When William Joseph met The Slasher

I recently drove 167 miles to go to a concert.

(Well, I was supposed to drive, but once my intended passenger discovered my car doesn't have an air conditioner, I became the passenger and we drove her car, but that's beside the point…)

When your hometown offers a free concert by William Joseph (read: FREE and WILLIAM JOSEPH), it's worth driving 334 miles to attend. Some things just have to be done.

I first fell in love with William Joseph way, waaaaaay back when I was in my "I'm going to marry Josh Groban" phase. William Joseph is a pianist who signed with David Foster and subsequently opened for Josh on tour. Josh must've written about William on his website, and if Josh was a fan, I was a fan.

A few years later, I got to see William Joseph perform at Women's Conference at BYU and was blown away. (Have you ever seen a pianist's fingers move so fast that they turn into a solid blur? I have…)

But my favorite William Joseph memory doesn’t involve William Joseph at all.

No, my favorite memory involves a pageant and a girl my family lovingly calls "The Slasher."

*I shan't tell who The Slasher is (I mean, I could, but I won't), so you'll have to be content with just the story.*

A couple of years ago I was competing at the Miss Utah pageant. Pageants are a funny business. Contestants may say they want to be friends and that they don't care about the title, but the second you put a sparkly crown in front of them, they'll start fighting like… well… girls.

Basically that means they'll start trying to undermine each other's confidence.

One of the best examples of this (which I didn't see, fortunately) happened a few years before I got involved in pageants. A girl decided that the best way to scare the other girls was to show off her perfect bikini-ready body. Naturally, the most convenient way to do this was to walk around naked.

Girls will do things like exaggerate their accomplishments, claim credit for passing laws in the legislature, get into fundraising wars, and (my favorite) brag about their shoe size during getting-to-know-you games.

Me: "What's something we have in common? Oh! What size of shoe do you wear?"

Girl: "Haha. We definitely won't have the same shoe size."

Me: "What's yours?"

Girl: "I wear a three in children's shoes."

Me: "What size is that in adult?"

Girl: "Five"

Me: "Huh. Me too. Sign the paper."

(True story. And she was ticked.)

Anyway, The Slasher was a master at the intimidation game. She would stalk around like a black widow, pretending to be nice, but secretly eating girls when nobody else was looking.

(Okay, slight exaggeration.)

This year, though, The Slasher decided that the best way to intimidate the other girls was to claim that she had personally written her talent number. The Slasher played the piano, and she spent ages bragging about how amazing her piece was. When her talent rehearsal day came, everyone in the audience waited, ready to be stunned by the astonishing, mind-blowing music she had written all by herself.

(Disclaimer: I WISH I could remember for sure what song it was. I couldn't find my Miss Utah DVD to double check, but I'm 99% positive I've got it right… Just pretend it's the right song, because it probably is.)

She sat down to play, and this is what I heard:

This is what I did:

"Hey, wait a minute."

See, I knew that song. I knew who wrote the particular arrangement. And I knew it wasn't The Slasher.

What's a girl to do with knowledge like that? Hmmmm…

After The Slasher ran through her talent number and went to sit in the audience in order to soak up the praise from her many admirers ("I can't believe you wrote that! It was amazing!"), I might've…  maybe...  purposely worked my way to her side and said this rather loudly:

Me: "That was a William Joseph piece, wasn't it? From his Within album? He's an amazing pianist."

*crickets*

The Slasher: "Um…well… But… I mean… I reworked it a lot… I had to cut it down…"

Me: "Riiiiiight… Well, see you later!"

BAM. 

INTIMIDATION WAR WON

Thanks William.

Hugs

I come from a family of non-huggers.

My mom may dispute this, because she's taken up hugging during the last few years, but seriously, we don't hug. Brothers No. 1, 2, and 3 got/gave hugs when leaving and returning from their LDS missions. Brother No. 4 gave them when he left, and will probably give them when he gets back. Brother No. 5 has years before he'll have to hug anybody, since he's only 16.

Hugs = Too much touchy-feely! Space bubble! Get awaaaaay from me!

It's not that I don't know how to hug — I had a boy teach me when I was in 10^th grade, and he was a very good teacher. I'm quite a good hugger . . . when I feel like it.

But I don't often feel like it.

