alpo

I like to read novels, but I don't usually understand them. My life definitely isn't a novel: it's a discontinuous series of short stories with only vague thematic connections among them. So why do I feel guilty posting a list of random observations and events here, instead of an essay with a beginning, middle, and end? I've done the latter now and then, but I admire the people who can always do it.

Finally got the ball rolling on my project to have a massive eBay yard sale and get rid of lots of my clutter. After only six completed auctions I already feel a massive burden lifting from my shoulders. I must continue to fight my packrat genes. Having a lot of stuff around (unless it's for a really good reason, like tools to fix my car and thereby save money) makes me anxious.

Maybe the fact that I'm accomplishing a project that I've been thinking about for years means some kind of evolution in my personality away from being all talk and nothing to show for it. That'd be good.

I had a dream that I needed to blow my nose while riding a crowded rush-hour bus, and, not finding Kleenex or a handkerchief in my pockets, pulled out the shirttail of the rider in front of me and used that. He didn't seem to mind. I woke up amused and a bit proud of my resourcefulness.

Crystallized ginger: yay or nay? I think it's too strong to eat straight, but it makes the most fantastic cookies.