Where are you, cute mailroom girl?
I got a haircut. It feels like I'm bald. A new rule I made for myself is to get a haircut once a month. You know it's time to get your hair cut more when you can remember the months you got it cut in. My hair doesn't grow down, though, which is fine with me; I'd cut it more if it grew down. It grows out and up (did I just describe my hair like a boner?). I was shaggy, but now I'm bald, comparatively. Most guys probably consider their hair long when I think mine's too short. I got it cut on Saturday, so I've had a couple days to get used to it.
I did promise not to make this blog a journal. My thoughts and feelings are moving my fingers to strike the right keys. My emotions want to be spelled out into words on paper or on a screen. I guess you can consider that a journal, but I don't. I'm editing my mind. My real journal -- a composition notebook my friend Anne gave me -- is where I strip myself to the marrow. I don't strip myself to the bone; I strip myself to the marrow. Instead of being a skeleton of solid bone, I'm a skeleton of soft, fatty tissue. I can wrap my arms and legs around anything, like Stretch Armstrong. I free my mind from the rigidness of my outer shell. I won't do that here. A lot of the thoughts and feelings going into my notebook -- which I named Salt and Pepper, for the black and white peppered cover -- are from deep inside me, things I feel in my heart. They're things I only keep within myself, or tell a select few . "The Quiet Man" is not a place for those kinds of thoughts. I may lapse into them, into my inner struggles, but I'm not going to dwell on it and let it monopolize my blog. It's a blog; it's supposed to be about anything.
Speaking about anything, where are you, cute mailroom girl? She's not my type, but she's the best looking chick on the floor. That automatically makes her my type when I'm at work. All the other women in my office are forty and over. I've only seen her twice: today and last Thursday. I'd never seen her here before. I'll talk to her, don't worry. She's been busy when I've seen her. The first time I saw her she was talking to the receptionist at the front door. When we made eye contact it was like saying, "Hey. I've never seen you here before." At least I was saying that. Today she was at the UPS computer, deep among the cubicle walls and filing cabinets. All the mail girls (and they're all girls for some reason) keep their jackets and bags on the bench by the mailboxes. She's never been there when I've checked the mail. It's a little awkward hitting on chicks at work, especially with all these gossipy old ladies around. The last time I did it I could feel their eyes on me, staring me down as they reached for a handful of M&Ms in a candy bowl, thinking, "Well, look who's puttin' the moves on Jenna." I'm smiling because I think it's funny. Now I might do that, just so the old ladies can stare me down and have something to talk about in the breakroom. I'll do it Thursday, how about that?
Blogging is something I'll have to do only at work for now. My computer at home is so old the latest browser is incapable of displaying this window. Why? Because I need a new computer, that's why. My computer's telling me, "Hey, I'm old. Retire me. Put me in the closet with the Performa 600. I was born in 1998 for Christ's sake!" In computer years, 1998 is like 345 BCE. I was a sophomore in high school when I got that computer. The problem is I don't have much money because of tuition, so blogging isn't possible anywhere else. I could do it in an ITC, or use a friends computer. We'll have to see. Eitherway, it's kind of good news: I can't become addicted to it and write as much as I want.
There's an aesthetic problem I have with long paragraphs. They're ugly. When I see a long paragraph I groan and want to skip it. Giant, unbroken blocks of text scare me. They scare most people. I realized my paragraphs are getting pretty big, so I'll watch myself from now on. At least they're separated.
My life is going crazy. Everything I have no control over and can do nothing about is changing and going crazy. I have never experienced anything like it in my entire life. I'm overwhelmed right now, and incredibly awestruck. Everyday I run the gamut of my emotions. I laugh, I smile, I frown, I cry. The way I worded that makes it look like laughing is the opposite of crying. It kind of is. Laughing is one of my favorite things to do. I love laughing. There's nothing like someone or something that can make you laugh. That person or thing makes you happy, I think. But I'll admit: I cry. This is where I'm going to edit myself, keep my thoughts and emotions from making their way into this post. I care a lot about people -- maybe too much -- and it seems like everyone's doing bad, or something bad is happening to them. I'm always trying to be a shepard. I try to keep everyone happy and content. My flock is all over the pasture now, in danger of being taken by wolves. It's frustrating me. They're so far away I can't do anything; I can't help them or protect them. I don't know what to do. I want to sit down in place and wait for everyone to find their way back to happiness. I'll be here for them, whenever it is they'll be able to come back.
