A favorite freak occurrence.

Moments ago, 'Wish You Were Here' by Pink Floyd started playing. I do not know how I have this song in my iTunes, but I absolutely love it. When I was little and riding in the car with my mom, this song would come on 92.5 sometimes (as it is THE classic rock station) and she would sing it and even do the 'doo dudah doo's on occassion. My mother never does the 'doo dudah doo's. This is one of those memories that seems absolutely lovely and warming to remember (and that it is).

However, there is a catch-- as subordinate clause, if I may. And here is the dependent: I am not entirely certain if it is true. When I hear 'Wish You Were Here,' that is the memory I have instantaneously because there were those occassional songs that my mother would hum nonsense to and she does love Pink Floyd. Obviously, 'Wish You Were Here' fits the bill. This memory is being recovered from the car we had before the Quest, which would make me about four. Of course there is no way for me to know if this is the actual song. But that does not change how nice it makes me feel. It is forever fascinating to me how alive some things can make us feel when they themselves may cease to have ever existed.

If I sneeze one more time, I might have to cut my nose off. Which will be the saddest day of my life, as I have an undying affinity for both my nose and sneezing.

Happy Christmas!

It's the Christmas Fikus . . . plus my family.

LOL!!

What I did today was so cute that I had to PAINT a picture to display it since I have no connector cable. Ty and I took a picture with a nativity scene in Forney. He was the stand in Joseph and I guess you could say I was the dog. In reality, it looks like I was trying to eat Jesus and maybe I was. Maybe I was.

My head is fluttering with many thoughts.

1. I need to clean my room. It's disgraceful to walk into my residents's rooms and tell them to sweep and pick things up . . . all the while I am picturing my dirty room and laughing my head off (in shame, of course).

2. There is something fabulous about watching people you love becoming the people they are going to be . . . the people who are going to be a force of change and charisma in this ridiculous world we live in. It's especially amazing when they are realizing these things you've always known about them for the very first time.

3. I should have been studying for the last two hours and twenty minutes. Instead, I watched Little Women. Perhaps I should regret this decision; perhaps I will regret this decision. However, today it was the best possible way to spend the afternoon.

4. I will never be the girl who says she loves exams or finals because I-- quite frankly-- abhor them. Yet, I must give credit where credit is due . . . thank you essay exams for giving me ink stains all over my hand. I genuinely love it. If I could break pens open over my hands and not be considered a social outcast, I would.

5. I want to do something really ridiculous to my hair over Christmas Break. I've ruled out the fauxhawk and unnatural colors of any kind. Now the only question is . . . bald or extensions to my feet?

6. The Gunpowder Plot took place in 1605 and was an attempt by Guy Fawkes to create enough chaos to warrant the appointment of a Catholic as the King of England. While the incident never actually took place, it was a planned and intended. However, this incident provides an excellent example of building turmoil and revolution in Britain, which finally broke out in 16-- . . . this is the only information I have cemented in my brain for my exam.

Oh, geez.

Tonight I stayed up four hours later than I intended doing my bulletin boards . . . my bulletin boards that do not need to be finished until January 12. Why did I do something more than a month in advance? I did not even know the answer until twenty minutes ago. The answer is this . . .

So I could catch a boy in the girl's bathroom.

LOL.

Button nose.

When I was a wee lass, living on the plain, this is about the time of year that my favorite childhood memory would become a daily occurrence. Every night after supper, I would beg my daddy to get out his guitar and play Christmas songs. He would of course indulge me because it was a legitmate excuse to get him out of doing the dishes. By legitimate, I mean my mama enjoyed him playing as much as I did, so she did not mind being short a set of hands while washing the plates.

He would play all the Christmas standards from this ragged carol book. On the front cover there was a family standing around their piano and donning their gay apparel. We never did this around the piano. Sometimes it was on the couch. On more than one occassion, I made my dad play while we sat by my parents' bathtub because there were steps in front of it. I loved sitting on steps then just as I do now.

