Blogs are for posting and I seem to be doing less than my fair share.This could be for one of many reasons, the first being that I'm reading the book Jane Eyre (for the first time... yes) and underlining every word that I need to look up, whether it be for the definition, or for history's sake. Either way, my book, Jane Eyre, is covered with small green marks. The pen (of which I was complimented by kel, which, for those who know her, is a real compliment) even sits contentedly inside my book as my bookmark. There are just so many words and I want to carefully analyze them all before I choose one to use in my posts. I often picture myself pulling out a brand new notebook (the non-spiral kind with what seems like super thin paper... these may only exist in my mind now that I think about it) and a wonderfully fresh pen and carefully logging each word and it's definition or explanation; kind of like that man in the library back home I'd see almost every day taking some sort of library resource book and colorfully logging it's contents in a notebook full of graph paper. I secretly envied that man and I never knew exactly why. Perhaps it was the way he seemed so genuinely occupied and happily busy in his endless task of copying data from one book to his own. To be so satisfied seemed so foreign. But I digress.
Another reason might be that I work in a warehouse. This is not a complaint. I work for a wonderfully respected establishment, with excellent superiors, and extremely entertaining coworkers one of whom is a mildly obsessive compulsive twenty-something who taught me how to rip a phone book in half today ("...then you take a firm hold... and... if you get it just right... for some reason it's not wanting to... well it's supposed to rip, right down the middle"). But honestly, I can just see a post entitled "The Ins and Outs of Shipping" where I detail my daily duties, the frustration of running out of certain box sizes, and the wounds I incur from the tape gun (is that what their called?). See, I'm already losing interest.
I went to a rodeo. They had the usual. I felt the usual pangs of animal activism. I let out an involuntary, "Yeeeehaw!" however, which both surprised and pleased me.
I also spend a lot of time thinking about my next huge I'm-an-adult-now task--being a teacher. Ok, I'm going to be a student teacher, but I find it not only daunting but consuming. So, I think about it of course. It's actually quite fruitless because I rarely get past, "Ok, I'm going to be a teacher... wait... I'm going to be teacher! I don't know anything about biology! And I'm going to have to teach it! Ok, I'm going to be a teacher... wait..." and so on. But you'd be surprised how much time that swallows up during these hot summer days.
And so my friends, at long last, my final reason. My chacos of seven years, while still showing minimal signs of wear and tear (though used almost daily since the day I purchased them) have now reached an outstandingly fetid personality and can hardly be taken out in public without embarrassment. I am saddened to the point of despondency and cannot update my blog because of it. Of course, it's not that sad, really. But I could sense that this post was lacking some drama.
My friends! We dance!
fet·id
adj.
having an offensive odor; stinking.