I've always known that part of my hugging problem stems from the fact that I have a giant space bubble. I spent most of a 15-minute meeting at work last Friday feeling uncomfortable because I was standing two feet away from a girl when I could have been standing six feet away.

(The space was there; I chose my floor location without thinking the situation through.)

In high school, I took to being anti-hug because it was funny. My friends got a kick out of torturing me, and I got a kick out of playing up my reactions.

But back in February, when one of my roommates was about to move to San Francisco, I realized that I now use hugs as a sort of weapon with which I purposely try to make people uncomfortable. I like to watch people squirm as they wrestle with the impulse to hug while also fighting against the waves of awkward I'm sending in their direction.

Why am I so vindictive?

I don't know, but it's sure funny.

The day my roommate was due to move away, I was sitting in my room building a bookcase when she poked her head in the door. She was trying to find the source of the hammering noise in the house; I was trying to avoid her and the good-bye hug that I knew was coming.

Me: Are you all packed?

Roommate: Yep.

Me: So . . . guess this is good-bye.

My brain: HAHA! I'm sitting in the middle of a bookshelf and you can't even open the door all the way because my room is full of wooden shelves! This is brilliant!

Roommate: Not yet. I'm not going to leave until early tomorrow morning, so I'll come back and say good-bye tonight.

My brain: Boo.

I went to class that night thinking that maybe she would be asleep by the time I got home, and came home to find her running around the kitchen and talking about how much she still had to do. My plan to avoid the inevitable hug had been foiled again.

At this point, I had to make a choice:

1. The usual (i.e. say good-bye from a safe distance and exude enough don't-even-think-about-it vibes that the target is unwilling/unable to break through the awkward barrier)

2. Instigate

For once, I took pity on the victim.

I instigated.

It won't happen again.

(Incidentally, sorry Layton, for using the hug awkwardness vibes against you when you left for your new job. I still feel bad about that . . . minus the fact that I was mentally laughing the whole time . . .)

If I ever say, "Okay, give me a hug," just know that I'm choosing pity.

In case you are a current hugger and have suddenly decided to reform and become a non-hugger, here's a final word of advice from an expert: I've learned that when trying to avoid a hug, it's best not to make sudden movements — or movements of any kind, actually.

This is why:

This is Gallifrey

The other day, my roommate tried to start a Time War.

No, not this kind of Time War:

This kind of Time War:

"I am the busiest person in this house."

Cue my rage machine!

I've always hated comparisons of busyness. In the busyness battle, there never is an actual winner — just lots and lots of ticked off people and self-pitying bemoaning.

I used to be the worst at Time War-ing. I'm not better now, but I'm trying.

As a junior in high school, I remember coming to drill team practice at 6 a.m. and hearing one of the senior captains say, "I'm sorry I couldn't get thus-and-so done. I was just SO busy. I'm SO busy all the time!"

Then, a few sentences later, she said, "I watched three hours of Fresh Prince of Bel Air yesterday."

And I went, "WAIT A SECOND! YOU'RE NOT BUSY!"

Then my judging kicked in.

I used to get so annoyed by people who complained about being busy, because I was totally convinced that nobody (NOBODY!) was as busy as I was.

"I was busy last night."

"Oh yeah?! Well, are you taking ballet lessons and doing drill team and taking ballroom lessons and fulfilling church callings and running the school newspaper and writing a weekly newspaper column and blah, blah, blah…"

I had a note on my door (stolen from my friend Angeline) that had a picture of a girl with her head on her desk. It said, "Think you're stressed? Call me. You can have some of mine."

Remembering that picture totally makes me blush now. My parents — running a business, raising six kids, and working multiple jobs — must've rightly thought I was an idiot.

At some point in high school, though, I realized something:

It's not that any of us are NOT busy — it's that our definitions of the word vary.

One of my friend's older brothers taught me this, without even knowing it. He would always (ALWAYS!) talk about how busy he was. He wasn't whining (which would've ticked me off); he was just saying, "I am busy." To me, though, he didn't look busy. It was then that I realized we're all working under different definitions of the same word.

We are all born with and develop busyness or stress thresholds, and what seems busy to one of us definitely might not seem busy to someone else.

I don't reach my definition of "busy" very often. Right now I'm working 40 hours a week and taking 9 credits in grad school. That's not busy.

