Friday, 03 May 2013
Waiting for the iron to cool and re-subscribing to the Writer's Almanac Podcast, because Garrison Keillor makes me feel so old and so young at the same time and I want to write a poem worth him reading.
But I haven't written poetry in a long time. A long time.
Because I don't have time to write poetry.
Nor do I have a muse. I miss having a muse. I miss seeking out new words to use in poetry. I miss turning phrases in my head, thinking of succinct ways to describing things in to a perfect short sentence that took a bright and peculiar photograph of one point in time, and yet was timeless. I miss holding on to 3 words for weeks at a time, knowing that they unlocked something grand.
Where did it go? Did it leave? Or did I just lock it up?
What if I did lock up? There will be hell to pay for that.
Thursday, 02 May 2013
After we went to Thailand a second time, I was sure you'd last until the next summer. The impromptu tuktuk rides and lounging in the stream with ancient wounded elephants meant to me that the adventures would never end. I guess I was wrong.
Just the summer before, we were snorkeling in Guam. We scaled Mt. Fuji, all the way to the top. Into the rarefied clouds we climbed, sometimes on hands and knees, to look into the enormous dormant cauldron and consider that there might be a God in this mountain.
You who crossed rivers on the backs of elephants in Chiang Mai, who partied until noon the next day in Manila, who wandered the drizzly streets of Kyoto, and who kept me warm until we found a sheltered slanting alley in which to have a simple dinner in Hong Kong. I carried you through all of these adventures. And for at least nine years you carried my dreams, anxieties, hopes, sustenance, independence, and survival. Carried them, that is, until today.
Today, my backpack strap snapped. It was going to happen. The bottom of the bag is getting to be full of holes from wear and tear, the insides of the pockets gummy from everything pushed into them, and the zippers were getting bent out of shape. It had been fraying for a while, and even though a friend stitched it up some. The strain of school slowly tore it apart until it was hanging by a thread, literally.
Farewell, my faithful blue sac a dos. I was hoping we could make it to the end of the semester when you could take me home one last time, and then I could retire you with your dignity. But alas, it was not meant to be. Perhaps it is best that you be retired here where you were bought while I move on to find new adventures.
Friday, 29 March 2013
I'm all wound up about some traffic violation that I need some help on... So I'm up and about and not practicing.
It seems to me that it is the popular and hip thing to come out and support gay marriage. To change your profile picture, or wear an arm band, or take a vow of silence for a day. In this day and age, showing appreciation for gay marriage appears to be this, my, generation's revolution, or... something. It's like the "cool" thing to do, and I don't really know how I feel about that... This, and North Korea, are constantly breaking headlines.
So it seems appropriate that I tell my story. Now. While everything is happening and before no one believes me. And while I'm getting more comfortable in my own skin. Even though this blog is only some small knot hole of the web in which I whisper through, it is my most appropriate medium where I can always hope that someone, or no one, is listening.
By fourth grade, I knew I was different. I didn't know how just yet, but I had the sense that I was. The sense that I was maybe supposed to be doing something, but I never did. I was a good student, to a point, I was kind, quiet, and smart. And when I was with friends I was crazy and fun. I certainly was normal, but, I was also different. There is wanting to be different, which I did, but then there is also different. There was a confusion.
I used to make up blurbs about myself that I had a "crush" on some other boy in the grade. Not to spread a rumor, but I think more to shock my friends. And because, I think I felt that's what I had to do at that time, have a crush on a boy. But that was a story I made up. Maybe I liked the idea of it, but, I didn't know.
My first real crush was on a girl. It just sort of crept up on me, haunting me for a few years with nothing but pleasant "what ifs". And it seemed the most natural thing in the world to me. Of course, I didn't think it was anything to pursue, which is perhaps why it stayed so safe, but it did happen. She was perfect. She was kind and I thought the most beautiful person in the world. Throughout 5th grade it did nothing but simply fan my heart lightly so that I was energetic and bright. A pure, innocent sort of love that later bloomed into a fantastic friendship. But I was aware of it. Of something. It was a secret I kept from everyone else, though I think the silence spun my gears too fast sometimes.
The next year, I was home-schooled. I had a lot of time to think and was very much left to my own devices academically, to include my own knowledge of health. I got a book out of the library geared to young girls and adolescents going through puberty. Of course, anything regarding "health" in school settings is uncomfortable and yucky, so I sat myself down and read through the whole thing in one sitting and was done with it. But I remember in a section there was a remark that attractions to the same sex were sometimes a phase that adolescents passed through and then out of healthily. And sometimes it wasn't a phase. I remembered this, I remember thinking to myself something along the lines of "well, then we'll just see what happens then." I must have already been thinking about this often enough for it to stick out as a land mark, and not the realization. The "realization" comes later, but in retrospect, I always just... was.
