51.0

I'm really bad at condensing things. Which sucks because that's my stylistic goal as a writer but whatever. I've got 10 years to work at it.

Anyway, I'm in between pass times at the moment. Trying to learn a simple song on the guitar and reading various exerpts of works that I should read completely. I'm switching back and forth in hopes that it will get my brain to think about something else other than my poor excuse for a research paper that I had the audacity to turn in... Whatever. This is all just material for my memoir.

I went to Barnes and Noble yesterday. I have a love-hate relationship with that place. Love because whenever I go there I end up staying for 4 hours at minimum just reading. Hate because they debunked Borders and everything there is so expensive. I came across a Billy Collins book and a Kurt Vonnegut novel that I just HAD to have but decided against it. I don't like spending my parents' money for anything superfluous (even though one can NEVER have too many books). I have guilt issues when it comes to anything financial.

This post had an initial subject but I forgot it. This is what happens when I let thoughts fester for too long. Either that or I've been eating a lot of ginger lately. Ginger makes you forget things. But I haven't consumed any ginger. Not even ginger tea! So I think I'm just very slow and forgetful. It may be my iron deficiency. I could always blame that.

See, that's one up side to the world today is one is never to far away from an excuse. From some magnificent external force that impedes you from doing whatever it is you're just too incompetent to do. Nothing is ever your fault. But excuses don't really serve their band-aid-like purpose. I always feel that they emphasize incompetence instead of mask it. I try so hard not to use them but everyone gives in at least a little.

So while I'm on the subject: I'm sorry. This was going to be more interesting but it didn't end up that way.

I blame excess ginger and lack of iron.

50.0

Hiatus...
Right.

That's always a nice word, isn't it? My favorite euphemism as a matter of fact.
Aside from the calls of my kettle and the clink of my fork there hasn't been too much action in the household of My Desk & Co.

...
I've nothing more to report.
Not like I need to, but you know... It's my 50.0 post so it seems like it should be significant in some other not numerical aspect.
Do I have anything I'm thinking of?
No.
Besides poetry, drugs, graphic novels and cereal I've nothing to report.

I lie.
I have so much to report.
I just don't think I'd do justice to any of the things I mentioned.

Like poetry for examp--
Nope. We're done with that.

Or drugs....
Nope. Done with that one too.

Graphic Novels:
I found a cool French one called "Epileptic" that vaguely reminds me of my little brother (even though he's never had epilepsy). I'm infatuated with European comics and this one takes the cake. Damn Europeans. They have such a strange talent of being personal but not pretentious. Slightly tortured but never whiny. Extremely witty and hardly dull. Mr. David B. is phenomenal.
Speaking of art I have no idea why I'm in honors art. Actually, I most certainly do. It's because I wanted to have just one more period in the day with a couple of people. Unfortunately, the agitation I get from the subject and my sorry excuse for talent impacts me more than the good company.
I drew a lung today.
A pastel lung.
I was quite proud of it. I still am.

It's really interesting because I just noticed that I love to indent and press "Enter" over and over again, creating as much negative space as I can on this little bloggy thing.
When I write on notebook paper I could never do that.
I despise margins, blank spaces, indentations. I seek them out and fill them with things. Doodles, thoughts, words, ANYTHING. I just never liked to see a blank spot in my notebook.
Granted, that little quirk made for MASSIVE illegibility so it's highly unlikely that I'll ever be able to decipher any of my past story ideas ever again, but that's all right. I'm getting better... I think.

49.0

I'd be a terrible mother. Or anything that involves taking care of something else. I can't provide constant surveillance or concern. Well, lie. Sometimes I can but it tires me very quickly. I don't think I'd be able to handle even a goldfish.

It's windy outside. The trees are wildly waving at me. Not very benignly, but not ominously either. They're just convulsing, I guess. That's quite all right. We all have those days. Even trees.

The last of the "autumn" leaves dance with flying plastic bags and faded pamphlets. We get a lot of litter here.

I wonder if the tint of snow will be the same 20 years from now.
It'd be sad if it were grey.
Because then you wouldn't get that fluorescent effect at night that you get with white snow. The moon reflects off of the white ground and everything's clear as day. Well, that's only when there aren't clouds in the sky. But even then it gives a frosted effect that I really like.
Sometimes I pretend I'm in Russia.
Or Norway...
For some reason, pretending I'm in another country makes things seem a bit more exciting.
I don't complain about being a simpleton. It's most practical anyway.