I chortled silently as I read the last post, afraid that more than a whisper would draw my hawk-like mother's attention; the prospect of her frolicking over to the computer only to discover I was laughing at my own wit was not particularly inviting. I suppose that, reading of my mother's bird-inspired tendencies as you just have, you would guess that I was referring back to the 3rd grade writing example of a simile: "eyes like a hawk." Alas, no, I wish my mother had eyes like a hawk -- it would've prevented that wretched week of grumpiness she experienced roughly 4 months ago whenst trying to accustom herself to contacts. A failed attempt, I might add, and the 5 days in between the Monday that our possibly gay eye doctor prescribed soft contact lenses and the Saturday when she decided they made her eyes too dry and irritating was maybe a week I should've gone camping.

And I hate camping, and I hate tents, and I love s'mores but I could settle for them in my backyard -- so the fact that I considered the sport of living like a caveman is a testimony to the overall enjoyability of that week.

However, the idea of settling down in the prickly underbrush in the sad excuse for a sleeping bag in which father persists in leaving every pair of worn black socks he owns is no less than enticing to my sister ("She-who-must-not-be-named"-- I am a Reader's-Digest savvy anti-phisher and I really couldn't stand to blow my cover). "She-who.." and I had long ago resolved our differences in taste, but in the week surrounding the Perseus meteor showers, I am constantly being bombarded with requests to grace her and my mother with my presence out on the lawn at dusk.

Living in a small town as we do, light rays and pollution make for a suspiciously nonexistent meteor shower -- a fact that is largely responsible for dreadfully frequent trips to the beach, the dessert, the country. Apparently the Perseus in the country is a wildly active event, there being no diesel-guzzling fumes to shower their potent breath throughout the sky or monstrous skyscrapers to flood the world with light. I detect a potential display of the Northern Lights, what with the green sludgy gluck of SUVS and the luminescence of a million 120 watt light bulbs. It's a wonder that Japanese Tourists even bother with expensive trips to Alaska when they could view a mini-production of the Aurora Borealis from my backyard, totally free-of-charge unless they serve me raw egg.

I know I was going to say something about shooting stars, that's why I brought this all up in the first place. That was an awfully long time ago I'm afraid, and since then I've plumb forgot the undoubtedly sly and witty comment I would've made. Ah yes, and as to the deletion of this blog, this is the deal: I'm really dreadfully tired of it, what with its aesthetically criminal layout and blurbs that were funny like two years ago and stuff, but I have a super-soft spot in my heart for killing 40-110 minutes once a month or so online posting something really stupid, and I can't bare to give it up.

So I'm going to create a new blog, and possibly link to this one on it or something. I'm not going to now of course, it would all be too sudden. Sooner or later, though, I expect.

Wow, BTW! I just spell-checked this bugger, and the the numbers have soared surprisingly high since my last post -- 17 misspelled words in these few paragraphs and counting! It's forever calling me on "whenst," but I really just am so attatched to that word, or collection of letters, or whatever it is. Why the heck is it underlining "could've," anyway? Ever heard of a 2-in-1 deal, 'cause Walgreens certainly has! Everyone I know who knows anything about getting pissed off about spam knows the word "phisher," too -- including the ever-reliable Reader's Digest! Really, if we can't trust the magazine just one step down in brilliance from AARP, what in God's name can we trust? Okay, I'll admit that my first attempt of "aesthetically" looked suspiciously like "athletically," but perhaps I was alluding to the sporty symptoms of white on green!

What a horribly wretched blog this is. I suppose I shall delete it come July. I was full of spunk in the beginning, a bundle of scratchy cleverness and wit. I've stepped out of the blogging scene, returning only to read up on a more successful blog and marvel at the consistency with which my fellow blogger updates us on her projects. If I had a project I would doubtlessly fill you in in an instant- unfortunately, many moons have passed since I retired to my desk and hammered down an assembly of fun wooden decals. Tomorrow is the last day of school, and I am still waiting for a melancholy 8th grade nostalgia to set in. My year book has failed entirely in the respect that I look at it and just wonder how it was possible that LifeTouch screwed over every shining face of my regularly photogenic fellow students. I suppose that year books were originally created to serve as a lovely memento, a bargain at $20 considering the lasting memories it inspires. But every year the yearbook staff does that annoying thing where they cut around the heads of people, I suppose to create more space for other luminescent, spandex-clad beauties, but it really just creates the effect of tackiness, a testimony that my classmates really don't have ears. (This is somewhat random- let me explain. Ears are very tiny creatures, and in pictures are almost impossible to cut around without amputating them altogether. And once you've suggested that someone's ear is maybe only a partial ear, it's better to just slice off the whole thing and have away with it altogether, as it raises the argument that it may just be hiding behind the hair instead of existing as 1/2 ligament.)

There is never any closure to these posts. This is because I usually run out of steam before I've said what I want to say, and "The End," however effective it may be, always suggests that it followed some sort of story.

I feel like, instead of writing a posts with words and everything, I should snap a photo of something very creative that I made and then upload it with the scanner we don't have onto the computer that would then proceed to post that snapshot on my blog...about four to five years later, depending on how many people before me left their programs running. We have a very slow computer. Sometimes, I hit the butterfly icon even when I have no intention of checking my email for another couple of days. This is only sometimes of course, because generally I have every intention of checking my email before the hour is up.

The only problem with this post-a-craft scheme is that I'm afraid that whatever my selection should be, it would pale in comparison to my fellow bloggers'. Not to say that I am not a competent craftsman, because that would be a disgusting lie. No, I hear that their are craftmice these days. And also craftlogs and craftpiecesofhay. I am forever outdoing a fellow craftpieceofhay in whatever challenge he confronts me with.