For the rest of middle school I went back to public school. The first year was an awkward painful blur of loneliness and desperation. I struggled to talk to people, but I walked tall so maybe they would be encouraged to talk to me. At the same time, I looked at my peers, as anyone else looked at their peers, for anyone who invoked anything more than friendship... or if they invoked friendship at all. It wasn't a calculated thing, it was simply a small drive. I was shocked sometimes, when a boy could make me smile a little silly, and pleasantly warmed when a girl did. My reactions confused me, but I let them go by carefully. By now, I knew I had a secret. But it actually hadn't quite occurred to me fully why it was a secret. Or even how to define it. I knew it would make people uncomfortable, but so does most soul bearing of any kind. My heart twittered left and right for everyone in the only way a little heart can twitter; like a clean white bird. Into the next year, I was more at ease in my new school and home, but I wanted something.
I entered high school with a new drive. I was finally comfortable with a group of friends. Yet, with the scars from loneliness still fresh on me, I determined that I would introduce myself to every new student I encountered so they did not feel intimidated. I could no long stand the awkwardness that was my entire seventh grade and decided that it was a complete injustice done to me. Here is a school, with people who have known each other for years and were all in their element, and no one could approach me and say hi? I was one against many. So I felt for the students who did not come from one of the satellite middle schools. I was determined be a friend. And personally, I wanted to find my friend. A best friend. A somebody.
Maybe it was this attitude that brought it upon myself, but I found one alright, sitting right across from me in first period. I don't know what it was, but when I looked at her, I made this little vow that came up out of no where; "I will stand by you no matter what others say unless you yourself prove me otherwise, and even then..." It just. Happened. And that year, we had a beautiful friendship. By late October, I could already see in myself that I was in love. But, ah! If I'm in love, then, how do I know that she feels the same? What if she doesn't? What would that do to us then? What if she does? What if she does? I would have stayed completely still for her. I would have gone to college, got married, bought a house, and raised a family with her. Those who know me know my racing thoughts and my wandersome ways. The thought of going nowhere depresses me greatly. But so long as I was with her, then I never even thought of being anywhere else. I had nowhere else I needed to be. All those love songs on the radio, regardless who sang and to whom, made sense and held more power to me. I envied poets' poignant words. She was, as the cliche goes, the first person I thought about in the morning and the last person I thought of as I went to bed at night. And if I was lucky, I got to dream about her. I let those powerful heady thoughts tumble through me as our relationship thickened. We were close, closer than we had ever been to anyone else, and we told each other so. Rarely did it occur to me the question of, "what if she freaks out because I'm a girl?" Yes. I'm a girl. I like wearing dresses and make-up sometimes, I keep my hair long, and I even paint my nails occasionally.
Of all the thoughts I had about love, the thought of I was a girl and she was a girl, social stigmas, prejudice, rejection by the rest of our peers, discrimination, sex, sexuality, and all those words that get thrown around make people uncomfortable, never occurred to me. Not until later anyway, when it turns out she didn't feel the same, and our communication was poor... that's a whole other story (or the majority of this blog, if you chose to go through it). When I had to let go of her, then the pain of my secret and fear of social stigma was greatest. I was truly feeling heartbreak, and I didn't feel safe confiding in anyone else for a very long time. I couldn't gush over my crush like girls do, I couldn't seek guidance in my confusion of what to tell her, I couldn't take comfort in my friends or family over being rejected, I couldn't get any advice. I had to heal completely on my own. I like to think that I did, but it was hard and it affected me socially, academically, and even physically draining me. And that, so far, has been my greatest injustice; that I should love like anyone else, and be terrified to tell anyone about it.
It is not fair.
It is not fair.
It is not fair.
It is not fair that I felt I had to be silent. That I feared rejection from my friends and family. Simply because I loved. Because I loved, I suffered. When I thought of her, she was simply.... an individual, whom I loved, in the only and the best way that I could love at the time. And truly my biggest concern was, I was in love with someone, did she love me back? Sometimes I feel like I'd be a little more balanced if we had given it a shot. Perhaps if she did feel the same way, we would have come out and taken on whatever was thrown our way together. We would have been happy. We would have fought. Hell, we may have even broken up later. But it wouldn't matter, because we would have had each other. But she didn't love me back like I did her. And that is fair, that is how life goes.
