take the world into your smile

I have decided the grill is a fascist dictator.
Alors, I stand and shout proudly VIVA LA REVOLUCIÓN!

Not that I really know too much about fascism, they don't teach you anything but republican or democrat in school these days. More than that is total anarchy. I learned from You've Got Mail and Greg Kinnear to associate Italy's Franco with fascism. And leather jackets and movie theatres. I. just. can't. help myself.

Oh but I can. I grill to live not live to grill. I'm taking my blood back, I'm going to live. Yes how I love the grill, but dear grill this must be a healthy thing with some give and take. "If you wanna be my lover/ you have got to give." If I keep giving, I will give until all I have is gone and I must quit and live in the streets. There would be no friends with couches to call home. I would have given you my friendships, grill. You will not be my abusive boyfriend.
VIVA LA REVOLUCIÓN!
VIVA VIVA VIVA!

Already I'm smiling more.

Yesterday I woke up and reset my alarm. Half asleep me decided a real breakfast wasn't worth getting up for. But then it happened. Déjà vu. Peaking out from the unbleached muslin I am wrapped into I can tell by aura of the rays of light shining onto the wall next to me it's later than I wanted to wake up. It isn't always the same time. For some reason light gives off a certain feeling when you're late. Rain or snow, sun, hail, morning, afternoon.
15 minutes to my first class.
Half asleep me thought I was smart and didn't need to look at the numbers I set for the alarm on my mobile.
12:05am.

The ipod has created further confusion in my life. I used it on my run today. That's great, I even smile more to hear my strobe-lighted tunes as I rhythm along. But whenever I hear "Brass monkey, that funky monkey" I inherently feel I must do the running man. The running man and your friendly neighborhood jog are not the same thing.

"Children it's a sin to lump all hypocrisy together. If none of us were hypocrites we would be dull and dead. There is the hypocrisy of moralling more than we can ever avail. En d'autres termes, hold yourself to a higher standard. For you will fail, you hypocrite, but on what other terms does improvement come by?"

viva la revolución.


(Song lyrics in quotes: Spice Girls' Wannabe; Beastie Boys' Brass Monkey)

these are my static works of clay for you today

Here in my language I can communicate to you (for that is what is important, that I communicate to you, not that I am verbosing). I can be free with form and grace and style and say all I want to you. But I am bound by this language, this country. Withdraw these native things, I want to expand to those new horizons I've always been gazing after. Bound. The travel ties my tongue. I could drown in those autumn leaves before I could think of a way to express my need for help.

I'm guessing, francophonally, I communicate at the level of a 10 year old.


The other day at the grill I was trying to reach newer spiritual fields in my reflections and I looked down at my hands and realized how very much I was handling a chicken. A smoked and trussed up little chicken. There are times when it hits you that what is in your hands at one time stretched its mini-me muscles. That flesh and cavity, there, stiff in front of my face, there were thought processes once attached to what I'm holding. And as I'm tearing this dead chicken to bits for a large batch of soup, wondering transcendently, from back by the dishwashers comes an unexpected monologue.
Obi-wan. Luke! Use the force Luke!
During the day there are some middle-aged developmentally disabled men who do the dishes. Such an odd broad term. I learned on my spiritual day, there is a child of the movies among them.
ADRIAN!!
Here is classic cinema brought to me by my neighborhood dishwasher.
I asked him what his favorite genre was, apparently we can find him among the horrors and gorrors of the world.
Now he continues to regale me with movies clips and classic rock songs.

Did you know candy corn and pumpkins are made with real honey? Sleep safe and sound with that knowledge citizens of time.

Today I was discussing the aging process and assisted living with a friend as we lunched together upon a wall. The sun was crisp and everything was brisky color enriched and folded. Scarf me up. Oh friend of mine was explaining the character of dears she worked with at an A.L. place. One inhabited a mother role, another was sweet and frail but insisted on helping move about the long banquet table. What is it they're learning in this process? It must be such a beautiful, tragic and tender time. A time when bodies fail and minds might too--but there has been and continues to be life. And life knows. It lives, it breaths, it feels, it grows. How rich, how sad, to know so much, or know to have known so much, to have done so much and seen so much and now to be set on our social constructs as so little. I want to kneel at their feet and take their hand and plan adventures for us all to live-out.
But here in the A.L. places we invent a sort of community of wizened heroes. It's small and each holds his own role: the village that does not take care of a child, but each villager. What magic.

