Hardcore

That's the word for me, my friends. I'm totally hardcore. Why, you naively ask? Because, ladies and gents, I HAVE READ PAGES 281-285 of Aron Ralston's Between a Rock and a Hard Place. Have you?

It's funny how other people can sometimes entertain different opinions of you that clash with your own lofty introspections. My own good name was maligned just the other day--BY MY OWN FAMILY. In devious collusion, Amber and Mom agreed that I was "squeamish". My mom was mentioning that she needed to get her stitches out (having gashed her noggin earlier in the month) when my oft-injured sister declared that basically anyone could remove stitches--no need to make a doctor's appointment. My name was brought up, then discarded, both citing "squeamishness".

All I can say is WHO DO YOU CALL TO PICK UP THE DEAD BIRDS WITH MAGGOTS IN THEIR EMPTY EYE SOCKETS, AMBER? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Though I honestly have no desire to remove people's stitches. I'm glad they didn't ask.

Summer Haze

My alarm clock thinks it's July 7th. I didn't even know that my alarm clock had an opinion on the date, but it's weighing in, anyway. I've had this alarm clock for something like 15 years. I wonder what other nuggets of (mis)information are hiding among its electrical wirings.

Actually . . . wait. I'm getting a glimpse of a vague memory of delight at discovering this feature back in college. Hmmm . . . I wonder what else I've forgotten since those brain-straining years. Not that they were as brain-straining as they ought to have been. APPLY YOURSELVES IN SCHOOLS, KIDS. Back to what all I've let slip--I guess that's kind of a moot thing to spend time thinking about. By definition, I'll never remember what I forgot, as it's long gone by now, right?

Still, though, I'm glad that at least my alarm clock is trying . . . even as I shiver looking at the cold, cold, snow-encrusted landscape outside the window. Looking forward to July 7th, though. I've got a good feeling about that day.