There is absolutely nothing strange about my story. We've all grown in awkward spurts and starts emotionally, never knowing what it is exactly we are feeling until it is too late, almost every other individual has felt the same sort of heart break and trepidation. When someone is in love, they don't channel their feelings as an act of rebellion or a lash at society. They feel them as the purest, happiest, warmest, confusing things they can think of. How can something like this be wrong? It is only natural that we would want to share these feelings and have them celebrated and appreciated like everyone else with institutions like marriage. Just because we don't love someone of the opposite sex doesn't mean we don't know what love is.
I know what the Bible says, I know the arguments... but... I've lived through this, and I have to believe:
How can love ever be wrong?
Thursday, 21 February 2013
I needed a day for myself to prevent my cold from getting worse. I have been making cups of hot fruity white tea with hibiscus, straightening laundry and papers, listening to music, and not speaking a word to anyone.
I am so happy :) It is a joy to be warm and dry and quiet.
Tuesday, 08 January 2013
I'm making it simple this year. Because every day I try to improve or not get worse, who doesn't? But I need to love more. At the last Speaking, I shared something positive about two other people in the room, to their faces. And I felt great afterwards and I could tell it actually really hit home on one of them. I think I consider myself either too proud, to realistic, or too... lazy, to bother with niceties. But you know what, the world could do with more niceties, and those were much more than niceties anyway. Being home I see how much responsibility my mom takes within the community here and she gets that way because not only can she get it done, but she's nice to people to their face. I'm nice to people in a secret way that if asked you will find me honest. I need to put myself out there more. Fall in love with more people through windows.
So this year, I'm going to love more.
Thursday, 03 January 2013
Because I've just been reading strangers' blogs and they seem very popular and cool, moving around New York City and Portland and things like that. Yeah.
I've decided to try and teach myself a little Japanese. At least be able to read hiragana, because that will make me feel better about learning new things and enriching my life to it's bubbly, clever, and odd fullness.
And I live in Japan. So. It helps.
On anime. Now, I don't know why I feel compelled to address this, but I do. I don't get it. I don't. I find the story lines can be very compelling, but the voice acting, and after awhile, the illustration really get to me. Why on earth is everything so exciting... And why is everyone white and look the same.... I'm not even raging. I just feel like being a stick in the mud.
Now of course, there is Miyazaki. Somehow it's milder than your usual anime. And the animation itself can be so detailed and beautiful. And of course, I grew up on it. Apparently the animated version of The Hobbit that I watched when I was little came out of the studio that was the predeccesor of Ghibli. And then there was Totoro. Then a childhood friend of mine introduced me to Kiki's Delivery Service, Spirited Away, then I was able to recognize the studio and such and pick out these movies. Maybe I'll watch one tonight...
My cat is awesome. My dog is an idiot. I had a good dog, and like people, you only get one truly good one. This current cat will be my truly good cat, then after that they belong to someone else.
I discovered Regina Spektor by enjoying the music to a JC Penny commercial. I looked up the lyrics and ended up liking the rest of her stuff. Her music, and things we discovered with "you might also like", helped to maintain a tremulous relationship that otherwise may have been much darker. It was something to have in common and make mutual friends with. But thanks to her experiments in different style, it also served as a personal balm against the world, whether in anger, joy, fear, or sadness.
The rest of my music and movies I got through my sister and friends. Outside of Regina and Miyazaki, nothing has been a product of my own discoveries and tastes. I'm jealous of my sister. Somehow she knows exactly what she wants, exactly whats good, and how to get it, like Marshall's headphones omnom. Albeit she still lives at home and therefore has to fight the 'rents, because she is an independent, adverse, and rule breaking teenager, as she should be. I think my parents think I don't rebel enough. It's true, I don't know how to fight, I've never had to hold my own in any sort of battle of wits or nerve against someone else. My sister knows how and she's going to be great because of it. I'm the nice, passive one. I hate being nice. But I don't want to hurt anybody.
I also have no style. It consists of "this is simple and comfortable and I look good in it, right?" and "business casual I look like a teacher."
How I get by being an "artist", I have no idea. I don't consider myself one.
The performing arts are different than the creative arts. What creative power is there in performing sonata? You didn't create it, you are interpreting it. The baby is not yours. This is not your choreography, you did not write this play. I have problems reconciling this to myself. I suppose that's why I write. Even though it's mostly crap.
