If you really want to laugh, accidentally spill jellybeans all over the kitchen floor, and then try to sweep them up into a neat little pile.

Bachelor seen wearing this t-shirt:
"Do you believe in love at first sight or should I walk by again?"

I have to tell you a story. It's midnight - of which day it does not matter - and I am dead tired. All I want to do is fall asleep for at least 49 million hours. I jam my head into the pillow and try to convince myself that I am feeling so relaxed, and sleep is surely coming any second now. (wait...wait...wait) For at least a week, I have been really trying to think of something to write. I will take anything, just please brain, speak to me. And it does. At midnight.
"A smile, untainted by vanity."
That's all there is. And it is definately there. Over and over it rolls around in my head. I see it in differant fonts, in italics, in capital letters, in bold CAPITAL LETTER'S. I toss and turn, willing it to go away. I groan, because it will not leave, and wonder if this silly little line has any potential, or if turning on my blinding bedside lamp to record it would be in vain. I finally do write it down, and two mornings later, awake with the rest.

A smile
Untainted by
Vanity.
Brilliant,
Soft,
Graced ever with
Dignity.
Sparkling approval;
Reproach by
Removal
of
Pleasure from
round 'bout the
Lips;
This curious
Expression
Can give an
Impression
of
any mood
We decide
Fits.

I know, it is not a Shakespearian masterpiece, but what else can you expect at midnight? **smile**

It's a day on the beach.
They scramble carefully over huge driftwood logs. Pure excitement glows from their little faces, three of them. Unaware the cruel heat of the sand, they race onto the beach, happy to be here. The mom and dad wait for their darling children to gather around. The youngest, too small to jump off the last high log, turns onto his stomach and slides down, and is miraculously spared from a front full of splinters. Throwing a handful of sand gleefully into the air, he heads in the direction of his parents. A tiny, green baseball cap lends him the look of a miniature man.
"Would you take our picture?" they ask. They arrange themselves into a little group. The son stands boldly in front, his legs spread in a manfully wide stance. Everyone smiles together, and at the last moment, the boy waves cheerfully.
It's a day on the beach.

Is my blog boring? I just read through my blog for the first time in a a long time, and I tried to get an objective view on it. If this wasn't my blog, would I read it? Is it boring? Today the 'delete your blog' button was rather tempting. But I know that I would suffer insufferably if I actually deleted this, ahem, masterpiece. But please tell me, if you haven't got a biased opinion, if you think I'm boring.

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove;
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved."
~ W. Shakespeare
Sonnet CXVI

"...This was the first camping trip we took on bikes. It's kind of cool, seeing your whole life in a couple of little bags..."
~ Jacquot LaRivierre

Inspiration is not.
I hold a Pen and Paper,
full of
Meaningless
Scribbles,
and try to Find
A trace
of
Intelligent Thought.
I close my
Eyes
and strike a
Melodramatic
face
In hopes of Stirring
Thoughts of
Passion,
Love
or
Hate.
Instead I Laugh
At myself,
I envy the
Ingenious.
I call myself
Pathetic
and Deem my writing
Meaningless.
A prayer
Sad,
drooping with
Hope for hope
of Inspiration
leaves my Lips a Breath,
And my Pen
without
Direction.

I'm back! Sorry about the silence for a week. I wasn't going to take any chances with that horrid computor virus thing that was going around.
The other day I went to our local fair/carnival. My sister and I hung out together, counting how much money we had between us, and trying to figure how far we could possibly stretch it. Money doesn't go very far, have you ever noticed? And rides are so ridiculously expensive! We wouldn't have been able to do much of anything at first, but then we made a withdrawl from our personal bank (our dad) and we had a splendid time after that. Our fair is rather small (to say the least), so you just keep walking around in circles and pass the same people over and over. And you're sure to see almost everybody you know. As we passed this one particular group, a guy jumped out in front of me, waved his hand in my face, and yells "Hi, I'm funny!" I ignored him. But I should have said something like, "Yes, you are! But looks aren't everything." Why do I always think of good things to say after the situation happens?

I was sitting in the salon, by far the youngest person in the building. I could have been everybody's granddaughter. Staring at my reflection through a veil of wet hair, I unintentionally overhear a conversation in the chair next to mine.