There.
I have done a thing we must be aware of because it colors facts and truths for good and ill: I have romanticized a thing.

To everything there is a season.

adieu.

under an umbrella out of a fishbowl i watch the trudging heroes

"Shoot, coward. You will only kill a man" reported last words of Ernesto Guevera

We are all only men.
(You too could be on the t-shirt of hundreds of teenagers who don't understand what you've done)

Here is the key of The Great film professor's lectures: they are a practice of what he preaches.
He preaches that life and the stuff that makes it up is flawed. Be critical, don't ever stop, but respect it. What is the intent? Is it achieved? Is it worth it? Let it be slow, let it digress, let us be patient, let us be aware.

Today I happily settled in for lecture. I had a real lunch from the soup I made. We are reaching the days when I would like a nice soup, a nice hot drink, a nice scarf, sweater, socks. Boots, friend! Boots. This lecture from The Great, full of intellectual wisdom and challenge. The soundtrack settled into my brain however went:

"You can stand under my umbrella
ella ella
eh eh eh
under my umbrella
ella ella..."

Did it fit, did it contrast, did it compare?

All this while Shakespeare bounded around our heads and tested our language skills. The Great asked us if our language had deteriorated. I stood up and shouted "Viva la revolución!" and we all ended in summersaults.

My only answer can be:
"Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
or to take arms against a see of troubles
and by opposing end them? To die; to sleep;
To sleep per chance to dream. Ay, there's the rub."

You can stand under my umbrella
ella ella
eh eh eh eh
Under my umbrella
eh eh eh

Ay, there's the rub.

(Song: Umbrella by Rihanna)

pump up the jam, pump it up, pumpkin pumpkin pumpkin

Wrap me in fall, enfold me in scarves, in sweaters, in cocoa, in pumpkins.
Paint my face for halloween
set me down in dress to sit surrounded by cinder-block squares munching candy corn to play dr. mario with mes amis.
Let me drive off with mi familia into the mountains under a cold gray sky to drink a pumpkin cheesecake shake.

pumpkin, pumpkin, pumpkin.
Ring in the seasons.

All this, and yet it is still september. Am I breaching a patriotic code? Can it be? But July is long gone. Love the summer while you can I say, but embrace all that keeps on coming. Cuddle under that unbleached muslin, something plaid, or red, or bold.

Funny as I write this the wind is growing and I'm learning there will be a nice draft to my room. A nice strong draft.

pumpkin, pumpkin, pumpkin.
Ring in the seasons.

Ring in the shivers.

the amber woman with her bouquet, encased in lilly's, some grace in a period of fighting for peace

Hello world,
I am mono.

Not to be worried at or fretted over, but it's there.
The puffed up sickness lays beneath my eyes, aches my swollen glands and passivizes my reactions to everything. Except for doors that should swing both ways but don't.
As I understand mononucleosis is a virus and only united states-ians get it.
Because it's a virus it will always be in my blood. This blood that has keeps me alive, beating, and fresh can now weary me into a world where I start seeing card board boxes in the back of a grill as comforting beds.

I wonder, will I spend all of my university years in and out of mono kingdom?
Maybe not if I learn to take care of myself.
Some lessons are hard to learn.

When I was young, in elementary school, I would stay home sick all of the time. And even when I was genuinely sick, I could still do a nice dance across a couch. PBS was my most loyal friend through those years. My favorite has been Mr. Mahuta. How he probably never thought the whistling theme song with poppy keyboard that belonged in a 1970's series would stay with me. Ho! That whistle has been in my blood even longer than mono! Take that!
I used to lay on our interesting patterned couch with a sippy cup of juice, creating intricate houses out of construction paper. They were full of bold colors and a doorway might be unframed or it could have a large swath of green paper fringe elmers glued upon it.
Such energy and vivaciousness.

How sad it was for me my freshman year when I was sick: I could curl up on a dorm bed that was four feet off the ground and do nothing. No paper, no PBS, no sippy cups, only desperate phone calls home for some sense of comfort. I couldn't away to ma soeur's, for I still had classes to see and homework to lay my head on. I, who had never been tired a day in her life (maybe crabby, but oh never tired), I had to shut my eyes and curl under covers as my friends lounged about and cracked jokes in some outer place. It was too much for a poor little freshman. So instead I often went out anyway and developed a habit of finding corners where I would curl up and sleep at parties and other social gatherings.