It did not matter where he played or how many verses of "12 Days of Christmas" he insisted on playing because all I was waiting around for was, "Frosty the Snowman." He usually had to play it twice because I would make him. I realize this story reveals what an eccentric and controlling child I was. However, it is one of the times when my home felt happiest.

My dad hasn't played "Frosty the Snowman" in a very long time. Today I heard it while I was at Starbucks and it made me wonder if the sheet music is still in the bottom of his Gibson guitar case. I hope so because if it isn't, my father will have to play it by memory. I do not know how easy that is when you are ten years out of practice.

. . . then I remember why I am cynical.

Today I stopped by a little establishment called Chik-Fil-A because I wanted some sweet tea. While waiting on my sweet tea, a delightful lad by the name of Jason tried to sell me a Chik-Fil-A cupon calendar. His key selling points included: "It's only $5 . . . It'll make a great holiday gift . . . I've sold 19 of these babies in two hours, they're going fast . . . Plus, the guys REALLY dig it, eh?" After this little spiel I simply say, "Oh yeah? Maybe next time, okay?" It's most likely I am being this nice because he still ample opportunity to spit in my drink. He then adds, "Oh, well . . . this is also a contest." Thank you for the honesty, bud. He then hands me my drink and says, "Well, Merry Christmas." It is at this point I want to tell Jason, "Listen, I'm a Jewish lesbian." However, he probably knows someone who knows someone who knows my dad and it will break his heart to find out that his little girl is a lesbian that doesn't accept Jesus as her savior. So, I restrained myself.

Why I love Sunday School (a list).

1. middle schoolers + relationships = funny/cute/ohmygoshhowridiculous
2. I say that I was born in 1988 and immediately I hear, "1988?! You're old."
3. I use a time when I've been mean as an example and they don't believe that I could do anything mean. LOLZ.
4. While discussing kindness, someone throws a fit because she did not get a piece of bubble gum. After the aforementioned girl slams her fist into the wall and goes to sit in the corner. Everyone starts laughing at her, but while they are laughing one boy walks over offers her his piece of gum saying that he does not really want it anyway. I think my heart broke and then was put back together again. Of course she was very stubbron and refused to take it. He then ate it. Still. Gestures mean the world sometimes.

Disgusting.

This afternoon, I walked into the front door of my father's house to find my brother and sister in the kitchen laughing and preparing the turkey for tomorrow. Of course this was mildly precious because they were getting along, which is a rare occurrence. However, the moment that was created and may have even prompted a traditional, terrible entry on how Thanksgiving REALLY is a time for giving thanks was ruined by the country music they were blasting all throughout the house. I, of course, do not know who it was . . . I am sure it was Brad Paisley or Tim McGraw because these are the only country musicians I know by name. I am willing to bet it was them singing a duet together. Anyway, it ruined Thanksgiving.

"I'm a Cuckoo."

"Jesus told me, go after every coin like it was the last in the world.
And protect the wayward child . . .
But I’m a little lost sheep.
I need my Bo Peep.
I know I need my Shepherd here tonight.

Breaking off is misery.
I see a wildness for you and me,
Punctuated by philosophy.
I'm wondering how things could’ve been."

-- Belle and Sebastian

This song has been stuck in my head. More so than any other song. In the history of the world. Ever.

A quick list.

1. Buddhism is a religion.
2. We should seek relationship with others in order to gain community, not converts.
3. I have a hard time expecting people to grasp the concept of the bread of life when they hardly have enough bread to live today.
4. Statistics are dangerous and become toxic when used to draw loose, inept correlations.
5. Scripture is best utilized in context, not when grouped according to a common word.
6. The above are all my opinion. Anytime I wish to express them, I will make sure to let everyone know they are such. I do not want to present a one-sided, opinionated representation of anything because it creates non-critical, lazy thinking.

Less stress on the pilgrim and more on the progress.