My last semester of college in 2010, I was working 30 hours a week for the school, 10-20 hours of week doing freelance design, taking 18 credits, trying to finish the capstone classes for 3 different majors, and preparing to speak at graduation. That was busy.

I was busy last week. One midterm, six+ school assignments, 40+ hours of work, visits with my darling Kenna and my delightful Hobie, a date, trying to finish two sculptures in time for an art show, and planning a class for a Cub Scout leader pow-wow.

Got 'em both done, by the way. Bam.

I was busy in mid-December, when I was finishing 15 credits worth of classes for my first semester of grad school, working 40-60 hours a week, and trying to get presents ready for Christmas.

But guess what?

Other people were, are, and always will be busier.

I whined about being busy to a med student in my ward and he shut me down with "I work 80 hours a week." (Saving lives, I might add. That trumps any of my busyness.)

I whined to my Mom about being busy and she (could've but didn't, bless her) said, "Yes, well, I'm working 40 hours a week, being a mom, and planning the ENTIRE Cub Scout pow-wow.

I whine about working more than 40 hours a week to my boss, and then remember that he gets here about the same time I do, leaves 2-3 hours later, and is on-call all the time.

Maybe my roommate is the busiest person in the house. Maybe she's not.

I think she's not busy because she goes to get her hair done, goes out to eat, goes clubbing, and goes to the gym.

She probably thinks I'm not busy because I play with clay and I'm making a bunch of puppets for the Festival of Trees in November.

We both work and we both go to school.

Are we both busy?

Probably.

It's subjective.

Whenever someone tries to start a Time War (or whenever I mentally try to start one myself) I have to tell myself to (A) calm down, and (B) step back. I don't always succeed, but I do try.

Once you start a Time War, there's probably no stopping it.

And even if (miraculously) it does stop, is there ever really a Time War winner?

I'm thinking no.

P.S. If you don't know where the title comes from, you should probably listen to this. You're welcome:

The pre-career career change

I've been hesitant to write this because a certain creepy professor is likely still stalking this blog (just like he is/was on Twitter, despite being blocked… twice…) but whatever. A grad school professor requested the essay, and grad school professor > creepy not-grad-school professor.

A week before I was due to graduate from college, I realized I was on the wrong career path. It wasn't so much a realization as a personal admission, but it was bad timing either way.

What spurred the moment of truth?

A YouTube video.

This YouTube video, to be precise:

Yeah. Seriously.

I entered college to become a journalist. That desire was inspired by a fantastic high school teacher, three years of writing for my high school paper, and two years of running the paper as editor-in-chief. I accidentally enrolled myself in the newspaper class as a sophomore, but I developed a love for it.

Once I got in college, I rammed my way through the prerequisite classes for the journalism major. I intended to get my college degree in two years — tops — and jump feet-first into the profession.

One communications major, one history major, one political science minor, and one editing minor later…

There's a logical explanation for why I got sidetracked from my brilliant two-year plan. You see, I've been genetically programmed so that when someone tells me I am going to do something, I immediately do the opposite.

My friend Rachel: "You are going to love this Josh Groban song!"

Me: "It was just okay. I didn't love it."

(How long did it take me to admit that I love that song? Forever. But I totally love that song. And I was totally in that crowd when this was recorded. Whatever. Judgers.)

Like all college freshmen, I was told that I would change my major an average of 5 to 7 times. Therefore, I refused to change my major. I just added them instead.

Other people go to college and develop new and wonderful hobbies — ballroom dance, comedy clubs, intramurals . . . My second major became my hobby. For someone who has spent her life addicted to studying one period of history or another (Jamestown, Czarist Russia, World War II, the American Revolution, the settling of the West . . . you get the picture) having a history major as a college hobby was a simple extension of a natural nerdiness.

I never had any intention of using the history major for anything other than personal joy . . . until I saw that YouTube video.

There I was — seven years of official and unofficial reporting, three years of newspaper design, and a journalism internship in Washington, D.C., under my belt; just a week away from extolling the virtues of my communications degree as a speaker at graduation — and I knew I was on the wrong path.

That's a big fat oops.

I didn't make the wrong decision in pursuing journalism in college. My degree took me to Boston and Washington, and into the new and exciting world of the Adobe Suite, as well as into city government, politics, and the halls of Congress. In the end, though, all of those wonderful experiences turned out to be the college hobby, and the history degree turned out to be my real path. I knew, as soon as I finished that video, that I was meant to be a teacher.

