What Am I Playing At?

Today marks six months to the day since I arrived back in the United States. In that time I have gotten a job, gotten an apartment, and kept things solid with my best girl, who helped me celebrate our third anniversary last week.

But my time in France is so precious to me, and I'm not doing the things I want to do to keep it fresh for myself. I'm not telling stories, and I'm not sorting through all those artifacts and trinkets I brought back with me. I'm not keeping in touch with the people I met out there.

Quel idiot!

We got the first snow of the year today. It's time to take a cue from the seasons and make some changes.

Your homework, dear reader:
1.) Identify that one thing you've been putting off, or the thing you've been meaning to do, or remember that person you should've called back

2.) Get to it. Do it, and not half-ass.

3.) After, figure out if you feel different, or better, or what. Post it in the comments!

My Room (wherever it may be)

So tonight I’m moving out of my room. I’m only going to the next room over, but still, this represents change and the sentimental feeling I’ve got reminds me of the last few times I moved. This always comes up for me because my room, wherever it may be, is a place of sanctuary and safety. It’s where my stuff is, where my girlfriend holds me, where my eyes trace the contours of the walls as I drift off to sleep.

Be it Chicago, Madison, rural France, wherever, my room has always been a special place for me.

Here’s to my room, all of them, and to change, which keeps me from growing to hate any of them!

Chagrin From the Past

I was horrified, recently, by the idea that a good deal of the people I went to high school with probably think I attempted suicide during my freshman year of high school.

Yipes!

They’d have thought this because of the big bandage on my left wrist, which covered two deep cuts on the inside surface. This damage, I assure you, was entirely accidental. It had more to do with cheap plate glass and less to do with me or despair. Of course, I had high school angst. I never seriously thought about suicide, though. I was way too busy trying to be a gallant romantic hero to any number of desirable sixteen year-old girls.

So, if you are reading this and you happen to have known me back then, let me say this: I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of the suicidal party.

Phew. Glad that’s cleared up!