Hair Dresser: (brightly) "So, how are you this morning?"
Customer: "Oh, I'm doing alright. (suddenly animated) The stripes on the road are so bright this morning! It's unbelievable!"
Hair Dresser: (heartily agreeing) "I know it. The sun makes them so clear and bright!"
Customer: "I swear, I could even see my wrinkles better. And I'm sure my hair is whiter than it was!"
Hair Dresser: (sympathetically) "Well I think it looks fine..."
Customer: (sighing) "It's just not what it used to be, you know. I think I need a perm every six weeks now!"

Oh goodness. Sometimes I really don't want to get old.

The other day I saw... a guy, I think. I couldn't be quite sure because the life form was covered in so much jewelry, I could hardly see him. Now. I think that it's okay for guys to wear jewelry. I personally think that an earring (not two), silver necklace, bracelet and a ring is really cool on guys. But please, please don't plate your ears in silver, or drape your neck in so many necklaces you are in danger of being hung if you pass a coat rack, or wear so many rings on your hands that you look like a robot. It's more comfortable when you're sure the person you said 'hi' to is really a human.

La, I'm so tired today. Yesterday was crazy - I got my hair trimmed, bought a cd (Matt Redman's 'Where Even Angels Fear to Tread' is simply awesome), got home just in time to run off again with my mom and her friend and all their little girls to Walmart for some hours. Then a couple families decided to come over to our house for dinner, which was okay, but I'm not really connected with either family. So my sister and I went to see Freaky Friday in the theatre. It's a really really dumb movie, but there were some really really funny parts in it. I have to say that I don't regret spending eight bucks, but in the same token I can't honestly recommend it to anybody, and I wouldn't go see it again. A movie I would view a second time is Seabiscuit. You should definately go see that one - a few times!
This is getting very boring. Oh, here's a funny quote:

"Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything
Fred Astaire did, but she did it backwards
and in high heels." ~ Faith Whittlesey

Isn't that the greatest? I laughed when I read it. Okay, I'm leaving. Just feeling kind of blah and down today. Sorry nothing interesting.

My brother: "I smell something offensive to the nostrils of the human race."

I'm so strange. I catagorize my clothes when I fold them. It takes up so much of the floor space in my room, because there's like six differant piles of my clothes, in addition to my two sisters laundry. I've got my jeans pile, t-shirts-I-like pile, and t-shirts-I-don't-like pile, socks stack, paired pjs, seperate pjs, and skirts. It makes the putting-away part go much faster, really. Okay, whatever. I know it's weird.

Life is beautiful.

What are you thinking at THIS very second?

I finally get some money, and decide to buy a cd. Walmart has the best prices, but they don't have my cd!!! aaaaaaaagh *gurgling-strangled-sort-of-scream*!!!! Now I have to spend four bucks more at the christian bookstore in town. But, whadaya know, the banks aren't open on Saturday! Grrrrr *low-growling-menacing-sound*. Now I have to wait till Monday to hear Matt Redman. *sigh*.
So that's my random observation of the day.

You know it.

The muffled breath of a dulled lead pencil.
The intelligent scratch of a fine tipped pen.
The round hum of a ballpoint.

These are the sound effects to the creations of words.

There is something so beautiful about a good pen.
Silver. Slim-line. Weighted at the tip. Blue ink - I write better in blue. But it's not just what the pen looks and feels like. It's what the pen is.
My pen has a most intimate connection to my mind. I don't have to speak. It knows the words sometimes even before I think them. My pen knows things about me that not a single living creature does.
And it never tells.
Now, Pilot Pens I do not love - however, I would not bring myself to hate them. They are altogether too light. But they give me a fantastic sense of importance, because they have this habit of leaking right where your fingers grip. The ink soaks into your skin at the tip of your first finger and the knuckle of your third, making you look like a very serious, devoted, splendid writer, instead of the sporadic dabbler of unfinished stories that you are.
Pencils are just bad for book writing, for they oblige you to erase your mistakes instead of scribbling them out. I don't know about you, but I fell so progressive when I look back on a page full of scribbles and tiny, crammed, scrawled corrections. I appear to be simply brimming over with mad creativity.
I know these opinions are intensely personal, and you may not agree with any of them at all. Yet there is one thing upon which every write must agree, and that is this: There is nothing, no sound so frustrating, hopeless, and grating as that of a dry pen, scratching meaningless holes in a sheet of perfectly good paper.