Now I live a bit further from those girls I've lived with. All of the people I ever really went about with, called up and whatnot, they're all gone. One's even in Paris. Ma soeur isn't even on campus which is terribly upsetting. J'ai une cousine, mais pas ma soeur. She even has a job now so I can't bother her all day long with texts and phone calls. Everything is different.

It is easy for me to wonder what the people I see these days must think of me. Rarely does any new bug see the eccentricity that won me the "Most likely to start a new fashion trend by not doing laundry" superlative in our apartment awards last winter. But is it what they see of me, what I create, my state of artistic genius and productivity, or is it how I try to send a ray of light their way?


I used to be upset and tear out ads for Walmart, Payless, or some other low mill shop in my Vogue magazine. I used to think Vogue was slipping. Fashion ads should be beautiful, not commercial. There is no room for that tawdriness. If you ever want to see true art, true beauty, true trueness, find an ad for Jil Sander. However, I have realized fashion in the past was not accessible. I have grown up in a time when it is more and more accessible, and now even we, the lower classes, can see clothing as an art form instead of just trends. I'm still not a fan of Walmart or Payless, or Pennies and co., but ho! I won't rip you out of my magazine anymore, because I foretell that someday you will be more fashion forward, you are slowly crawling into this race and we will all find access to this joy. End the snobisme.

you la la laaaaa no. I welcome autumn

I can try all I want to translate Sigur Ros's Icelandic into a title, but I'm guessing that's not what he's saying.

Ho!
Movie Recommendations (I watched them in class today thanks to THE GREAT film professor)
Charlie Chaplin's Idle Class
On Approval directed by Tom Walls. It's quite a creative little piece.


Six o'clock is a nostalgic bit of daytime. I get out of class at that time on Wednesdays and I grab a bag of groceries at the creamery near campus, then I make my way home. For some reason if my groceries look particularly heavy, people will pull over and ask if I need a ride, or boys will catch up with me on the sidewalk to offer some help. Are they so sheltered? It doesn't matter that you wear Costco polos and khaki shorts, you oh so wholesome boy. I will not take a ride from any stranger for any reason no matter how heavy my groceries are. Instead I just enjoy this quiet pilgrimage and watch the sun laid upon the grass through the draping shadows of trees. Last week the light looked summer evening-ish. Tonight the shadows added a few of their yellow leaves to the grassy painting. Can it be there is an added measure of amber in the air that is barely perceptible? The touch the feel of autumn.

I should be writing a french paper on Marie de France and her Lai du Rossingol (or du Laustic depending on which language and century you're reading it in). I want to write 'Oh dear Moyen Age (Middle Ages--funny that it's plural en anglais) you may boast your beautiful leaves of literary products but I am a soul with a wandering mind.' However, I will be this much closer to a profundity in Franchness (don't think I'm crass, that's Jenny Meyer's speak, Better off Dead) when it is all over. And I am thinking French might be my ticket out of here when I am done with uni. What do you think the chances are I will be hired for a language rather than my knowledge or the three point lighting system and directors? Whatever the case, I would so like to live internationally for a while after I graduate. It will be my motivation to graduate.

I almost bought a large poster of a Pink Floyd album celebrating the fall of the Berlin wall and bemoaning politics. I'm young it fits my age. Spending money on something I'm not dying for is not fitting my mind, though. Not that I don't have a habit of spending money like it's going out of style.

Fear not! Be sans peur! I'm not running myself dry in green backs. I am still planning my next pursuits, though. A hair cut and getting my gray jeans tailored. I have wanted a pair of soft gray cotton jeans for over nine years. Eight years I waited, searching for the perfect pair, and then I found them. I pounced. But I pounced into the wrong size. So they've been sitting there. In my closet. I need to get my dream tailored and off the ground.

After that I want:
a waffle iron
a men's white shirt tailored to me
black cigarette leg pants
black vest
SHOES

(I know right, my shopping list. how scintillating.)

I bide my time.
For I've got time.

ciao.

bee will be bold

I am here as a representative of the group, Boring people for the promotion of boring people. None of that is meant as the verb boring as in "to bore another."

Don't worry.

And yes, documentary is a must. It is also, in a way, an escape for me. In any artistic medium there is a rule of thirds. I hate the rule of thirds. I hate it, because somehow I was born with knowing this rule, knowing it was a rule, and obeying it. I try to get away from it, find things that are symmetrical, even numbered but even that somehow leaves me with that too many donuts feeling.
The too many donuts feeling:
I don't know about your experience, I stopped stalking you long ago, but when I eat a donut, for the first few seconds I might think, that was amazing! Except it quickly hits me that it was just too much sugar, too much fat, too too too.
It's all pretention. pretentious pretention.

