main

archive

night light

the toaster

I N  T H E  N I G H T  K I T C H E N

What I wouldn't give

To be back a couple years from now, in the basement of a dark, smoky bar with two great people, one of whom actively demonstrated the bottom's role in the missionary position and we laughed and laughed and laughed. We drank too long and then went to a party. We got there and everyone was laughing. Laughing all night long; so hard that our cheeks ached. Tears were rolled. We stood outside in the cold, near a keg and told a long, stupid joke. We wore imaginary sunglasses and smoked imaginary cigarettes in an imaginary shower and laughed at that, too. And then we all went home.

10:50 AM link

. . . . . . .

Bah.

I'm sick.

And, someone stole the CD player out of the car last night, taking with it one of the few remaining CDs that I like and listen to. All of our favorite CDs have been pilfered over the last five years out of our car. It's depressing.

6:07 PM link

. . . . . . .

Eat your peas

Hello! What'cha doin? Can I join you? Want to go shopping? How about coffee? There's a great coffee shop near here. Maybe, maybe, maybe I should clean the house or work on my resume or ... weed, or something.

I'm trying* to write my Personal Statement. Here's the question:

"Describe your intent with regard to the study/practice of architecture."

Auuuuuggggggghhhhh!!!! It's so horrible.

Remember when you were a kid and nothing was so fun as telling the world what you were going to be when you grew up? A firefighter! A veterinarian! The president! A renowned photojournalist! And then at some point you launch down that path toward your destiny and I suppose that some people get there but most don't. And, even if you do get there eventually, it's not without twinges or, at times, an outright wash of cynicism. I'm not so cynical as to say with any finality that dreaming is for the youth. However, I'm having a difficult time writing down my dreams for the express purpose of scrutiny and decisions about whether or not I'm good enough or interesting enough or competent enough. I picture someone (the admissions boogeyman) opening my envelope, pulling out my Personal Statement and then having a good, jaded laugh over it. Silly, silly girl. (Mwah-ha-haaa!)

So, I sit, doodling, getting up to dust the ceilings (not even kidding -- no cobwebs here, my friend), pet the cats, open the mail, make some phone calls, check my email, go to the coffee shop, consider working on other projects, and then return to my pad of paper and manage to write one precious paragraph. Twice I've positioned myself with pen in hand and told myself I was not getting up until I was done. It feels just like when I was eight years old and was forced to sit at the table until I finished those peas.

*It just can't be written when there are things to do. You know... things.

4:26 PM link

. . . . . . .