So I did it. I finished draft one of my sure to be-- if nothing more-- mediocre creative writing entry. I am genuinely excited about thinking it is mediocre at this point because like my friend, Ben Franklin says, "You are your own worst critic." (I am not at all certain if Ben Franklin did indeed say this, but I do know that he said lots of smart things and loved turkeys and French whores. So, odds are in his favor.) At any rate, I finished the first draft so now there is nothing to hold me back from actually turning it in to be scrutinized by English professors department wide.

Church.

One of my favorite types of worship services are the ones that go horribly wrong (horribly wrongs as in things outside of your control go awry, not because you were careless or lazy). I think those are the times when we really live out what church is supposed to be. Often we do come to worship and expect to sit back and receive. We receive a message. We receive the peace. We receive communion. However, when service suddenly becomes mass chaos with chords shorting and efforts to stall in short supply, we are all suddenly drawn out of our seats. Some of us rush to the back to help. Some of us rush to the front to distract. Some of us sit fists clenched in our chairs wondering what is going on and why this is happening and whose big idea was it to wreck church today. Suddenly, everyone is engaged. Everyone is listening. Even if we are only listening to know who we can blame after the service is over, our ears are open and we are alert.

Two things.

I love finger painting and newspaper. It is like your five-year-old self interacting with your twenty-five-year-old self. While I am not 25, I assume I will be one day and when I am . . . I will read newspapers.

Inferior faith is how I'm remembering today.

I do not have these pretty things to say about my faith. I hardly trust that it is "all in God's hands." I struggle with the idea that "God already has a plan for it." I rarely feel that "God has laid something on my heart." It is not that I am theologically (or otherwise) opposed to these notions, I simply don't feel them. I trust that God has a grip on what my reality is, as God did create it. However, that is not necessarily a comforting thing to me. How tumultous is it to think that my suffering and my sorrow is part of God's plan? How are people strong enough not only to consider that God let's them suffer as part of his plan, but to greet that as a comforting idea? I worry that I am too critical and cynical to allow God to lay anything on my heart . . . the only exception to this is the occassional, overwhelming outburst of engaged empathy. I have always considered faith a place where questions are welcomed and confusion expected. However, I am having a hard time lately finding assuredness that God appreciates my questions.

Oh, spite.

How often are we in genuine, open dialogue with one another?

How much of my life do I spend listening with a conclusion already drawn or an answer already anticipated? I have yet to do the actual math, but I am sure the figure would be staggering. My ability to automatically assume what someone will think of what I have to say is uncanny.

Case in point, today the woman from University Laundry decided to engage me in a little dialogue. We began talking and it was pleasant because she was a pleasant person. She mentioned that she had lived in Fort Worth before while attending seminary. I immediately asked, "Oh? Did you go to Brite?!" looking to foster another DOC connection. However, my hopes were crushed when she told me that she attended Southwestern Seminary. Guess where my mind went next . . .

Later on in the conversation, she asked me about my future plans career-wise, major-wise, etc. I told her I was thinking seriously about ministry and going to seminary. She nodded and asked me what I wanted to do with that. This question from anyone with a presumably conservative background tends to boil my blood, because I automatically assume everyone should accept and affirm that I can preach from behind a pulpit despite my obvious inferiority as the weaker sex! . . . Oh, and that I am about to be judged as stepping outside my intended role as a woman of the Lord.

Instead this woman told me that was nice and asked me if I had had the opportunity to do anything ministry related yet. I told her no and probably wanted to cry a little because I knew who of the two of us was really the closeted, close-minded bigot. Luckily, I was chopping onions so my eyes were already fuzzy.

This may be customary but . . .

I was just looking at pictures from a friend's wedding and there was a picture of the groom removing the bride's garter at the reception. This allowed for me to meditate on how uncomfortable that seems as an experience.