The path to teaching would've been infinitely easier if I had admitted this to myself before my last week of college, but c'est la vie.

Now I'm in grad school, taking classes with people who have been teaching for years, and pretending to know what I'm talking about. I'm a grad school/teaching fraud, but it's working out well so far (very well, indeed, in fact) and my GPA hopes it continues.

I want to be a teacher for two reasons:

1. The world needs good teachers. Not teachers like some in my grad school classes who laugh about swearing at their students. Not teachers who aren't passionate about their subjects or start the first day of class by saying, "I hate teaching English." Not teachers who think it's a-OK and totally professional to act like a douche, threaten, and stalk former students.

(True stories, all)

2. History is the best subject in the world. Unfortunately, I always had awful or vaguely mediocre history teachers. I think I was a junior before I encountered my first good one in a concurrent enrollment class. The professor's comment on my essay planted the seed ("Have you ever thought about becoming a historian?") and fantastic college history professors cultivated it.

I'll always love journalism, and I love working in the field, but the siren call of history and the chance to help educate high school punks is stronger.

Besides, after seeing the Founding Fathers murder a OneRepublic song for the sake of early American history, who wouldn't be tempted to do something drastic?

New Year's Eve: Where dreams go to die

I've mentioned this before, but it bears repeating: New Year's Eve is the worst holiday ever.

I was talking about New Year's Eve with a coworker today, and I mentioned that all of my girlish childhood fantasies died on a New Year's Eve. Another coworker — apparently listening to the conversation — went, "awwwww," and I realized how melodramatic my words sounded.

"New Year's Eve — where my girlish childhood fantasies died! OoOoOoOoH!"

The story isn't actually melodramatic at all, but it ties in with a bigger problem I've been thinking about over the past few months: The Cinderella Syndrome.

In every film version of the Cinderella story, there comes a moment when Cinderella enters the ballroom, and the crowd — or more importantly, the prince — turns and stares in awe. I'll show you what I mean:

(Skip to 2:08)

(7:59)

(6:27)

(7:30)

(1:11)

I'd find more examples, but I'm bored with looking at YouTube.

For me, at least, all of those years growing up with Cinderella movies and romantic notions led to my catching a strong case of The Cinderella Syndrome. Maybe other people have had the same disease, or maybe I'm one of the few. (I definitely know one other person right now who has it. I was like, 14, at the time, and she's like, 22, but whatever…).

As part of the disease, all of those romantic moments where the prince looks up, sees the girl of his dreams, and falls madly in love, became a real thing in my head. That led to the fateful New Year's Eve, years and years ago, where my Cinderella Syndrome met its cruel and untimely death.

I wish I could remember exactly how old I was — it had to have been around or near 8^th grade — but the stake was holding a New Year's Eve dance for youth 14 and older, and I knew my time had come. I was going to have my Cinderella moment.

When a girl prepares for a Cinderella moment, she does so carefully. I certainly did. I chose the perfect outfit with the Cinderella moment in mind, and I took my time doing my hair and applying my brand new Christmas eye shadow (it was pink) with as much care as a 14-year-old (ish? Maybe?) girl could take. After hours of preparation, I joined my friends and we headed to the stake center.

My Cinderella Syndrome convinced me that as soon as I stepped into the ballroom — er, the gym — all the boys would come flocking to my side, vying for my attention.

They didn't.

My Cinderella Syndrome convinced me that as soon as I stepped into the ballroom — er, the gym — all the boys would come begging for a dance.

They didn't.

My Cinderella Syndrome convinced me that as soon as I stepped into the ballroom — er, the gym — all the boys would fall madly in love with me.

They didn't.

To call the entire debacle a blow to my self-confidence would be an understatement. I was pretty emotionally devastated. All the romantic notions and fantasies I had built up over years of watching Disney movies came crashing down around me. That's what New Year's Eve will always remind me of. It was the end of an era.

Admittedly, even though my dreams were shattered that night, I'm still a romantic at heart and my Cinderella Syndrome still kicks in at random moments. You can always tell when it does, because those are the days that I actually do my hair and choose my outfits with the intent of snaring a man. (C'mon, Good Looking Guy! Cooperate!)

