An autobiography is a funny thing. Can you write one before you’re dead? I’ve heard of very young people writing a book about their lives. It makes me wonder how much they could possibly have to say. To paraphrase an old commercial for the Navy, perhaps they have done more before the age of twenty, than the rest of us have done before the age of forty.
It’s spring again, so I am doing some spring cleaning. This translates to spending a few minutes with the mess in the back room, and then coming to write another post on my blog, or work on my manuscripts, or check my email, or post something about the mess on Facebook.
Anyway, I found a box with three handbags in the closet. I must have put them there in hopes of selling them on eBay when I was hopped up on eBay. That’s been two or three years ago.
I read recently about a woman, a new mom, in another country who had wanted to have a baby for all of her married life, which was a very long time considering her age as of this writing, but was unable to. Finally, she conceived at the tender age of seventy, or something close to assisted living age.
Awards are pleasant things, and are given for many things, including to adults for perfect attendance, as I found out recently. Being awarded something is a pleasant and exciting concept. It intrigued me enough that I was willing to waste some time on it with Google. I wanted to know when the first award was awarded.
Today, I hopped on my stationary bike, and while I was pedaling away, I read some of a book I had checked out a month or so ago and kept procrastinating reading, ‘The Fall of Berlin, 1945′.
Because of my regrettable habit of procrastinating, I have forgotten the reason I checked out this book. It is buried in the mists of time, but the book remains, silently reprimanding me with the legions of the dead soldiers of the Red Army, the Third Reich, and the residents of Berlin, many of whom did not vote for Hitler, and didn’t like the Nazis being in power. See? I have learned something from the regrettably few pages I have read.
Privacy was the subject in two posts in two blogs I read recently, both written from two points of view. One was decrying the lack of privacy in today’s world, though it was a reminder that privacy is, and always will be an illusion, unless we manage to live like the early trappers, and get lost in the forests somewhere.
Annoying myself should not be my main goal, despite the title of this post, which is already raising my blood pressure, thinking about the self-imposed challenge of going for thirty days without getting annoyed.
I realized this morning that I get annoyed on the average of every five minutes while driving the surface streets. If I hit the freeway at a quiet time, that’s no sweat. The idea of this challenge came to me when I found myself dawdling behind an Echo, which was driving at approximately the speed that an iceberg melts, and I swung over to change lanes and pass it.
Forging friendships shouldn’t be hard. We all know, perhaps may even be, one of those paragons of virtue who are kind, compassionate, and helpful, and have a flashy personality to boot. Maybe even a flashy personality who likes to wear boots.
Most of us love those people. Not everyone does, because some people are just miserable, and hate all kind, compassionate, flashy, boot-wearing paragons, most notably those who are arch-enemies and nemeses (the plural form of nemesis, an arch-rival) of superheroes and urban legends. I’ve always thought how interesting life would be with your very own arch-enemy, or nemesis. If anyone ever doubted their own importance in the world, they could rest assured of their value by whether they keep a superhero up at night with their shenanigans.
To hit it big, I have to go swimming. I just heard on a show about the lottery that I am fifteen times more likely to be bitten by a shark than I am to hit the jackpot. I watch all kinds of things on television while I am writing. I am one of those people who have become addicted to background noise while I do something else. I don’t need it to be loud, I just need, well, I don’t know why I need it, to be truthful.
In pursuit of my ongoing quest to ‘get rid of things’, I came across, once again, one of my favorite shirts. It is camp style, with nice pockets. It is made of linen, so that when you wear it you are suddenly transported to Gatsby’s backyard, if it could be called that, instead of perhaps the lower forty, where you are having afternoon Bloody Marys in your tennis whites. Except my shirt is beige. Which is where my life diverges from Daisy’s in more than one way; she only wore dresses, and she would never buy anything in a color simply because it ‘goes with almost anything’, the reason I own so much black.
