Upside-Down

Last night, I slept with my head where my feet usually are, and my feet where my head usually is.

[That almost sounds like I decided to sleep after my head morphed into my feet, and vice versa. Rest assured that my head was, and always will be, a head. And vice versa.]

I just felt like doing so. And so I did.

That's me being spontaneous.

Because I can't be spontaneous in Italy at this time, apparently.

              Something about a lacking in the financial department.

       That's me being poor.

That's me sleeping with my head where my feet usually are, and my feet where my head usually is, so as to get some free spontaneity in my life.

Perhapped

perhaps
photographs

do not always
display definition

though
they always swallow
a stain of
poetry.

Expanding Diction

I want to introduce you to a word.

       Jokiest.

It essentially means more than jokey. But not only that, it is the most jokey.

       Did you know that 'jokey' was even a word?

It's basically an adjective explaining to the world that something is comical.

So, let us all join forces and get that word moving through our mouths.

The world could definitely use more jokey.

Solved

I figured out why I am single.
I thought it was because I am loud, obnoxious, immature, awkward, lanky, rowdy, and otherwise. And sometimes I snort when I laugh.

I was wrong.
It's because I spend my Friday nights working on math homework.
And I stay in my pajamas well after noon on Saturdays. Working on math homework.
Plus, I eat doughnuts for dinner.
And I eat doughnuts for midnight snacks.
And I eat doughnuts for breakfast.

This, my friends, is the life. Try it sometime.

Close the Door; There's A Draft

I have twenty-two drafts lounging in the posting tab.

       Window-views, engagement, cats, men, insignificance, holidays, kaleidescopes, amusement,
       unappreciated pencils, underused words.

       The works.

Maybe someday I will show them to you.

Instinct

Being some nine inches taller than the average American woman, I frequently receive glances of awe and wonder as I walk into public areas.

     The giant has emerged.

Then, when my fans stop snapping pictures of me (no flash photography, please) and stop pelting me with roses and gold coins, they ask me the question.

     "Do you play basketball?"

And then I start to wonder if their love is genuine.

     

     Do they only like me because they think I'm that girl in the WNBA?

     Will they only be my friend if I can dunk a basketball?

So, naturally, I have grown to dislike the tall=basketball assumptions.

It's nothing personal.

     But do you want to know a secret?

     Sometimes when I see a tall person, I wonder if they play basketball. And then I want to dash over to

     them and ask if they are completely amazing basketball players.

So, apparently it's just human instinct to make assumptions about people's athletic history.

Bedtime

There are two things that I do before I go to bed that I hate.

     1. Crawling under my desk to turn off the surge protector.

     2. Putting my laptop on the shelf.

I am not sure why I am not a fan of those things. They are uncomplicated. And insignificant. And who cares if I don't crawl under my desk to turn off the surge protector. And who cares if I don't put my laptop on the shelf.

But when I start getting ready for bed, I usually halt the getting-ready-for-bed thing when I realize that it is time to crawl under my desk to turn off the surge protector and to put my laptop on the shelf. 

So I twiddle my thumbs for a while. I stare at the ceiling for a while. I write a blog post. I write a blog post that ends up in my drafts. 

And then I look over at my desk.

And then I end up getting to bed a lot later than when I originally planned.

Passed Time

Sept. 23, 1999
My shoes are too small. My other shoes are too small. My sandals fit.
          

Roots

Issues. I have them.

Does this surprise anyone?


I do think. Quite often, actually. Thoughts root in and out of my brain, even when I do not water the roots. Sometimes I blog about those roots. And they trot right into my draft bucket.

And they stay there for a while.

And a while longer.

Those roots still lounge in my drafts. They are just thoughts that are not ready to become concrete, quite yet.

And did you know that I have a computer full of photographs? And when I say 'full', I mean that I do not have even a whole gigabyte of storage left on my computer.

So sometimes I think that it would be appropriate to post a photograph or two.

I cannot tell you how many times I have scrolled through all of my pictures.

And somehow, I never can find a photograph to post.

And somehow, I never can find any roots to post.


Here. Photos that have been snoozing inside my computer for a while. They have no significance to anyone, but sometimes a photograph deserves a blink or two.

        

        

Thirty-Seven

37 Reasons I Love Valentines Day:

Reason #37:
Roommates give me candy that is too splendid to eat.

Reason #36:
Roommates give me candy that is too delicious not to eat.

I'm still keeping my eyes peeled for reasons one through thirty-five.

I'll keep you posted.

Piped and Packed

Over time, memories build up and up and up.

Inside my brain, there is a fat tube reserved for memories.

It's like shoving dryer lint into that pipe. The fuzz keeps accumulating, and eventually it is just compressed into a slab of lint.

And then eventually it needs to be pried out of the pipe and separated back into light, airy fluff.

The good memories,
     The bad memories,
          And, of course, the ugly memories.
     So as to complete the cliché.

And sometimes dryer lint is not all that attractive to look at, no matter how soft and whispered it is.