Most of the time, though, I'm more of a realist. (Also, doing hair and choosing snaring outfits is hard work, and I am lazy.) The death of my Cinderella Syndrome was painful, but it was also a good thing. That awful New Year's Eve taught me that life isn't always like the movies. In fact, I found a hilarious quote the other day which applies to this exact situation, and which I think should become my life motto. Unfortunately  I promptly lost the desktop sticky note containing the quote when my computer crashed. Natch.

But the idea behind the quote was basically this: Realize that you are an unimportant pimple, embrace it, and build from there.

That sounds depressing, but it's actually not. If we admit that we're not always going to be Cinderella at the ball — that we don't have the power to woo princes/get our way/change the world just by existing — life gets easier. All of us are small folks, building lives in our own little corners (see what I did there?), and we should embrace that. Basing our actions and self-esteem on the delusional idea that one day the world will observe, applaud, and revere, only sets us up for disappointment. I'm now okay with being small. Every day brings the challenge of building a slightly bigger space that only I can fill. It's not quite Cinderella, but I'm happier now than I was then.

New Year's Eve still stinks, though.

I'm just saying.

It totally does.

But at least I don't look like this… this year, anyway…

Tagged: The Next Big Thing (Shannen made me do it)

I was tagged by author Shannen Crane Camp to discuss my WIP. 

Note: Normally I wouldn't discuss a WIP with anybody (embarrassing), but when Shannen demands...

Wikipedia said I could use this picture, so I did.

What is the working title of your book?

The Sleeping Beauty Gift

Where did the idea come from for the book?

That's quite a long story, so here's the overview: This book is the third in a series (yeah, Shan, technically the one you've got is the fourth). That makes it bizarre to try to explain how it came about, since it's the continuation of a project I've been working on since 2008. It all started with an imagined conversation between Cinderella and her prince at a ball, which eventually turned into a book . . . and then another book . . . and then another book . . . 

What genre does your book fall under?

You can probably guess from the title, but it's young adult fiction with a heavy dose of fairy tale.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

An impossible question to answer. All of my favorites are far too old. Since I'm supposed to answer, though, I might choose Lily Collins as the main female protagonist. She's exquisite, but I don't know if she could pull off blonde. Emma Roberts? Molly Quinn? For the male protagonist, it'd have to be William Moseley from "The Chronicle of Narnia." He'd be perfect, minus the fact that he's supposed to have dark, curly Josh Groban hair. Curse you, celebrity hair gods.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

A prince stuck with the unsavory nickname "Royal Loser" and minus a fairy gift turns out to be more than he appears, and only one person knows about it—a princess who's determined to tell the world.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Let's face it—everybody wants an agency. I'm no different, but self-publishing looks more tempting each time I look into it.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript? May we see an intro?

It's still a rough, rough, rough work in progress, which means it's unfit for human viewing. Honestly, it's almost too painful for me to read at this point. That's not an excuse, Shan—it's just a cold, hard fact.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Ella Enchanted, by Gail Carson Levine (one of my favorite books ever), The Ordinary Princess, by M.M. Kaye (THE favorite book ever), and the Dealing with Dragons series by Patricia C. Wrede.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

While I was in the process of writing my Cinderella story back in 2008, I watched a bunch of different Cinderella movies to stay in the proper fairy tale mindset. The Czech, Three Chestnuts for Cinderella, or Three Wishes for Cinderella, (depending on which country you ask), instantly became my favorite. I loved it because the prince and Cinderella interacted prior to the ball. I've always thought the Cinderella story was a little fishy in that respect. She just walks into the ballroom and he falls in love with her? No. That's just ridiculous. Once I wrote the Cinderella story, I thought it might be fun to follow the children of Cinderella and her two stepsisters, which eventually became retellings of Rapunzel and Snow White. Sleeping Beauty will complete the set, even though I should have written it before Rapunzel. Oops.

What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

All of the books tie in very closely with different versions of fairy tales from around the world. It's one of the features I’m most proud of. There are myriad versions of Cinderella, Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty, and Snow White, and they're all fascinating and beautiful in their own way. (Or terrifying and scary . . . I'm talking about you, Russia.) I've tried to incorporate as many as possible into the names, traits, and adventures of my characters. While researching Cinderella, I kept reading different versions of the other fairy tales too, and new characters and story lines began to develop almost against my will.

