's to say that Crappy Metaphor doesn't have a vacation home, or a timeshare in Boston, perhaps?)
...I'm going to go get some sleep. Expect some overly-sentimental musings about 2012 tomorrow. No joke, I can get pretty sissy about this stuff.