Facts, Less Facts, Craziness

1. Last year, I singlehandedly drove from the west to the east coast. It wasn't that I loved driving so much I decided to make this trip; my husband had just been deployed three days earlier to Iraq and I had to get home somehow. So with a broken toe, I struggled up and down the three flights of stairs to our apartment carrying out appliances, furniture, and all the useless junk we had acquired over our three months of occupancy. John had already left and I was responsible to fit what I could in the car. Once I was all packed, I slept at a friend's apartment for the night and hit the road early next morning.
Three hundred miles passed by quickly, even six hundred, but I began to lose count and sense of the time before long. Washington and Idaho were dull and went by in a flash, but Montana was next and long. There was no way I was slipping through that one til the next day. I stayed in a lodge by the interstate and simply drank my whiskey, watching The Happening, and drifted to sleep.
What day was it? What time was it? I had no clues. Unfortunately, the rest of Montana and the whole of Wyoming, landed me in the middle of the grand Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, so finding a place to sleep was tough. However, I did manage to find one hotel with a very obsessive-compulsive owner named Dave. I ended up repeating the activities of the previous night in this flop joint, wasting away on Jimmy Beam and orange soda.
Competing with motorcycle fanatics for the road, the next day started off slowly and agitatedly. Once I crossed the Wisconsin border into Illinois, I was pretty much slapped in the face. I wasn't ready for Chicago just yet. I sped through traffic trying to escape an accident but most likely, provoking one. Out of Illinois, I was tired, lights were blurring, and my neck was stiff mess. To stay awake, I started singing, "All I wanna do is go back home. But I can't because the road's too long. Oh, baby..." It was three in the morning and my eyelids were counting down dreamland. I found out I had just drive from South Dakota to Ohio in one day. I pulled over and slept in the car for three hours, then "up and at 'em" I made it to my destination, Philadelphia.



2. Last year, I single-handedly drove from the Washington state to Philadelphia. It wasn't that I loved driving so much I decided to make this trip; my husband had just been deployed just the day earlier to Iraq and I had to get home somehow. So with a broken foot, I struggled up and down the three flights of stairs to our apartment carrying out appliances, furniture, and all the useless junk we had acquired over our only one month of occupancy. Before John left, he hadn’t helped me at all with the packing and demanded that I fit what I could in the car. Once I was all packed, I slept at a girlfriend's apartment for two nights eating junk food and complaining about men. But the morning had arrived for me to leave, and I said my many good-byes and hit the road.
Three hundred miles passed by quickly, even six hundred, but I began to lose count and sense of the time before long. The interstate in Washington and Idaho was surrounded by patterned trees and I drove them in a trance, but Montana was desolate and there was no way I was slipping through that one till the next day. I stayed in the Thunderbird Lodge by the road and talked for hours with a strange man I‘d met. He had asked me if I had known where to get some weed. After sharing a drink with him, he went back to his room and kept drinking, watching HBO.
What day was it? What time was it? I had no clues. Unfortunately, the rest of Montana and the whole of Wyoming landed me in the middle of the grand Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, so finding a place to sleep was tough, especially when I realized my front tire was flat. The Triple A guy came and like a savior, fixed my way home and found me a hotel room. It was a small place owned by a very obsessive-compulsive man who handed me a rag and said, “Use that to wash with, then throw it away.” I ended up not washing and falling asleep, grateful to be in this flop joint, instead of wasting away on Jim Beam and orange soda in a park somewhere.
The next day, there were motorcyclists everywhere, rows upon rows. They didn’t care for anyone with a full-size vehicle and weaved in and out of traffic ingloriously. Once I crossed the Wisconsin border into Illinois, I was pretty much slapped in the face. It was Chicago, almost as bad as New York City. There were construction signs with speed limits of 45mph but the majority of cars were doing eighty. I sped through traffic trying to escape an accident but most likely in fact, provoking one. Finally out of Illinois, headlights became blurry in my blood-shot vision, and my neck was a stiff as a board. To stay awake, I started singing, "All I wanna do is go back home. But I can't because the road's too long. Oh, baby..." It was five in the morning and my eyelids were counting down dreamland before, I found a parking lot in Ohio to pull over in. With my car completely stuffed, I had to figure out a way to comfortably sleep. So I opened the driver’s window and laid sideways on all my junk, hanging my feet out. It would have been such a sight to see.
Two hours later, the sun was piercing through my windshield and sleep became impossible. And just a few more hours later, I had driven the entire windy Pennsylvania Turnpike to my destination at last.