I have a cold. I don't know, it steamrolled me last night at 8:30 and I've been blowing my nose ever since. I wasn't planning my grocery list around a cold and so I'm prepared for a fiesta but not throats of soreness and lost voices. (I only lost my voice for 5 minutes.)

Here are some places of greatness:

A sumptuous foodie blog:
choclateandzucchini.com

Tennessee Bob's Famous French Links:
http://www.utm.edu/departments/french/french.html

Somehow I got some odd slivers in my fingers tonight. I can't think of what I've done. I should know, I've been attached to them the whole night. My life was a grill, but I don't think there is anything there to sliver myself on.

Dispense with all of those worldly woes and follow me and my pet does. We'll scoff the rotten apples to the core and trot about to even the score. Bury the hatchet, call it fair. Don't hibernate when they've only come to stare. It's a train of recovery waiting on you. No need to wait around to see what to do. There's so much to be done, do it executively. I'll hide in the closet until you stop asking me.

Anyway, documentary is full of happy digression.

the boys in the band are all gone

"Well my children, I was taught young to eat my dessert first, work hard play later, always take a potty break when there was an available working toilet and paper, if it's worth doing it's worth doing well, prioritize, habitualize, compulsivize, rectify, shrink, stand tall, speak up, say it small. What terror, what joy. Wrong or right. And so I have come to the conclusion that the only answer I can see to any question is another question. And that's the way I want it. Fear neither to question nor to support."

oh world, I set for you, here, today, tumbling weeds upon this podium. please look and see what you see. Then look again and don't ever stop except to move on. Then just move on. You'll know when the time is right. Or maybe you won't but you'll do it.

My life is a grill has been the biggest love/hate chapter. I can't deny it, the only reason I can stay working there is because in some way I love it. I have never loved money enough to spend such large amounts of my time doing something I hate.
One empty Saturday morning we were working to feed a football team. That was all, no restaurant huzbuz, just a dreary indoor banquet for a team. To bring some semblance of life to our morn a girl set up her ipod and stereo. My boss merely shook his head at most of the shuffled songs. Until one gem.
Who is this?
Eric Clapton.
I like this, this is good.

He is so much a mystery and yet he couldn't be could he? A profound man, but never say it out loud.
It is 11:20 night time, but it is time for my dinner. I will watch reality TV shows as I munch. There are dangers in this, but here is why I do this--why I watch the reality TV shows, for that is all I want.
They are people, people as I would never meet and I want to love them, learn them, explore and see how they work. I find some comfort in this. I want to find things that could be worthless beautiful. And I want to honestly see this. I must have the honesty but I cannot have the obvious.

That is it. It is true. I must do documentary.

I need to do this three thing.

one: I got almost all of my french notes done.

two: I saw an excellent short documentary: "The Potter's Meal"

three: I made it through the whole day.

not with words i coat the asphalt in half-witted shirts

I drip the life-blood that makes us all real.
And so do you.
A drip, a trickle, a slide, a flow
The blood that instinctively flits from sinew to stone
feeding our weakness our strength all the same

When I think of something that is life I see a warm loaf of crusty european bread. The soft and pockety interior tinged with a slight sourness. Cream colored and crusted in the flour-powdered brown crust. The crust is most absolutely necessary. I want to tell you all not to raise your generations, the world, a child, yourself on white, malleable carbohydrate fair. Only select the best and bring tangible beauty to your table. Something you would gaze through a shop window for.
But then I remind myself, what is your intent, your purpose. Is malleable fulfilling to you?
I could call your music bad. But what right have I? Maybe it is bad in one sense, but then, is that the sense your priorities are in? I should merely say, my list is not prioritized for this song.
Good people, maybe even great, or even better, maybe just a human beings like ourselves seek after wonderbread. Can we let them be or will I make myself smaller climing onto a ladder to look down on them. Must I stick my loaf on a cardboard pedestal?
No. I will be satisfied.

As I will be satisfied to end there since my night of homework is only just beginning.