Also, my Sleeping Beauty story might just have hints of The Scarlet Pimpernel in it. Sir Percival Blakeney is just too amazing to resist.

So, I'm supposed to tag five other authors in this post, but since I only know one other author and she's the one who tagged me... 

When aliens attack

(That video will make sense later...)

I'm a big believer in writing muses. It's either superstition, or a good excuse to allow myself not to feel guilty for failing to write in my free time, but...

No, seriously, I think that sometimes the muses hit, and other times they don't. When they do pay you a visit, you must obey. Normally my muses speak to me at the most obscenely inconvenient times. For instance, I never made it through a finals week in college without feeling like Odysseus trying to withstand the sirens... 

The problem is, if you don't write something down, it's like it never happened. (Tom Clancy taught me that.) Since I've learned the write-it-or-lose-it lesson through unhappy experience, when the muses hit, I'll write on anything I've got handy. I keep a pad of sticky notes by my bed (full if illegible scribbles, since I'm usually asleep). I've got pages and pages of teeny tiny notes I took during my college biology class. I've filled up all the memo space on my phone with notes, and the majority of my phone's "sounds" section is me whispering parts of stories into the microphone.

One of the greatest tools I've got, though, is this:

Picture not actually taken at 4:32 a.m....

This is my recorder, and it has been my friend through many, er, dangers? (Name that movie!) It moved to Washington, D.C., with me in 2009 and recorded many an interview/hearing/bill markup on Capitol Hill. Back in Utah, it has recorded interviews with city officials, local celebrities, and even the doltish head of a college department. (Some of you can probably guess which one...)

But most importantly, this dear little recorder provides a handy dandy way for me to channel the muses while making the arduous 2 ½-hour drive from my hometown to my current town. It's much safer to talk into a recorder than it is to balance a notepad on the steering wheel while driving.

World—you're welcome.

The other day I pulled out my recorder to interview my roommate for a class assignment and discovered that it was full. Luckily, this happened around the same time that I was due to take a trip home, so I used that boring drive to listen to clips and erase the ones I didn't need. The majority of the clips were from Washington, and consisted of lawmakers sounding roughly like the teacher from Charlie Brown: Whaaa-whaaa-whaa, whaaa-whaa whaaaa-whaaa whaa…

Some of the clips, though, were bits of my stories from as far back as 2009—bits I had forgotten recording, and was pretty excited to have found. If I learned one thing from listening to the clips, though, it's that my mind shifts into ADD mode when recording/driving/mentally writing/channeling muses.

Observe:

Bring all these characters together and have him talk to them all, and it will be a good time. One hour. It's going to be like, 9:30 before I get home. Blegh. Anyway, so he's there trying to avoid all these dumb people and…"

"So they journey along and… I think this is a cop……………………… Yep, it was! Hope he doesn't mind that I'm going 5 over. Whoops. Anyway…"

"She's unhappy and—the lake is pretty! It's dark blue in the middle and light blue on the edges with pink from the clouds and the sunset! *GASP* It's pretty! Anyway. I just had to make a note of that. Okay. So, she doesn't trust this newcomer, and…"

"Now, he's annoyed by her because she's not right. DUDE! A PELICAN! That's cool!"

So there I was, listening to myself blather on about cops and pelicans when I switched over to a new file, only to hear Brother No. 5. (Read it with a puffed-up newscaster voice to get the full experience:)

"Hello?

"Hi.

"This is (Brother No. 5) reporting from the crash site of the alien spaceship. And we've been seeing strange flashes of light…

"Oh no! The doors are opening up! Oh man! There's an alien crawling out!

"The president's now here trying to make peace and contact with them.

"The alien's just standing looking around… Wait… It has something. It looks like it's going to move up to shake the president's hand...

"HE SHOOTS THE PRESIDENT! OH MAN! THIS IS SCARY!

"The Secret Service is going up—OH! THEY BURST INTO FLAMES! OH, THIS IS SCARY! THIS IS JUST TERRIBLE!

"OH, I'M GOING TO… UHHHH…. AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

And just like that, Brother No. 5, in his 2009 squeaky little 12-year-old voice, managed to surpass anything else that will probably ever exist on my recorder. Ever.

Dang him.