3. Last year, I single-handedly drove from the Washington state to Philadelphia. It wasn't that I loved driving so much I decided to make this trip; my husband had just been sent to jail for ripping off my skirt in public and pushing me down. I had to get home somehow. So with a broken foot and bruised up back, I struggled up and down the fifty-five flights of stairs to our apartment carrying out a piano, an elephant, and everything we used for our circus business. Once I was all packed, I stayed in the nearby shelter for battered women for a month licking my wounds and hiding from the world. It was the morning the sky cried with me, I knew I should get going and move on with my life.
Three hundred miles passed by quickly, even six hundred, but I began to lose count and sense of the time before long. My hand trembled on the wheel as I steered towards Away and Further Away. The interstate in Washington and Idaho was surrounded by patterned trees and the incessant flashing of the sun provoked my epilepsy, so I had to stop many times and have a seizure. Luckily, Montana was desolate and trees were scarce. I stayed in the Hilton Montana by the road and talked for hours with a strange man I‘d met on the indoor waterslides. He had asked me if I had known where to get some weed. I said, “No, but I have something better.” After sharing a drink with him, we went back to my room and hit the crack pipe all night.

What day was it? What time was it? Where are my clothes? My elephant had been towed and I had no clue where I was. I just knew I should start driving east. Unfortunately, the rest of Montana and the whole of Wyoming landed me in the middle of the grand Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, and all the hotels wore the “no vacancy” sign. Just great, I thought. To add salt to my wounds, my front tire was flat. I tried to hold the tears back but that just made them spill over and some strange motorcyclists stopped to see what was wrong. They offered to let me stay in their room and to call Triple A to come tow the car. I accepted and the four of us, jumped into the Jacuzzi in their room to ease the pains of the day. I fell asleep in the warm water and woke up in the clinic. Apparently, I had almost drowned and they had to pump my stomach because I had consumed too much chlorine. The Triple A guy came to the hospital and said the car was fixed and that I should be going because a raving mob of vampires was after my blood.
The next day, motorcycles were everywhere, in front of me, on my tail, on the top of my car; there was even a midget cycling under my engine. They didn’t care for anyone with a full-size vehicle and weaved in and out of traffic obnoxiously. Once I crossed the Wisconsin border into Illinois, I was running low on gas, so I stopped at a pump and realized I was in Chicago. The clerks treated me rudely and called me “white girl” and wouldn’t except my “evil white man money”, so I stole the gas and left . The speed limit was 25mph but the majority of cars were doing 120, as if they were on the Audobon. I sped through traffic trying to escape an accident but instead, I caused a pile up. I got out of the car and hijacked another, lit a spliff and made it out of that nightmare. Finally out of Illinois, headlights became blurry in my blood-shot vision, and my neck had morphed into a piece of plywood, it was so stiff. To stay awake, I started singing, "All I wanna do is go back home. But I can't because the road's too long. Can’t wait to hit that bong. Oh, baby..." It was five in the morning and the pot fumes found me sleepy so I found a parking lot in Ohio and pulled over. With my car completely stuffed, I had to figure out a way to comfortably sleep. I found a bench at a McDonald’s and laid down on its cold, red plastic till I was startled by a meteor that had struck earth only four feet away. “Man, can’t a girl sleep in peace?”
My car was missing; I guess I had forgotten to take my keys out. At least I had my stash. Some transvestites saw the baggy in my hand and said if I hit them up, they’d hit me up. So I gave them my load, and they dropped me off in druggy paradise, Philadelphia.

Phonecall Between A Soldier and A Slob

On one end of the phone is Alexandra, pacing the floor from the kitchen to the wood stove and the other, her husband, balancing his weight on a broken chair in Iraq.