From the Filing Cabinet

If you want to heal, you have to talk about it. I think it's time for me to heal. 

I've been suffering ever since last October.

I have been hiding it in my brain, blocked by the heaviest of filing cabinets that are filled with burdensome blocks of replayed music and recurring images of travel.

It all started when I had to drive myself to my hair appointment. My mother wouldn't come hold my hand as I had my forever-appreciated split ends sawed off my head. 

Please bear in mind that the hair salon is about twenty-five minutes from the homestead. And I hate driving. And I hate directions. And I can't follow directions. Because my brain makes me panic and the filing cabinets that are filled with burdensome blocks of replayed music and recurring images of travel smash around my head. That gets a little uncomfortable. So I am sure you can understand where I am coming from.

But guess what. I made it to the salon. And my hair was chopped. Nobody had to hold my hand. 

When I was done, I called the homestead and asked for the directions to get home. And I got directions. Directions that involved pressing pound and saying my credit card number, social security number, and my address. 

Wrong number.

Then, when I actually got a hold of the people who raised me, I received directions consisting of standing on my head, patting my shoulder with my foot, covering my eyes with my elbows, and sensing when it was time to exit the freeway and enter the belt route by using my telepathic radio waves.

I thought I would give it a shot. After all, I kind of wanted to make it back home so I could finish my weekend, and perhaps even my education, eventually. So I turned on the radio and blasted some tunes, simultaneously drowning out all thought, sound, and telepathic radio waves. And I drove. And I drove.

Eventually, my brain decided to pay attention to the world around me. Had Utah always looked so... desert-like? I saw an exit sign and I wondered if I should remove my vehicle from the freeway by following said sign. The sign passed. So I decided that I would take the next exit. So I kept driving. And I kept driving. And I kept driving. There were no exit signs. The  filing cabinets that are filled with burdensome blocks of replayed music and recurring images of travel thrashed about my brain and smashed against my skull.

Great.

So I made a phone call that involved pressing pound and saying my credit card number, social security number, and my address. 

Wrong number.

Then I made another phone call that involved parental voices telling me that I am blonde. Thanks, but I already knew that. But could you please tell me what to do. Then I looked at the dashboard and saw a little yellow light notifying me that my gas tank has been on empty for quite some time. And I kept driving through the unfamiliar, parched desert. And I was told that the only thing I really could do was to keep driving. Until I hit an exit.

To make a long story longer, I drove until I hit an exit. And I didn't even run out of gas before I made it to the gas station. 

Plus, I had never been to the Great Salt Lake before then.

Grapevine

I occasionally hear one of those 'grapevine' stories. The typical grapevine account containing a report from your aunt's brother-in-law's ferret's best friend's owner's grandfather's youngest child.

I occasionally believe those grapevine stories. They occasionally sound like legitimate tales.

So when I hear a legitimate tale, I usually want to go tell someone what I heard. But when I do, I sound like that nosy neighbor lady who whips up some crème brulée for the bird flu-infested lady up the street just to get some insignificant, yet intriguing information out in the open.

For the sake of not wanting to sound like that neighbor lady, I'll refrain from climbing that grapevine for now.

But just know that I may have a grape right off the vine, dispensed by my aunt's brother-in-law's ferret's best friend's owner's grandfather's youngest child.

I'd Like to Buy a Vowel

It's fun to wake up at the exact moment your gym class begins.
It's fun to realize you were too out of it to set your alarm the night before.
It's also fun to say, "scratch that," and to go back to bed for an hour longer.

Sometimes just before you're supposed to go to your biology class where a quiz is waiting, your nose begins to bleed. Sometimes the nosebleed stops. Sometimes the nosebleed starts up again. Sometimes you're twenty minutes late to biology and you miss your quiz.  Sometimes your professor calls you out on your tardiness and interrogates you in search of the reason you were late. Sometimes you tell the whole class that you had a nosebleed. Sometimes you feel really awkward. Sometimes your professor picks on you during the lecture because of your tardiness and asks what an enzyme is. Sometimes you don't remember that an enzyme is a protein. Sometimes you feel really awkward when you know you should know that an enzyme is a protein, and the whole class laughs at you from inside their brains. Sometimes your professor makes a disappointed face and explains to the class that an enzyme is a protein. Sometimes you write "An enzyme is a protein" in your notebook with underlines beneath "enzyme" and "protein". Just in case your professor decides to ask you what an enzyme is sometime in the future. Sometimes your professor picks on the other students, but only asking them to read simple sentences aloud for the rest of the class. Sometimes your insides roll into a ball because remembering that an enzyme is a protein is much more difficult than reading a sentence out loud that you could have read backward in the first grade.

It's nice when your professor lets you take the quiz you missed after class.
It's nice when that quiz is pretty easy.

I'll definitely be setting my alarm tonight.
I'll definitely walk around with a clothespin in my pocket. Just in case I have another nose incident.
I'll definitely never forget what an enzyme is.

Take An If

If
you take an
If
you take an
unencouraged risk