aruan | I said I wasn't holding my breath, but maybe that's a lie.

I've already written off class this afternoon, and my hands are still shaking almost too badly to type, but I need to post about this now.

Hint: This post brought to you by Leibowitz Roberts & Ritholz, LLP.

After our celebratory lunch venture at the Swamp (the flagship restaurant of our little town located right across the street from where we live, yet we'd never eaten there before, though we would've if we'd known they serve alcohol without checking ID which mostly defeated the purpose of the exercise, that being Miranda's 21st birthday) and Publix, Miranda and I stopped by the Murphree Area Commons to check our mail.

I had a package which is always cool, and I am expecting something, but it wasn't this.

So I flash my ID and the girl hands me a yellow padded manilla envelope and I'm talking to Miranda and still singing along to Fastball from the car when I look down at the address label.

And almost drop it entirely.

Leibowitz Roberts & Ritholz, LLP

For those in the audience who don't know, Adam Ritholz is JC's manager.

I may have stopped breathing for a long minute as I stared at it. Ironically, I'd just mentioned Adam earlier today, how meeting him was such a cool part of my non-JC-related unfortunate Spreckles experience. Which it was - he's one of the best people I've ever met and totally turned around what could've been a sucktastic way to end the night, and I left smiling like a loon again. Anyway, he'd taken down my contact information, promising me a "special package from JC." I appreciated the gesture but never really expected anything to come of it.

*bites her tongue*

So we're in the commons, my hands shaking almost too badly to open the envelope, my vision already going blurry with tears because, oh my god, he remembered. It wasn't about anything that could've been inside, it was the simple fact that he'd hung onto my address all this time (three months, yo) and remembered and I really came very close to losing it right in front of God and everybody.

This was before I'd even opened it, mind.

Mustering the necessary coordination, I do finally manage to not mangle the envelope too badly and pull out the contents.

All those who guessed a copy of Schizophrenic? You'd be correct. However, it came wrapped with a note. A handwritten note. On his own stationery. Which went a little something like this (Eva is my real name, though my friends call me Jules):

As if this'd be my only copy (I'm now in possession of three, actually.) Oh, Adam. And then I unwrapped the CD.

It was all I could do not to squee loud enough for all the world to hear. There may have been a choked sob of happiness though. And my finally losing it a bit. I mean, how fucking cool is that? He, for me, and I am no one at all in this great big world of fans and fame and yet, here's proof otherwise. Or something. Did I mention he remembered? *goes to write thank-you note*

I would've been completely useless in Psychology. Eh. We did schizophrenia last week anyway. What could possibly be as important? *g*