I appreciate blogspot's zeal. It saves my post before I even begin typing. As though anticipating the awesomeness soon to come. Saving a seat in the blogosphere. Front row. Blogspot can see my sweat and feel my spit while I dance around the blogging stage, though (just saved again) it may be the lone soul in the concert hall's vast number of seats. I don't know if this is read by anyone. Ever. So here's to posterity. To my great grandson 453679340438034 (no names. just numbers in 80 years. Yes I will be 102. Lifespans will have increased dramatically) who will happen upon this blog, using the computer chip implanted in his brain at birth (spank, cut cord, plant chip), and will in some small way connect with his now dementia-stricken, nursing home inhabitant of a relative.
I went to the art museum, for this artistic soul of mine was yearning. Lie. It was an assignment. Visit the American Dreams exhibit. Apparently the early American settlers thought our land to be a new eden, which reminds me Puddn'head Wilson, or rather Mark Twain who wrote..."Adam and Eve had many advantages, but the principal one was, that they escaped teething." Indeed. The settlers were disappointed, more often than not, in their falling-short-of-eden dwelling. Which maybe is life?
Fine. I've finished lamenting about how horrifically tragic life is for the recently returned. In actuality, I have very little, if anything to gripe about. Except ice skating. WTC. Why am I supposed to enjoy blades strapped to the bottom of my feet? As if we didn't have enough to worry about with the economy, carcinogens, and obesity, let's trade shoes for deadly weapons and run around on a slippery surface. How is holding hands supposed to help? So instead of one fatality there's two? I'll never let go Jack. Unless you eat it. Then I'm headed for the hot chocolate, probably chuckling all the way. But really, who is good at ice skating? And why?
"Future." It gives me heart palpitations. It turns out that "I want to write" is a less than acceptable answer to the plans inquiry. Turns out that pursing my lips and throwing my eyes doesn't deflect the well-meaning questioners. And it turns out that no one, wish as I might, is going to sit me down and spell out the rest of my life for me, probably because I don't have gypsy friends. Fetch.