Look At Me Still Talking When There's Science To Do
If I keep thinking of words, I will keep writing them downArchive for writing
Today’s the day, and tomorrow is another day!
The title is meant to be sung. Not because I feel like singing, but because it’s a quote, and the original utterance was sung. By me. (Because I finally figured out where to make a cotton-pickin’ left turn in cotton-pickin’ Anchorage- ask Rob or Kelsey.)
There are a few too many stories to tell. (Since last… June? Yeah, no kidding.) I will get going on them, NOT BECAUSE SEVERAL AUNTS AND ROOMMATES HAVE TOLD ME TO, but because I just frickin feel like it, gosh.
I will get going on them tomorrow. I’ve had to force myself to take every step that got me to the point where I could write this post. This post, this was the hard part. It’s all downhill from here. I can probably think of a thousand words to write, or a million, or somewhere in between.
Tomorrow is really the day.
I also really love bread.
What kind of a weirdo walks into a public restroom, looks someone in the eye as they are coming out of a stall and then deliberately enters the stall that was just vacated even though all four other stalls are clearly unoccupied?
I encountered that weirdo today, obviously. She looked right at me. She bored holes into my skull with her laser eyes. It was weird. O.
I would have been more worried about it if I weren’t sick, which I am, and if I didn’t have to write a dumb paper, which I did. Of course then I had to go to a dumb class to turn in the dumb paper, except we didn’t turn it in, we peer-edited it, which is code for “wasted time.”
Instead of writing the paper yesterday, I should have written in my blog like my dream told me to do. In my dream I composed a beautiful and thoughtful post and vowed to remember it until morning, but alas, all I remembered was the dramatic closing line, “I also really love bread.” The dream featured me drinking glass after glass of delightfully chilled water, which perhaps I should also have done in real life, but now I am sick and if I don’t drink that much water I can’t even talk properly. Talk about delightful.
I was writing my literacy autobiography, which was meant to be about how literacy reveals clever insights about my gender, social class, religion and ethnicity. We were expressly warned not to copy any of the examples our teacher gave, which was super easy since all she wrote about was her life as a white middle class Protestant born to college educated parents. We watched a digital representation of her story, set to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” (my third least-favorite song); the surprise ending involved some pictures of her with NOT white people, shocker, and then I ran to the bathroom to take care of my nose-faucet.
Bathrooms are weird anyway. Best to ignore them, and not think about how strange people find it appropriate to write the names of their significant others on the wall as they sit on the toilet.
“I was thinking about you today, darling!”
“Oh yeah, when was that?”
“Oh you know, while I was peeing.”
“Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiice.”
In the stalls of art kid bathrooms they write inspirational quotes, poetry, and song lyrics- did you know?
I am thankful to art for helping me to choose Grand Valley, where I was in the Honors College, which threw a party at Lake Michigan where I met my friend Rebecca who brought me to movie night at which I met Jobby who introduced me to Bob who took me to Alaska, which will, I am confident, cause other interesting dominoes to fall in the future. Maybe I should write that on the wall in an art kid bathroom.