"So," he mumbled. "Is there anything you want to tell me? Y'know, anything new?"
"Uh, not really. Just doing my homework all the time and trying to be happy with life," she said holding in a cough. She didn't want him to know she started smoking again in his absence.
"Well, how are you classes? You know, I'm really proud of you for taking them."
"They're fine except for my English teacher, you know for Creative Writing, is so picky. He, like, hates everything I write. He doesn't like description or poems and that's how I write, so it's kinda tough. But my other class is easy as shit. We just watch movies and write about them. Man, you need to get NetFlix," she responded, then held the phone away as she coughed quietly.
"You still smoking?"
"No-o-o, I'm not still smoking," she lied, knowing it was too blatant and said, "Yea, I'm still smoking." She gave a hesitant giggle, expecting it would ease his disappointment.
"Why? I was just talking to my friends about how proud I was that you quit smoking, " he said in disgust.
"Hey, I'm losing weight, I'm taking classes, I quit drinking, ... don't expect me to be perfect. At least not right away, 'cause I'm feelin' really overwhelmed. Besides, I do mean to quit, but my psychiatrist says, 'do one thing at a time.'" She panicked, although she knew the terms of their marriage wasn't based on whether she smoked cigarettes or not.
"Yea, ok Alex. At least you didn't completely lie to me... only partially, right? You'll tell me things you don't want me to know, right?"
Jesus Christ! Not this again. "Duh, didn't I just tell you the truth? Why can't you just trust me?! I have nothing to hide from you!"
There is silence as he continues to analyze what he has heard for some hidden truth I have yet to tell him. The silence turns solemn and this conversation appears to be over.
"Well," John says as he carefully rises from his seat, "I'll call you next week. That should be enough time for you to quit. OK?"
"Yea, I can quit right now. I'll throw my pack of cigarettes in the fireplace. I mean,I actually did think about throwing them out the window, but --"
"No, that's too dramatic. Just smoke the rest and quit. Anyways," he says wanting to rush the good-byes but not obviously, "I'll call you, soon. I love you. By the way, stop pacing."
"I love you too, little boy. I will."

Hardest Assignment in the world, I give up

A new millenium, a new century, and what a hell of a decade to come. That is if Y2K didn’t really cause us all to hide underground in bomb shelters for the rest of our lives. Luckily, like the search for “weapons of mass destruction”, Y2K was a scam. I don’t think I even personally knew of anybody who believed in that crap. In fact, the “emo” side of me hoped it really would happen, so we could all die and go to hell. MURDERDEATHKILL! Nah, I could never be that sorry for myself although by principle of this trend, many other kids at school were aspiring to be vampires. All I saw when I looked at those “emo” kids was a bad hair-do blinding the shadow of a crack addict. Emaciated, adorned in black, and always shaking their eyes free from hair dead from dye. I guess they did eventually have a reason to pity themselves when Bush won the presidency. ..
Maybe we “misunderestimated” him, but he really tore down “the terriers and bariffs” in this country when it comes to the requirements of his position. I laughed as much as I was appalled watching his speeches on television. It was difficult to maintain a friendship with anyone who defended Bush. I remember writing in my blog about his joke of a presidency. I really thought this country was really collapsing quickly…
I heard about the attack on the World Trade Center in New York at 5:00 in the morning when I woke up to my mother crying. “Why my city? Why my city?!” She’d told me all about her time working on the 77th floor of the second tower decades earlier and now she was completely devastated. School was different that day. Of course, we had our moment of silence but it didn’t clarify anything to me. Why had our own country’s planes been flown into the side of our own buildings? I sat there in history class that day looking down at my dirty Vans, and wondered if they would get me out of the building fast enough if I had been there. The catastrophic scene was played over and over on the news on every station. But after the shock had settled which never really did, things slightly went back to normal, except before I hadn’t ever seen so many American flags in my life til then. I felt strangely united with the whole country…
And with the rest of the nation, I went back to watching The Simpsons on Thursday. then Sunday nights, attempting to “ollie” on my Zero brand skateboard, and doing “Around the World” with the yo-yo.
I began running nights at the high school track, running like Bin Laden. Gas prices were on the rise and so was the attempt to “go green”, so taking rides aimlessly was “out”, not “in”. What else was on the rise was my feelings of hatred toward technology. Girls in their polka dot and vintage tees, flipping their hair madly, and “texting” maniacally to their friend in the room over. The ringing of the cell phones breaking my chi, and headphones on every pair of ears in sight. Apparently face to face conversation had gone down the tubes along with etiquette...
Anthrax and SAR's weren't very mannered either, coming in envelopes to expose people with poison. More sweet attacks on the Americans, and I'm just thinking is there anything that could ever harm our country as a whole enough to where we'll go overboard like the terrorists. Oh wait, Bush wants to begin the "War on Terror", the biggest oxymoron I've ever heard.
Fast forward a couple self-asorbed, suicidal years ahead, and in fact, I am still alive and married at the early age of 20. Married for one month, and he already has to go to Godforsaken Iraq of all places. We'll never be lucky enough for John to be deployed to Germany, although the way I was raised, Germans weren't much better than terrorists. This decade ends and no new feeling is personally bestowed. Should I do it, my old emo friends? Let's finish it with life ain't ever going to be what you want it to be and a decade is bullshit.