Work is almost over, so I need to publish this and leave. I have to walk home and go for a run. Later.
I did promise not to make this blog a journal. My thoughts and feelings are moving my fingers to strike the right keys. My emotions want to be spelled out into words on paper or on a screen. I guess you can consider that a journal, but I don't. I'm editing my mind. My real journal -- a composition notebook my friend Anne gave me -- is where I strip myself to the marrow. I don't strip myself to the bone; I strip myself to the marrow. Instead of being a skeleton of solid bone, I'm a skeleton of soft, fatty tissue. I can wrap my arms and legs around anything, like Stretch Armstrong. I free my mind from the rigidness of my outer shell. I won't do that here. A lot of the thoughts and feelings going into my notebook -- which I named Salt and Pepper, for the black and white peppered cover -- are from deep inside me, things I feel in my heart. They're things I only keep within myself, or tell a select few . "The Quiet Man" is not a place for those kinds of thoughts. I may lapse into them, into my inner struggles, but I'm not going to dwell on it and let it monopolize my blog. It's a blog; it's supposed to be about anything.
Speaking about anything, where are you, cute mailroom girl? She's not my type, but she's the best looking chick on the floor. That automatically makes her my type when I'm at work. All the other women in my office are forty and over. I've only seen her twice: today and last Thursday. I'd never seen her here before. I'll talk to her, don't worry. She's been busy when I've seen her. The first time I saw her she was talking to the receptionist at the front door. When we made eye contact it was like saying, "Hey. I've never seen you here before." At least I was saying that. Today she was at the UPS computer, deep among the cubicle walls and filing cabinets. All the mail girls (and they're all girls for some reason) keep their jackets and bags on the bench by the mailboxes. She's never been there when I've checked the mail. It's a little awkward hitting on chicks at work, especially with all these gossipy old ladies around. The last time I did it I could feel their eyes on me, staring me down as they reached for a handful of M&Ms in a candy bowl, thinking, "Well, look who's puttin' the moves on Jenna." I'm smiling because I think it's funny. Now I might do that, just so the old ladies can stare me down and have something to talk about in the breakroom. I'll do it Thursday, how about that?
Blogging is something I'll have to do only at work for now. My computer at home is so old the latest browser is incapable of displaying this window. Why? Because I need a new computer, that's why. My computer's telling me, "Hey, I'm old. Retire me. Put me in the closet with the Performa 600. I was born in 1998 for Christ's sake!" In computer years, 1998 is like 345 BCE. I was a sophomore in high school when I got that computer. The problem is I don't have much money because of tuition, so blogging isn't possible anywhere else. I could do it in an ITC, or use a friends computer. We'll have to see. Eitherway, it's kind of good news: I can't become addicted to it and write as much as I want.
There's an aesthetic problem I have with long paragraphs. They're ugly. When I see a long paragraph I groan and want to skip it. Giant, unbroken blocks of text scare me. They scare most people. I realized my paragraphs are getting pretty big, so I'll watch myself from now on. At least they're separated.
My life is going crazy. Everything I have no control over and can do nothing about is changing and going crazy. I have never experienced anything like it in my entire life. I'm overwhelmed right now, and incredibly awestruck. Everyday I run the gamut of my emotions. I laugh, I smile, I frown, I cry. The way I worded that makes it look like laughing is the opposite of crying. It kind of is. Laughing is one of my favorite things to do. I love laughing. There's nothing like someone or something that can make you laugh. That person or thing makes you happy, I think. But I'll admit: I cry. This is where I'm going to edit myself, keep my thoughts and emotions from making their way into this post. I care a lot about people -- maybe too much -- and it seems like everyone's doing bad, or something bad is happening to them. I'm always trying to be a shepard. I try to keep everyone happy and content. My flock is all over the pasture now, in danger of being taken by wolves. It's frustrating me. They're so far away I can't do anything; I can't help them or protect them. I don't know what to do. I want to sit down in place and wait for everyone to find their way back to happiness. I'll be here for them, whenever it is they'll be able to come back.
Work is almost over, so I need to publish this and leave. I have to walk home and go for a run. Later.
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