"Hey, we just got married. Why don't you reach up my dress while I hike it up in front of our family and friends and pull this lacy garment off my thigh?" I think that exact dialogue is exchanged everytime this takes place. This only serves as a reminder of the several "socially acceptable" things that happen, which I consider completely unnerving. Other choice examples include:

1. Parents putting their children on leashes. Unless your child is going to try and eat me, I hardly think forced restraint is necessary. I've never seen any parent who I would consider "attentive" with a kid on a leash. Maybe he or she lets her guard down because they have the security of the leash . . . or maybe they were never good at watching the child and that's why there is now a leash.
2. When people walk around department store dressing rooms only partially dressed. We are complete strangers. You half-naked is nothing I wish to see upon our first encounter, especially when there are mirrors everywhere so that no matter how I try to avert my eyes-- I am looking right at you.
3. Men going inside strores that are explicitly for women. If he is accompanied by a woman, I can get over it, but why are you alone in Victoria's Secret, creepy? I promise your wife/girlfriend/pretend playmate would appreciate your gift a million times more if she had the solace of knowing you didn't creep out other female patrons while buying it.

I may be petty, but I am convicted. Some things that we "turn the other way" on are not okay. No one should have to stay on their leash while watching half naked men peruse Victoria's Secret. That will be my presidential platform when I run in 2036.

"I can't stop your memory."

I have a deep propensity for memories. I remember so much . . . not due dates or appointments, but important things. There are certain perfectly controlled climates and instances that make my memory of events and people and feelings infinitely sharper. Today is one of those days.

When the wind chaps my lips and the cold bites my skin, and every sharp intake of air travels through me to the point that my stomach feels a little colder, I remember so many things.

I remember sitting in my tree swing listening to The Sex Pistols because I was so hardcore. I remember raking leaves so I could jump into them before my dad was home. I remember begging my dad to make a fire and then forcing him to play guitar while we sat by it roasting marshmallows on wire hangers. I remember running barefoot in the creek even though it was fifty degrees.

I do not know what I will remeber about today, the first authentically fall day of this year. Maybe nothing.

That poem I wrote that one time about rain.

Because it started raining on me while I was walking to class today:

I dreamt the sky wrenched open and left me covered,
A clean and tidy canvas where colors ran.
Hydrated. Saturated. Satisfied.
Form less defined-- hue more vivid still,
A comfort in the raw stillness.
Still- I shivered in distaste.
Embarassed and so flushed.
While thickly concealed,
In clearest paint--
Call attention.
Drip. Drop.

I've given up on counting. I hate math.

I think it is vital that I report to a this extremely read and praised journal that the pumpkin pie in The Main today was the worst thing I have ever experienced. First of all-- when I put my fork into it, it oozed water. When I tried to pick it up with my fork, it did not move from the plate. When I finally shoveled it into my mouth it immediately melted and turned into water. This is not a joke. My favorite gourd could be ruined forever.

Day 235: A bottle of water.

My mouth was ridiculously dry all day today. While this is completely literal, it could be figurative too. Today was so lack-lustre and I hated every restless minute of it. There are of course a few hours of exception to the previous statment, but as an overarching generalization-- it is quite accurate.

Day 234: A dinosaur.

Today in a class the observation was made that our thoughts and opinions do indeed change. I do not believe the same as I did when I was ten years old. I still think dinosaurs are awesome, but I have found other passions in life. It was introspecitve for awhile, but then I just got caught up in this one thought:

I used to be in a club that drew pictures of weird dinosaurs we "invented." We then assigned each other new dinosaurs to be. As if this is not ridiculous enough . . . I was cool in fifth grade. I did things like this and I was popular. I am not even kidding. I did weird things like this and I was really cool.

We'll say 233 . . .ish.

I have yet again let time and committment elude me. I think it is a little funny that I do not manage to make an entry in this everyday. I used to be extremely devoted to my online journalings. However, I have been experiencing a journal writing drought not only electronically, but with my inkwell and scroll as well.

I could say it is because I have been busy. I could accredit my neglect to apathy. I could even invent an excuse involving alien abduction. However, all three of these are equally far from the truth. The reality is that I received an e-mail from the TCU English Department. The aforementioned e-mail included an invitation to enter TCU's Creative Writing Contest.

