Of Ms. Johnson

I have a friend. Her name is Ms. Johnson. I have known her since kindergarten. She claims to remember me from a major freak-out from yours truly over a visit to the nurse's office (how was I supposed to know there weren't any needles involved in a hearing check-up?); I claim to remember her from a chorus concert in which we were dressed as Native Americans (in tattered shirts, beads, and war paint - classy, my kindergarten) and we bonded over the matching color of our "authentic" Native American feathers.

Destiny - that's what this was, people. We're friends for the long haul. And by "long haul" I do mean a rather odd shared childhood of oldies music and plaid shirts, an awkward preteen stage of...awkwardness, high school years that sung of mutual angst and change, and finally today, as young adults striving for the stars and believing that Pluto (planet and dog) received the shaft like whoa.

Clearly, good friends. So good of friends, in fact, that I know she will not mind me posting this picture:

Or this picture:

Or this one:

Why am I writing about Ms. Johnson? Because I just got back from a trip to her new Southern abode and thought of how far we've come from the smaller, younger, scruffier versions of ourselves almost 2-decades ago. And she's rather fantastic and seems to be blissfully unaware of the fact. Ergo, ego boost - rock out that new city, Missy!

That's an order. Or request. Or RFP. Your choice.