Fresh ink

Welcome (back)! I should probably be telling myself that, since I log on less frequently than my reader(s). But as it were, life is a non-stop train ride. I sure am glad I beat that hell of a cold bug. Three weeks of mucus and feeling like my head was stuck inside a balloon was not my idea of a good time.

I really have nothing (prepared) to post. I think I'm only writing at this moment because it's a diversion from what I am *supposed* to be doing, which is my work. Procrastination shows no favoritism, however, and when I feel the urge to avoid doing something, I step on my will power and let procrastination run the show.

Don't let me fool you. I actually have two poems I've been stirring in my head for at least a month. It would be delightful for them to squeeze out of my clogged head and onto a piece of paper. I hate being verbally constipated, especially when I see the words I want to join together on the lines at the tips of my eyelashes. But soon as I look down to uncap my pen, the words drop into my utterly useless short term memory bank (it's full of holes from years of wear).



Anyway, I'm newly inked and loving it (this is #3). What amazes me about myself--and should we all not be amazed at ourselves once in a while?--is the paradoxical reasoning I live by. Yours truly is terrrrrified of needles. I hate them and I've been known to become completely pallid at the sight of a needle. And hey, I'll cop to it: I cried like a brat this summer when I got my wisdom teeth pulled. Not just because the grinding sounds as Dentist Man dislodged my precious toofs from my skull nauseated me, but also because he'd stuck me with at least 10 needles during the procedure. Yet I've gotten three tattoos and a nose piercing (twice--it closed the first time...long story) without a second thought. But when do I ever make sense?

The part of me that shirks at a flu shot but will watch someone thread a needle and stud through my nose is the same part that will look at the simplest of questions with sheer befuddlement but absentmindedly (and correctly) answer the hardest question given.

But alas (did I just say 'alas'?), it is my destiny to tackle the most difficult feats while lacking the simplest of life's pleasures, and I reluctantly accept that. For example, men 20 years my senior and boys 15 years my junior fall in love with me everyday, but things don't work out so well with the ones in my age group. I can write a 25 page short story (I can?), but writing lesson plans gives me heart palpitations. I am fairly clairvoyant about certain situations, which I sometimes see happen before they do, but does it stop me from doing what I know (at the moment I'm doing it) I shouldn't do? I hear more and more often, "You're making things harder than they have to be." Well, how can it all be so simple?

This was all complete and utter drivel, brought to you by too much coffee and four helpings of procrastination. Now, back to work.

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