I thought this sounded utterly appealing so I decided I should enter. After looking over a few working drafts I already had in what could very loosely be considered "my portfolio", I decided that I find my writing poor and childish. I rarely read over my creative writing because I know I will find it insipid. I never let anyone else read it because I am worried they will agree. This is why I abandoned any dreams of being a writer because I fear criticism.

So I have been battling my own critical eye the past two weeks. The battle was so fierce that I stopped all writing (with the exception of academic, non-creative formats) so I could focus in on why I think I am so terrible. I still do not have an answer. The only quasi-answer I have formulated is . . . maybe I am not terrible. Perhaps I am simply a coward.

Then I remembered: I am a coward. I prefer maintaining the status quo to taking the risk that may cause me to fall flat on my face. This is a ridiculous way to live my life, especially in regards to something I am passionate about.

So come November 16th, I will be bold. I am going to submit some work and if it is terrible it will be terrific. I did win a poetry contest in 7th grade and my mom thinks I am a genius. Does this qualify me? Affirmative.

214: A Toyota Matrix.

Congratulations on your new car, Chelsea.

I am really sorry I could not be a better person and tell you that today when you called.

Day 213: An encouraging banner.

http://www.learningtoloveyoumore.com

The only thing I hate about this website is that someone else thought of it first.

Day 212: A pile of kleenex.

I hate the smell of kleenex, cough drops, and medicine. It makes me smell like a hospital.

Day 211: A very cliche, ridiculous pictur of music notes dancing around animated sunshine.

Music is so good!! That's really all I can say about ACL. The overwhelming smell of pot, my cough, and my excellent sunburn really did not matter because music is so good.

Day 210: A terrifically awkward group hug.

I am sure I will never know how to demonstrate unconditional love. It is too complicated and beautiful for me to truly extend. However, there are a few people I believe I am on the verge of loving unconditionally. Perhaps it is because they do nothing that warrants not loving them. They know and I know-- that is not the case. We have let each other down and raised each others hopes higher than we could deliver. Still, we love each other.

It is hard for me sometimes being the one away from a group of people I've been so close to for so long. I worry that they think I've turned my back on them and I worry that if they do indeed think that they may be right. Because my mind is so wrought with worries like these, I love days when I get to see them and remember what connects us and allows us to be(come) who we are without neglecting what we are to one another.

These feelings of connection and comfort only increase tenfold when I get to share these people with my friends who are equally dear and spectacular people. When I was little I would never mix groups of friends because I worried that they would hate each other, or worse-- like each other more than they like me. Now, in my old age, I can appreciate who people are and who they are not and that we have the capacity to love whoever we meet with warmth.

Day 209: A long stretch of road.

I could never spend my life in a car, but I do not mind lengthy intervals in one. I love being in the car. Everytime I remember how much I love riding in the car, it reminds me of "Perks of Being a Wallflower"-- a delightful coming-of-age story I read in my "angsty" days. However, parts of it are still pertinent to my life. A prime example is when the three main characters are in the car listening to "Asleep" by The Smiths and reveling in how infinite they feel. While I am aware of how small I am in the grand scheme, it is an equally awesome concept to feel infinite.

Day 208: A disco ball.

Going to dance-type events in college has helped me realize how very seriously (to the point of being ridiculous) we (or at least I) took ourselves in high school. College takes the edge off of social interactions . . . not in an apathetic way. Rather, people are more comfortable being people. Specifically, they are more comfortable being their own people.

Day 207: Me . . . drowning . . . in a sea of paperwork.

I am terrible with organization, paperwork, and any other administrative task. I have not filled out reimbursement forms, program evaluations, and I have forgotten to do half of my weekly reports. Who do I think I am?!

Day 206: Leaves falling off a tree.

Because today feels like leaves should be falling from a tree. Sweater weather is drawing near and I have never been so excited.

Day 205: Rain.