I Broke My Mind Tonight

I always feel the urge to start these blogs with, "Sitting here..." So because I am feeling compulsive: Sitting here in my car, it's almost 10:00. And it's going to be a lonely hour unless slap this reluctance and laziness away and sneak back in the sleeping house to grab the phone. Who can I call this hour? There's Dan but he's working at the university probably unhappily serving college students hamburgers and fries. There's Carlos back in California, but wait, I'm forbidden to talk to him because "I once loved him". So says John, my husband, even though he can talk to his ex-girlfriend, Renee.
!She is the biggest bitch in the whole world.! Not literally, she's quite thin for having three kids at 22. So correction: she is the bitchiest of all females in the world I know. Gossip or not, I will tell you this: She cheated on John when they were together and had a kid. The guy's name was also John but instead of my husband's handsome face, this John looks like the rat from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Predictably, she's cheating on him now with one of his friends. Let's hope his name isn't John for the sake of the children.
Anyways, thinking back to who I will call. It will remain a mystery for here I go on my adventure to the house. Numbers will be dialed and perhaps a conversation will put me to sleep this bright January night. For it shall not be the full moon.

Dreams in Hibernation

Once I saw the grass this morning, I realized how much I missed it. Even when I watch the babbling commercials on the boob tube, I look beyond the product for that bright sun shining on the delightful summer's day that many seem to be filmed during. The Hammond Lumber Company commercial is one of those. I imagine rolling around letting the blades of grass graze my arms and face. I already see myself, Corona in hand, fishing off the back of a boat, catching something big, and frying it up over the campfire.
In California, it would be smeltering and the shade meant nothing to preventing heat exhaustion. I'd take a shower, dry off, only to be drenched once again in sweat. But no, Maine is the creme-de-la-creme of all summertime locations.
Although, it is quite a drag that all the tourists agree with that, crowding up our parks, trails, and carriage roads. Its not very pleasant to be standing at the foot of Mt. Katahdin enjoying it's majestic beauty, anticipating you won't be alone for long. The Jordan Pondhouse will never be empty once that first day of summer comes.
I guess I should be fair, not that I have a choice, and share this glory of nature with all the tourists. I admit I was once just a part of the invasion.

Reading Rainbow of Conspiracy

Has anyone else received a Sid Roth book in the mail or are we, Jews, really the "chosen people", chosen to receive this book? My brother, who lives in Philadelphia now, was sent a copy to my house, and I at my friend's house. A conspiracy? Although I haven't read it, the enclosed letter says: "You're probably wondering why I am sending you this. Change the world like the Jewish holocaust survivor who wanted to burn down churches."
Stepping back now. Burn down churches? Change the world? I'm quite boggled and a bit afraid a book might actually be stalking me. First, it appeared at my house, second, my friends, what next? The Congregational Church in Blue Hill? Or might I be burning already when it drops from the choir loft?

A Great Feat

Who knew such a sluggish morning would begin this parade of a day? Dreaming about John deserting me for another woman wasn't the ideal thing to awaken from. Although, as opposed to most mornings, I was happy to wake up that my dreams were not reality.
After the morning hygiene routine, I sat down contently in front of my laptop and completed my daily analysis of Facebook, Blogger, and Blackboard. About that time, my stomach became demanding and I grabbed an apple to satisfy it's orders. Whilst munching this fruit, I came upon a Japanese horror flick being shown on Netflix and watched only half before vowing not to eat during this movie ever again.
Then it was time for Mrs. Barbara Reeves, my savior, I mean psychiatrist, and I to have a meeting. Not much came from the meeting this time, seeing as I haven't been committed to the progressive muscle or breathing relaxation exercises she recommended I do. On the other hand, the meeting did give me confidence to go to the grocery store, Mainely Music, and the Hancock Library. I did this all on my own without a twitch in the neck or one shortened breath. The parade that I had written of earlier stems from the comfort and bliss I feel to realize recovery is possible!

