![Cason (left) and Dye (right), dramatizing nothing. Photo credit: Taken by Jennifer Mendez, aperture and shit set up by Cason.
Jan. 2, 2011 - In a hospital nestled between a NASCAR racetrack and a defunct cement dinosaur park, Betsy Dye was born twenty-eight years ago today. She grew up with two parents, a sister, and she went to school. Sometimes she rode a skateboard.
Things happened in Dye’s life, propelling her to an eve during the dog days of summer 2007, which is when Dye met Elizabeth Cason at a crafting session organized through the blogging platform, Livejournal. It seemed fitting that the two should share the same first name. They became quick friends.
“I think in talking to people, we’ve realized that we have sort of that mythical friendship that people spend their entire lives wanting,” remarked Cason. “It’s what’s scribbled about, expectantly, in the diaries of our common adolescence.”
The two spend nearly every Saturday together. “It’s done on the fly,” explained Cason, “You can’t plan adventure to the letter, can you? You can only go at it whole hog.” Dye agreed, “I once had this boyfriend who cried a lot, and he hated that I reserved Saturdays with Elizabeth, and I was like, ‘Oh well!’ I mean, why would I give this [friendship] up to conserve some asshole’s feelings?”
Friends of the girls know that when sending out invitations to one, they are effectively sending out two invitations. “We don’t take up much space,” Dye explained, “I’m fine with letting Elizabeth sit on my lap at social soirees and feed me dinner like a little bird. Do you want to hear my turkey imitation?” Cason confirms it’s spot-on.
In the real world, the girls are often mistaken for sisters. On the Internet, however, it’s a different story. “There have been a couple occasions in which someone thought our individual blogs were just two extensions of the same person,” laughed Cason.
Despite their similarities, there are enough unique traits that the girls are able to teach one another new talents. For example, Cason taught Dye how to pick out better apples (“Not figuratively, yet,” specified Dye), while Dye choreographed a dance for Cason’s foray into burlesque. “It all culminated in this impressive removal of my socks made of alpaca fur,” explained Cason. The girls laughed in unison, as if in that moment, the same memory was projected onto the wall of their collective mind’s eye, sparking the same reaction.
“To me, Elizabeth is eucalyptus,” Dye stated, “I am the koala. I eat up her presence, it ferments in my stomach, and I’m stoned.” Upon hearing this statement, Cason stared at Dye, blinking. Was it their version of Morse code?
“At the risk of sounding stuffily pragmatic, I think we are the best and worst thing to happen to one another,” alleged Cason, letting the statement linger in the atmosphere, providing no indication of wanting to explicate. ”It seems like with our friendship,” Cason started, “we sort of flung out the traditional propriety of adulthood, or the womanly compunction to gossip over manicures, and developed into something that’s a bit more Laurel and Hardy. I mean, whatevs!”
“What she said,” chimed Dye, “She’s the smart one.” To this, Cason gave a noncommittal shrug, as if she heard the statement many times before and gave up reacting. “I just do,” Dye said with unwavering certainty despite the lack of clarity in her statement.
Regardless of what elements keep the cogs of this intricate and perfectly balanced friendship turning, all we can say is, long may these girls do whatever it is that they do.
byline: Elizabeth Cason, har-har.
_____
Happy birthday, Betsy Dye!](http://26.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ledpt9dTxD1qzzawxo1_500.jpg)
Cason (left) and Dye (right), dramatizing nothing. Photo credit: Taken by Jennifer Mendez, aperture and shit set up by Cason.
Jan. 2, 2011 - In a hospital nestled between a NASCAR racetrack and a defunct cement dinosaur park, Betsy Dye was born twenty-eight years ago today. She grew up with two parents, a sister, and she went to school. Sometimes she rode a skateboard.
Things happened in Dye’s life, propelling her to an eve during the dog days of summer 2007, which is when Dye met Elizabeth Cason at a crafting session organized through the blogging platform, Livejournal. It seemed fitting that the two should share the same first name. They became quick friends.
“I think in talking to people, we’ve realized that we have sort of that mythical friendship that people spend their entire lives wanting,” remarked Cason. “It’s what’s scribbled about, expectantly, in the diaries of our common adolescence.”
The two spend nearly every Saturday together. “It’s done on the fly,” explained Cason, “You can’t plan adventure to the letter, can you? You can only go at it whole hog.” Dye agreed, “I once had this boyfriend who cried a lot, and he hated that I reserved Saturdays with Elizabeth, and I was like, ‘Oh well!’ I mean, why would I give this [friendship] up to conserve some asshole’s feelings?”
Friends of the girls know that when sending out invitations to one, they are effectively sending out two invitations. “We don’t take up much space,” Dye explained, “I’m fine with letting Elizabeth sit on my lap at social soirees and feed me dinner like a little bird. Do you want to hear my turkey imitation?” Cason confirms it’s spot-on.
In the real world, the girls are often mistaken for sisters. On the Internet, however, it’s a different story. “There have been a couple occasions in which someone thought our individual blogs were just two extensions of the same person,” laughed Cason.
Despite their similarities, there are enough unique traits that the girls are able to teach one another new talents. For example, Cason taught Dye how to pick out better apples (“Not figuratively, yet,” specified Dye), while Dye choreographed a dance for Cason’s foray into burlesque. “It all culminated in this impressive removal of my socks made of alpaca fur,” explained Cason. The girls laughed in unison, as if in that moment, the same memory was projected onto the wall of their collective mind’s eye, sparking the same reaction.
“To me, Elizabeth is eucalyptus,” Dye stated, “I am the koala. I eat up her presence, it ferments in my stomach, and I’m stoned.” Upon hearing this statement, Cason stared at Dye, blinking. Was it their version of Morse code?
“At the risk of sounding stuffily pragmatic, I think we are the best and worst thing to happen to one another,” alleged Cason, letting the statement linger in the atmosphere, providing no indication of wanting to explicate. ”It seems like with our friendship,” Cason started, “we sort of flung out the traditional propriety of adulthood, or the womanly compunction to gossip over manicures, and developed into something that’s a bit more Laurel and Hardy. I mean, whatevs!”
“What she said,” chimed Dye, “She’s the smart one.” To this, Cason gave a noncommittal shrug, as if she heard the statement many times before and gave up reacting. “I just do,” Dye said with unwavering certainty despite the lack of clarity in her statement.
Regardless of what elements keep the cogs of this intricate and perfectly balanced friendship turning, all we can say is, long may these girls do whatever it is that they do.
byline: Elizabeth Cason, har-har.
_____
Happy birthday, Betsy Dye!