In seventh grade, I entered this poetry contest and I won. What I won, I am not quite sure-- there's a chance that a million other seventh graders won too. I think that is the last time I ever seriously wrote a poem. I do not even remember the poem, really. I think it was about rain-- either rain or my intense crush on Glen Hunt (these are really the only things that interested me in middle school). Anyway, I was reminded of this poetry writing while reading for English (because it was too rainy to go outside and play) and I decided I would write a poem about the rain again. I did it with two motives: 1) To see if writing poetry was as much fun as I remember it being and 2) I could then digitaize said poem by putting it on here as my "picture" for the day.

So I wrote this poem. I read this poem. I decided against letting anyone else see this poem.

Rain launched this lofty goal of writing something beautiful and delicate. Rain made me ambitious, but it also made me wet. Essentially, I ended today with wet clothes and crummy poetry, which in my opinion is an excellent day. Genuinely.

Day 204: A smoky room.

Because today I am obsessed with the sultry light jazz sensation that is Norah Jones.

"Like the desert waiting for the rain.
Like a school kid, waiting for the spring.
I'm just sitting here, waiting for you . . .
To come on home and turn me on."

That is so suggestive and ridiculous. Love it.

Day 203: A green-tag special thrift tee.

Thrifting is when some of my better conversations happen. Something about pouring over discarded and disintegrated clothing that has seen better days and washes opens us up. Not to mention, where else can you find a shirt that reads "Accelerated Reader," perfectly accented by a bookworm? Nowhere.

Day 202: A clock.

This clock is supposed to signify patience and how seldom I demonstrate it. Today required patience. All I could offer was passive agressive silence. It was a viable substitute, but not nearly as gracious as the former.

Day 201: A guitar in the floor.

Today I woke up to "Ticket to Ride" by The Beatles. It was the best way I've woken in a week or two . . . Just laying in bed tapping my toes between tossing and turning. It made what is a completely mundane and current experience feel nostalgic and lazy-- both of which I enjoy. Waking up totally comfortable and at peace with the day is marvelous.

200ish? MAYBE.

I keep telling myself, "If only I had a camera cord . . . I would be posting pictures." I am starting to wonder if I really would. I am a chronic sufferer of, "I'm this far behind, why try catching up now?" syndrome. The usual remedy is not to fall behind. It is pretty beneficial until I fall behind; then I say, "Fuhgiddibodaht" . . . otherwise known as "Forget about it." However, in lieu of my proactive solution failing-- I am going to take the retroactive approach. I am going to be the little writer I know I am (or once was) and will paint a few key images with a few key phrases and sentences. It will not be forty, but it will at least make a dent in the ever deepening hole I have dug. This is really all for posterity's sake; I would like a medium to look back on 365 days through.

1. Hitting my head against a wall. Frustration has always come easily to me. Lately, I have been self-righteous and indignant and ridiculously proud as though it were my job. What's worse, I am completely closeted about it; my frustration never reaches its source. Ultimately, my flustered fits end with a headache and without progress.

2. The toothiest grin imaginable. Between bouts of frustration, there have been some of the most wonderful moments. If I had ever had cause to doubt my faith in humanity, I have had experiences that would completely restore it. People are conflicted, both beautiful and flawed. I am beginning to find conviction in that as the greatest gift God has endowed us with.

3. Pigtails. There would of course have been days in the past month+ that I did not feel like making an effort at creativity or thought. That is why this picture would be taken. I wear pigtails 80% of the time. I like them because it requires no effort on my part and I feel five-years-old when I do so.

This is a start and by no means a finish.

Days 142-152

New York.

Days 136-141

These are missing days where all I did was sit in my house all morning, hang out with my friends all night, go to bed, and repeat. I would just take comical pictures of me doing these things, but it is about as comical as it is interesting.

Days 130-135

Chi-Rho is awesome!!

Days 125-129

Beau is a beautiful cowboy princess. Zayn plays baseball for the last time. Chelsea poses with the world's largest coke can. Aubrie is my precious goddaughter. I lost a day somewhere.

