Rexburg.

Rexburg.

1 town. 8 apartment complexes. 12 apartments. 41 roommates. 3 best friends. Late nights, sleepy giggles, Denny’s runs, whip cream game, burnt carnations, sleepovers, Mean Girls & A Cinderella Story, dance parties, Saturday nights.

5 boyfriends. 1 fiancé. 2 regrets. Lots of dates, a few make outs, lessons learned, flirty texts, crushes, first kiss, m&m’s, Buckmaster.

6 run-ins with cops. 1 Wal Mart roof. 1 21 run. To much Tequila. (Don’t worry dad, not me) megaphones, boredom, burnt couches.

2 cars. 1 bike. Countless miles on foot. 1 car fire. 5 breakdowns. 2 speeding tickets. 1 warrant. 15 hours community service. 2 driver’s license tests. 1 Idaho license. Round-abouts, unplowed roads, spin outs, 4 way stops.

5 jobs. Lots of bosses. 3 years, 1 month, 10 days-plasma center. Biomedics. PCCI. Biomat. 6576 sticks. Hours of boredom, paychecks, friends, coworkers, donors, college football, “that’s what she said”, -40 degree freezers, countless liters of plasma.

1 degree. 1 major. 1 minor. 11 semesters. 122 credits. 3 retakes. Papers, books, portfolios, 3^rd floor library, to many winters.

Rexburg. 4 years.

4 years of my life summed up in numbers. Broken down. Assessed. Dismissed. But the numbers don’t give feeling to the memory associated. There is no life in numbers. The numbers don’t tell about the countless times we snuck out my window; to avoid roommates, to avoid FHE, for candy corn wars, for the lawn that offered sunshine. They avoid the man driving his tractor in a Sunday suit, the drinks bought from Sonic. The bitter cold of a Rexburg night when you walk home from work and the wind cuts through the paper-thin scrubs, you step in a puddle and your leg almost immediately freezes. They don’t capture the scream at KFC, the sound of Guitar Hero. The beauty of my best friends can’t be seen in a number. 6 times I was sent to the dean. But in all reality I just wanted my screen off my window and to sit in the hot tub. Reasons missed in the number six. The stupidity of riding a long board down a hill on your stomach isn’t

in a number even though we only had to try it once. Numbers don’t account for heartbreak, for the countless miles driven to escape Rexburg. To Vegas. 8 short hours and Palm trees are within reach, sunshine and happiness seem possible. To Boise. 4 hours; a short distance to avoid the thoughts you can’t think.

I wish Rexburg could be broken down, assessed, dismissed. The negative memories forgotten, buried and gone. But the truth is it can’t. Somewhere along the way I stopped avoiding referring to Rexburg as home. I stopped saying “I’m headed back to my apt” and simply “I’m headed home.” Somewhere along the way Rexburg became home. And it simply cannot be dismissed because 4 years of life happened here. Rexburg-where you can play in the snow 3 months of the year. The other 9 are to cold. 654,294,273 memories.