Ashamed and Unchanged

I'm being extremely patient right now. I'm waiting til my parents go to bed, so I can sneak outside and smoke a cigarette. Obviously, they still think I quit. It's been a month since I started up again.
I do need to break the habit because I know its disappointing to my husband. He called from Iraq two days ago and the conversation was light and cheerful, until that one measly cough. He asked if I'd been smoking still, after I'd told him so long ago I quit. I responded nervously, "No, I don't still smoke." Knowing how blatent the lie was, I went on to confess, where then his tone dropped and so did my chest. It may not seem like a gigantic deal to most, but this is my husband, who reluctantly lives the structured military life in Iraq. And furthermore, we both know he enlisted for my sake. So to disappoint him is a major offense and a reason that talk that day turned sour.
Nevertheless, I am still ready to tiptoe out the front door to selfishly grant my own wish.

Journal Entry #4 or 5

It wasn't so bad, the trip home. The truth is I was completely distracted from my normal anxious thoughts by thinking more about what I wanted to write next for the course. Especially how to write the next thing including all the suggestions made.
It was a nice change not to be worrying the whole ride back. I listened to some music, put my hand out the window (only for a second though) and fell into a dream land of literary possibilities.
At the moment, I thought I might take a aimless drive and listen to my new stress-relieving CD. However, I've a time limit, which goes hand in hand with relaxation, don't you know? My mom will be home soon from working at KidsPeace all day. I need to be on time for my lectures about smelling like cigarettes, and using her computer without permission. That said, what am I doing wasting my time? Ursula will slime across the floor any second.

Journal Entry #3 or 4

I must admit; I feel like I've just made it to Hollywood on American Idol for writers. I've been successful with some entries in this course, but the criticism makes me think twice about how much more wonderfully I could write. It's a shame we can't write poems, because I have this neverending rhythm in my head. Iambic pantameter, kill me now please.
Not too much description, definitely no rhyming, don't alienate the reader, and don't be too direct. I think that's it for now. What's really difficult is not being able to describe every nook and cranny, because I figure the reading should get a genuine feel to every situation.
Anyways, I must be leaving shortly or I'll never build up enough courage to make the hour ride home to Hancock. It's best to leave before the sun really starts making its appearance; that way, its more unlikely to be noticed.

Journal Entry One Thousand

I must write again, I must, I must! I wonder if anyone has ever become addicted to writing. That might be scary, considering I am addicted to everything else under the sun. (Except the nagging of "Motherdear".)
I ordered a pizza to keep me company while my best friend works at the University of Maine. He's bartending tonight, which means I REALLY shouldn't show up or I might cost him his job.
I admit, I am a little lonely. My husband is in Iraq. No, I don't need your pity. I just need a damn taco. Sorry, phrases are bad habits.
Who knew, man? Seriously, I kept a blog when I was 16. I actually just erased everything once I started this class. But who knew that at 16 years old, I was preparing for a college class?
Buddha, I am just so lucky. I better make my face if I want to be presentable for the pizza man or lady. They might just throw it in my face!

Journal Entry #2 - Third Person Autobiography

"Who's she?" she asked. She liked to say the phrase her once living grandmother used when insulted. "I am not just a 'she'. In fact, guess what," she said as she scowled. "I am a person." Her teacher who was a strong feminist and shopped at Anthropologie grinned menacingly at the boys who chose to debate her star student.

Alexandra was entirely a different girl this year. She accepted the term "she" and felt it was impossible to be just a person instead of something related to a gender. "Why, I'll make my own posse. My own commune, in fact." And so she did.

She was entering her first year in the college known as one just beside the great almighty University of Maine. With her joined five young men just graduated from nearby high schools and lacking a mother figure. Yes, of course, she was only nineteen, but she knew she could make them her own.

Every afternoon, they would meet in the corridor of the English department looking to her for answers of the female species, the ones who rare in their miserable lives.

One day, Alexandra "the Greatest", they would call her, realized the solution to these problems of the so-called castaways. She would write a whole-length rule book for them. No halitosis for one, she wrote. Definitely, no sexist remarks, she typed as she thought of her own pet peeve of the evil word "she". She continued the paper until it was an entire ten pages long, detailing the horror of every wrong mistake a male could make towards a girl. By the end of the list, any man reading would be too frightened to let their lips mouth a "she", for she was through.