Hoo rah.

sartorialists sound the swedish horn to sweep the sea clean of silt

I'm an unadorned type of girl who tends to adorn herself. Meaning I'm pretty confused. I'll be my own little leader and director of others or I'll follow you without worrying too much about where we're going. And I'll follow for a long time. You see, I thought about a scenario for a long time. Imagine someone has slighted you. What a horrible person. How could it happen. And then step over the line a little. You see they slighted you, but they didn't make fun of the uncomfortably harry man in the subway. They don't swear and you do. Where do you draw the line of rottenness. How does it go? Around in circles?
It's all circles if you try to follow it linearly. Follow it sometimes. It doesn't always hurt.
The other morning as I started some restaurantness, I realized another something. I'm really good at not worrying about things. Not outwardly worrying, reacting, I will outwardly logically be passive and not stressed. I can go with the flow. But inside I can sense there must be some cholesterolical rising. Test the knots in my shoulders. I've got knottingham crawling all up and down my back. Why? Why am I so mentally at ease, knowing it's not worth stressing over. Calmly accepting of failings and slowness and stumblings. Why inside am I holding on to it and how am I doing it, how so that I can stop?

that's why I have got to give that driver who is tweezing her eyebrows a break.

You'd think I was a serious person.

You'd also think I could do something more about late nights, hazy days, sulfured rays, homework hoops, and shmooping dupes. Allowing my sleep to go and glands to become swollen is a reoccurring circular narrative of life for me. In no ways effective. Well...in a little ways.

Follow?

a lemonhead, a workaholic, and a passivist

There was a time when I was young. And there was a time when I was old. And now is the time when I am ageless.
Today I learned that writing a rondeau can be incroyable. I mean, zut alors, who knew writing a poem about autumn could lead to quelqu'un qui dance, un autre qui chante, et moi qui a dit "un pause--break it down." C'est la vie, c'est la guerre, c'est la pamplemousse, n'est-ce pas?

"
Under pressure
that brings a building down
breaks a family in two
puts people on streets
"

Mi familia is trying to cut down, eliminate, simplify, stop collecting, electrify etc. I have mandated--at least ma souer knows this--no day of birth presents for me. When it takes two SUV loads to move one person, one poor university student kid, no good tanto. What do I get rid of? I don't know. Can't lose my pet dinosaur, can't lose the books, can't lose my vogue magazines, and when it comes to clothes--oh gee. You see, I don't wear most of them. I buy them at thrift stores and then it's just not a real thing. But I keep them because I think, Hey, fantastic amassing a crazy wardrobe, not for me, but for my cheep indie films that are someday actually going to happen. Someday I am going to want that oddly textured crotched sweater in that bright color.

At my life blood job of a grill (which I am relaxing out of. I say no now. No I will not work any more thursday mornings. No I will not work on October 27th because I am eloping. that's a lie, halfways. now guess which half.) we sell these giant cookies. They are like three cookies put into one. Please have a party and share one. They are kind of the bane of my existence. You have no idea how many cookies you will sell, merely because they are large. It's really the obsession. If they were small people would be thinking cool. I could choose between a cheese cake and a chocolate chip cookie. But as soon as you make that cookie 4 times larger and more deathly, the public goes nuts. Thought processes crash from cookie overload. Rational though is all melted. People try to butter me up, argue with me, beg, drool all because this cookie is large. McDonalds has set this as their whole financial foundation. The blindingness of supersize. When you make an object of food larger than someone's brain and out of substances that will clog your precious blood vessels people can't resist buying it. Maybe it was these cookies. Maybe it was the 113 blond rich california freshman. One of these things helped me develope a horrible joy in telling people they can't have what they want. Will there be anymore cookies? Nooooope. I had a whole conversation with someone the other day while he was on his cell phone ten feet away from me, inside the grill, and I was on the other end of the line on the grill's phone.
I'd like to place an order.
I'm sorry we're not taking phone orders right now, we're too busy. (I see you)
What? Oh why? Please? We don't want to stand in line.
Sorryyyyyy.
Why can't I place an order?
You see me right now? I'm on the phone with you. Therefore I'm not making food. Therefore no food is being made. That's a problem.

Sometimes I like bands just because they are small, I've discovered them on my own, and they have good style. I mean clothing style. I have often pondered this last thing. I have a passion for style. All aesthetics really, but mainly clothing. This is sometimes a sad thing in my life. I have a good friend--well all my uni friends claim I'm heartless. One night we were sitting around the kitchen table in the second ghetto place I'd lived (I'm now in number four) and we were discussing the problem they seem to think I am. Friend one had been alleging that I don't have any passions, I never show any emotion etc. My roommate says
"Marge has passions...........for skinny jeans....."
yes.
oui.
si.
Skinny jeans are the only thing she could think of.
My sister liked playing with dolls. I just liked changing their clothes. I've been interested in fashion design my whole life. style.com is speed dialed into my web browser. I am obsessed with Nicolas Ghesquiere. I have the dream, the desire, the appreciation, but the career never seemed to fit. (I go with "seem" feelings often. They seem right.)
I don't know why it's just the clothing out of all aesthetic things. Long before I had any consciousness of the rest of the world outside of the student housing apartment I was born into, I loved dressing up. Fashion. hats. Sweaters. Changing. Outfits. Wearing clothes. Thinking about them. Drawing them.