The aftermath.

All I know is that I have about forty days of missing documentation. I have lost track of when things happened, but I am going to post pictures.

Day 124: "The main thing is keeping the main thing the main thing."

This is how I love my daddy best . . . sitting in the kitchen playing for no one but himself.

Day 123: A year is measured in space pants.

I thought that when the calendar read a year since Ian died, I would be overcome with the same raw anguish and frustration. However, I realize that it has been 365 days between then and now. That hasn't made me love less or understand more. I cannot say that I am fully at peace with never hearing him scoff, "Ohh . . ." into cupped hands or screaming "Blinded" at the top of our lungs together again. However, there has been space in those 365 days. Space that has left me strong enough to accept and to forgive. Though, not all the space in the world will allow me to think that anyone else looks better in metallic silver pants. It just can't be done.

Day 122: My little champion.

My little brother has coveted a spot on the All City team his entire Little League career. I am so proud that this season he made good and is going to kick some North Texas behind with the Garland All City team.

Day 122: Papa Bear!

This picture was taken with my phone . . . hence the quality and size. However, it was the only method I had available to capture my new friend, Papa Bear the frog on "film."

Day 121: Prophesy.

Anytime I read Harry Potter . . . I spend the rest of the day wishing I went to Hogwarts. That was my Friday.

Day 120: Jump on it!

Old women dancing is priceless.

Day 119: It's tricky.

Run DMC. Oh yeah.

Day 118: A little slice of Fort Worth.

Day 117: Traffic moves faster when you're driving home.

On the drive home from a long day of Frog Camp Training.

Day 116: Where the tall grass grows.

Day 115: "Colored spots overturn convictions everytime."

Staring at my skirt for an hour was honestly the single most fascinating thing I did on Friday.

Day 114: A variation on wooden planks.

Day 113: Road warriors.

I have been racking up the miles in the Rag lately.

Day 112: Raindrops keep falling on my head.

Seriously. Stop raining.

Day 111: My insides go all topsy-turvy.

Day 110: The UBA!

I watched my friends Brandon and Todd rock out and win first prize at The Curtain Club Battle of the Bands!

Day 109: My sister's nose.

I stole this like fifteen minutes ago. I bet she is looking everywhere for it!!

Day 108: Fly.

Today I thought of all the things I have never known because I never thought to know them. Practical things and silly things. Then I considered the things I once knew, or rather was acquainted with. If I had genuinely known them, I would know them still. Tripled with these thoughts was a cognizance of the things I do know. I imagined not knowing things that seem completely natural to me. It made my mind hazy and my thoughts seemed small. It was a beautiful, humbling feeling.

Day 107: Hello, old friend.

My hands felt so awkward and clumsy walking across its neck.

Day 106: Introspective.

Day 105: Memorial Day as it should be . . .

Grilling in the rain is impossible.

Day 104: Elvis, you can put that pelvis on my foot.

These are the sweet sweet flops my father and his bride brought me back from Graceland.

Day 103: Boom boom pop.

Day 102: "I want some pancakes."

Late night breakfast is my favorite kind of breakfast.

Day 101: I baked this cake with my own blood, sweat, and tears-- mostly blood.

Day 100: The outhouse.

The wee morning hours of Wednesday were spent placing a toilet, sink, children's playground set, and desk chair on Garrett Mize's front lawn. While unloading our cargo to place it in the grass, Beau walked off the truck bed and sprained his ankle. Of course, we said we could abandon this job for another time, but Beau insisted we finish. So we did. It was the greatest prank of all time because just previously, Joel and Garrett had thrown away a good chunk of their father's random garbage he had amassed in their backyard. It was logically and hilariously assumed that Mr. Eric Mize had done this as payback.

Day 99: Fear.

The Ferris Wheel at moving carnivals is my greatest fear. It encompasses heights, poorly constructed metalcraft, and carnies. However, I aboslutely love them.