If only homemade trash was the hot commidity these days. I am certain I would school any number of my peers when it comes to ripping things up (assuming that the thing in question is easily tearible and requires no upper-arm strength). Just the other day, for example, I tore an important document worth a great deal of money into four thousand tiny shreds (roughly). I really didn't stay to count and confirm that there were four thousand of them because a large hissing snake, such as Lord Voldemort's snake (introduced in #4), was snapping a devilish tongue at me. I suppose the document must have been his, I should say. I should say so.

My Tired Fingers

My tired fingers feel as though an arabian knight with cruel intentions plucked seven sharpened harpoons from his desk drawer and plunged them deep into the tips of my unexpecting phalanges, or metacarpals, or whatever the scientific term for fingers is. The fact is that I was gong to be clever and use a 'fingers' synonym rather then the word that would've come naturally to a mere human, but my cleverness died off half way through the sentence, and my eyebrows drooped and the corners of my mouth sagged and I was robbed of creativity. I was left with a dull, twelve-year-old-boy-doing-playstation type of a sentence that any parent who knows their place would roll their eyes at. And then do something equally non-productive in the next room over.

The number of words that have gone unspewed today is dreadful. My brain is overflowing with many colorful and nonsensical arrangements and there is absolutely no one nearby to humor with them. As I debated whether or not I should clean my room and do other weekly chores, or should I just kill time on the computer and feel guilty instead, I happened to chance upon a memory of a blog I once had. Intrigued, I typed what I thought to be the url and once again marveled at the witticisms that had been mine so long ago, that I had neglected to revisit for such a long time.

This reminded me that it had been frighteningly long since I'd created another hideously arranged template, and in doing so wasted several hours of what, in a parallel universe, might have been time well spent on carving a stick or discovering fire. There was no denying that any frivolous room-cleaning should then by postponed, and I should hasten to spend a non-productive evening at the computer becoming pissed off at an increasingly heinous template.

So I poured myself a cup of coffee, dousing it with a round of childish half & half (those who have reached an outstanding level of maturity drink it black, shaking their heads at any sign of cream and dubbing it uncouth). I reached my hand into the expensive tea canister that, after being emptied of all of its former contents, was made instead the dark chocolate treasure container. I supposed that subconsciously I was hoping to restore my pride by popping a 60% cocoa piece instead of the milk chocolate candies with significantly fewer health benefits, after being so childish in my choice of half & half. I have to wonder, is there any hope for a person who drinks drip coffee with such modernized calorie-laden preferences? Or am I wasting my time to think that I can salvage my pride after being so thoroughly proved wrong by my own clever subconscious?

Either way, I have to warn you that after committing yourself to a Dove Dark Chocolate Promise, you truly will not be spared any amount of cheesiness. Some promises leave my inspired, energized, and occasionally teary-eyed, but today's just left me feeling empty. Such as, who was ever suspicious that this promise might be fulfilled? When you find that person, you must send them back to primary school where they learn the basics of colors and counting and drawing pictures and eating crayons or boogers or earwax, but certainly not paste which is the stereotype for what a kindergartner might dare to send down their tiny esophagus.

Oh no. I've gone and crumpled my Dove Promises' wrapper. It held the anecdotal promise with which I would've taken pleasure in regaling to you. Anyway, it said something along the lines of: smile so that someone will be curious of the mischief you may be smiling about." Which sounds an awful like to me of someone who is trying to make themselves appear very mysterious and clever, and perhaps arouse a strangers thoughts of "what on earth of a clever ploy might that maiden have been responsible for?" or "that lusciously gorgeous women has a sly smile on her face like that of the mona lisa, and I am seduced by the sexy mystery of her wickedly clever grin" or "that fox does not chortle aloud easily, and so I must constantly strive to tempt her with half-witted comments that do not come close to surpassing her own."

Okay I have ranted for quite some time now. I may have used every descriptive word I can think of.

Quinn, who was naturally good at basketball

Quinn was casually shooting hoops in his school gym, swishing every basket but never paying heed to his continous successes. Nor did he think anyone else was paying heed to his continuous successes, quite convinced that he was all alone in the gym be himself. After a particularly tricky shot which, amazingly, hit the target, despite the some 275 feet that rested between Quinn and the basket, Quinn heard a mysterious coughing noise.

He whirled around but saw no one. He whirled around again and saw a tall, handsomely featured man with a business suit and tie and bow tie and ribbon and tux and authentic hawaiin sandals leaning against a wall and watching his every move. Quinn was surprised when he realized that what he had heard was not a cough, but merely the clearing of the man's throat, which was hoarse and phlegmy.

The man approaced Quinn. "You've got a talent, son," he said, grabbing Quinn's poochy cheeks and wringing them awkwardly. "You've made every basket."

Quinn did not aknowledge this compliment, in an effort to maintain modesty. However, it was actually just sort of rude and weird.

The man continued. "I've only watched you for one half of one hour, but I've got a keen eye that can spot talent in a heartbeat. I think you could go national, and then bigger than national."

Quinn raised his eyebrows and feigned surprise- he'd always suspected he could go bigger than national.

"What's more, I don't think you'd even have to practice. You're already so good."

Quinn thought, heck, if I wouldn't have to practice, I should just go for it. So he went for it, and he never ever practiced. Ever. And on the day of the competition, it was just a normal day during which Quinn was a naturally good basketball player. He won the competition against a bunch of people who'd spent forever practicing and was a victorious celebritiy for 4 and one half of one hour.