Anyway, I've got to read Oedipus the King. Rex rex rex rex rex rex rex.

rex.

(Quote from song 'Under Pressure' by Queen and David Bowie)

a profundity and inside a torn between silent watching and words marching

I like to go to this workshop for local playwrights. I heard about it from spending a night in the mountains with a bunch of kids who's entire lives are devoted to graduating with something that will help them move to africa and be the certain kind of clever they need to be to solve all of africa's problems. I don't think one of them asked me what I wanted to do with film. They all assumed I would be following them to africa to make documentaries about the clever people saving the place.
I can only say I cannot do that. I cannot be another visual story teller to win awards for moving tragic photos/docs that never move anyone to do anything. I cannot save africa. They probably can. But I cannot. I would look out of my tent flap every morning and throw up over the tragedy. My skin would burn. And I would hate myself for my visual stories. I would want to reach back in time to grab my mothers old disformed green and white scrub brush to scrape out my soul. I couldn't make that beautiful on film. I could not worry about the cinematography or the editing or the manipulation. I would cut off my ear and sent it out in hopes of saving some one else or me from my fate.
But one person did ask me about my interests in film. And she led me to this workshop. And so I go. Once a week. I sit around with theatre people who seem at least five years older than me in age and 15 years older than me in life plans. In all physicallity we are in the same place in life. early twenties, university life or just barely graduated. Funny how age isn't always a real thing.

charm the child with coconut milk and internet cafes

Royal Rain
Torn Down the Main
Havarti Dill

My Haiku for you.

one: if my french prof wasn't my french prof we could be best friends. AND he put the course all in podcast downloadable form.

two: girl I know but never see left me a note today saying I make her happy. Out of the blue.

three: I do have havarti dill. and it is delish.

"Give me truths; for I am weary of the surfaces." Ralph Waldo Emerson
Our lives are full of social constructs. Which is kind of ok, because I mean eternally will we be damned for living in a world where opposites can both be correct? no. I don't think so. Is it possible that there can be situations where there are two sides to a story and both sides are correct and there cannot be a compromise and so it must be accepted there will be conflict? I feel like that sometimes.

Now that classes have started I have awakened and I am excited. There is something real to my day. I'm still not doing laundry though which is going to keep becoming a bigger and bigger problem.

an experiment to rival all coke and ice's vices

There is a quiet time of day when things have rattled around in hollow silence too much. Such an afternoon was this.

Now I set this question before you:

Was it lame of me to watch episode, episode, episode of America's Next Top Model?

(Slightly.)

However, my third year of uni commences tomorrow along with my third millennium of work and today was Labor Day. And so I labor-freed it.
My friends are feeling apprehensive about the first day back. What will we wear and will we make new friends? I am feeling indifferent. Maybe it is because the only reason I ever felt any feeling over the beginning of school was a bittersweet pang over the ending of a rich and joyous summer. My summer was rich and joyous but it ended long before now because August is the busiest month of the year for my job. My job is my life is a grill.
A grill.
A sports themed grill.
I don't eat meat or fried things and I don't believe in taking sports seriously.
But I just spent my whole Saturday morning whispering so as not to upset the school football team during their seclusionatory pre-game meal.
To further the irony, I am the only girl who works there who isn't bothered by touching raw meat.
And I have so devoted my life to running this grill smoothly that it is the only thing I ever have to talk about.
My boss says the loss of my soul is only a temporary thing.
Lies.

The other day I was telling my parents I don't think I smile as much as I used to and my dad suggested everyday I write down three good things that happened. So I'm going to try it.

one: I found a 24 hour bread recipe that promises to be tasty and European with a hard crust and soft, pockety interior.

two: I bought real groceries (yes I am a foodie, but really I'm happy because I've been so busy at the grill--where I don't eat the food--that all I've been eating for the last three weeks is peanut butter).

three: I watched TV with one of my roommates.