Journal Entry for the Masses

Once again, I am aloof. Online classes, you make me weep. Is there some tissue in my brain I am missing? I already know I have an abnormally small amygdala. Yikes, what next.
By the way, my favorite word for the past year has been "tacos" or more like "TACOOOOS" if we want to be politically correct. I never really understood the meaning of politically correct. Although, I know this joke has been used many-a-time, politics are not correct. Fair to say the least. Wait, that's an incomplete sentence.
I want to write another poem. Poems are fun to write because most the time you don't even know what you mean. I mean, what do I mean?
Oh, Mr. Goldfine, you don't know how much this assignment means to me.
I've been writing all day and yet, I can't manage to become tired.
Okay, okay. It's time to be serious. I will let those concerned who I am and what I'm "all about". I am agoraphobic for one. Whoo, didn't see that one coming! I am from California and moved to Maine when I was 17, one month after graduating from high school. I went to University of Maine, took advantage of the freedom from parents, and did the old-fashioned Animal House bit of criticizing the sober and raising thee havoc. Yes, thee havoc. After this, I moved to Hancock to live with my dear old folks and started working at the Hannaford in Ellsworth as the "drug lady", or so my soon-to-be husband called me. In other words, I was a Pharmacy Technician. (He was actually working in the Deli, my "Meat Man"). Let's not get into that.

So after working for several months in this cage of narcotics, I enlisted in the Air Force and was to become (get ready for it) an Airborne Linguistics Cryptologist. Yes, that is someone who interprets the evil plans of the enemy into plain English. I called it "playing Sudoku with sister planes". However, without explanation, I write simply that I was discharged and soon married to my husband, John Wayne. Okay, his name is actually John Wayne Carpenter II. Oy vey, my fingers are arthritic and I must save some room on this simulation of paper for some more rambling about my putrid existence. Til we meet again.

Journal Entry #2 - Second Person Autobiography

Hours drift by like snow past the window. Wandering and revising, your mind lingers on that perfect idea. What's interests is interesting, you mouth silently. Oh, this treacherous assignment, you think. Don't they understand you need sleep tonight? How can you possibly write an alternate ending to such a well-known book without getting chastised? It was named a Tale of Two Cities, not the Tale You Should End Yourself.

Journal Entry #2 - First Person Autobiography

I always wondered why my high school yearbook was only worth one glance. I'd skim through the captions and stories of winning sports teams, the supposedly inspiration student of the year, and mediocre statements of fellow classmates. Bland and low brow, all these words wasted all this space in the so-called book of memories. Yet, it was I who was not chosen for the position of copy editor. After all the creative and smirk-provoking descriptions I bestowed last year's book. What about the captions I worked so hard on, making sure no adjective or adverb was ever used twice? What about the headlines I'd used comparing the men's water polo and orchestra page to well-known songs of the year? Someone had been bribed; there was just no other way I shouldn't have been the first choice for the job. Even Jessica, a fellow writer I'd concocted entire stories and completely clever captions, was named one of the editors. To make this foolishness worse, I was offered a simple job as the newspaper editor. Newspaper? The junk that nobody read in my high school was not about to be part of my resume. In addition, my focus would be lost to the Doldrums, with the knowledge my beloved Christopher would be in the same room as me. Distraught and feeling cheated, I put the keyboard aside, and all those fantastically colorful words went along. If I couldn't be editor and share my passion with the droll of the earth, a free period was my revenge.

Journal Entry #1

Hello, journalpants. I deem you this name because I think pants are necessary for such a delightful assignment. I choose to write in a way that erasing is not a choice and that my fingers move as quickly across the keys as the thoughts enter my mind. I believe this is the truest way to be genuine, or the most genuine way to be true.
At the moment, I am phsyically shaking due to the realization that I was late on perhaps my first two assignments. I've been spending the past weekend at my almost 40 year old friend's, Dan, house in Brewer, calling and harassing the EMCC employees with my questions about online classes and how they work. You'd think that knowledge of these things comes with growing up in this generation, a generation where the inane amount of time spent texting, instant messaging, and blogging prevails over any other activity.
I suppose I should be talking about my schedule but if it's of no interest to me, I'd imagine it wouldn't be much enjoyment for your skimming eyes.
I will say, however, that I am stranded in Brewer an hour away from my actual residence in Hancock, until the snow plows come around.
And now I am concluding. Let us all cheer!