I don't really write about my adventures. You know, the cool travel blogs that might make it into a magazine. I could do that. I could EASILY do that. But. I don't. I don't even take pictures. Don't own a camera. I wish I owned a camera, I think. When I do carry a camera, I feel self-conscious of being entirely too hipster or tourist like. I could embrace it, I should. But I don't have a camera. We went to Yokohama... Didn't I tell you all about Yokohama and the cup of noodles museum? I told somebody. it feels like bragging. I also feel silly going around and thinking to myself "oh, this should go on my blog!" Because, no one reads this. Not that I mind. I've had this blog for I guess 6 or 7 years now? Too long to have a blog. Why must I be so concerned with recording things? Why not live in the moment? I should start a hand written diary again. I have notebooks... but none here. I'll start when I get back, I have notebooks in the dorm.
But as I was saying, why not live in the moment? Those great thinkers we can think of, did not have a blog. They had ideas and they wrote them down for their own sakes. Who is going to find these things later? Who will dig through our cyber archaeology? That e-dump where our emptied recycle bins go, does that even exist?
Guess what I just did. Went to 9gag.com and memecenter.com. They are evil. Do not go there, they require time, yet no time to get to. I think it is an addiction. I'm trying to get better. I got rid of one of my gmail accounts. Because I used it to maybe occasionally chat with 2 people, and they're both on facebook now and have my email address. I know facebook is also evil, but at least that's one less profile I have on the internet. Not to mention I really only kept it to chat with someone who is never online, doesn't keep in touch often anyway, and I shouldn't contact them. I think. I'm pretty sure. I've been doing my own thing and it's going ok, we'll keep it that way.
China, Japan, Malaysia, Hong Kong, Philippines, Thailand, Guam... and the airport in Toronto is okay I guess, I disliked the security people there more than the States' TSA. I think it has to do with the cold. Need to touch on Northern Africa, Mediterranean, South Africa, Kenya, Australia, Middle East, Northern Europe, Central Europe, Eastern Europe... and Iceland... and Antartica to make it well rounded. I honestly don't know what I get from traveling, besides bragging rights. I guess I gain confidence, independence, courage, and a reality check...
My mom considers blogging a selfish thing. And it is. I'm just a blithering idiot talking here and not contributing much, along with other blathering idiots talking here and not contributing much but hoping for an audience anyway. She also doesn't believe in bisexuality, especially in an older person. I don't believe anyone is truly one or the other. Of course I'm never going to say this to her personally because I'm sure she'll just talk over me, but this is what I feel and am. Though I must admit the heterosexuality side feels more like something I just stumbled upon, ironically. The rest has been there since grade school. Sigh, I don't know if/when I should tell her. I figure if/when I get a girlfriend, of course...
What was I saying again? Oh yes. I feel very hipsterish sometimes without intending to be, and in that I take a certain pride in therefore being the quintessential hipster. But if I say it out loud, then I'm being very hipsterish indeed. All I'm trying to do is be happy and be me. And I'd like to be cool and influential and stuff, but, we'll see. I'm going to go brush my teeth, find my cat, and watch a Miyazaki movie. Maybe bother my boyfriend at the same time, see if he's up yet.
Life, in it's entirety, is really not all that bad. I just have trouble with commas.
Sunday, 30 December 2012
Here's a writing prompt I've just made up, with no real plan of attack.
But I'm going to compose a few lines of rhyme that go along with "cat"
Now you may say attack is only a half rhyme, and that I do acknowledge
But this is my blog and my poem and my exercise, and so you all can shove it.
Words that rhyme with cat
There's bat and rat and spat and that
And that and who and which and where
Oh I'm becoming rather unclear
There's something and all things and nothing in particular
There's the stuff and the sights and the common vernacular
There's science and magic and hippies and stiffs
Cauldrons, broomsticks, breath mints, and spliffs
There's all thoughts dismissed and nothing worth getting at
There's oranges and purples and things that rhyme with cat
This is just to say.
I have taken it all with a grain of a salt
And which you probably meant very well
But they were airy, poorly edited, and unsubstantial
And the real world is so deep.
Here I turn. Just to see where my brain allows me.
There's so much that people say in all the same way
That we've been saying for years and years
They've called me a seeker of truth, a finder of the kingdom of heaven. I feel it's time to seek truth elsewhere.
I love you, but the documentaries suck. Next time, I am stealing you away and we are going to do something. Like chase deer.
Saturday, 29 December 2012
Number 40 is the number of the writing experiment of the 82 writing experiments contrived by Bernadette Mayer. I'll go see what it is after I've talked a fill here.
First, I should probably sit down and write about love one day. But I don't want to right now, not here anyway. But the more I say, the more likely I'll do it at one point.
Made it to the end of the semester better than I expected. Back home in Japan now. Gave Ella a bath too close to bed time and now she's making the place steam of wet dog... which isn't a terrible smell, but a smelly smell nonetheless. I put down a towel on the bed for her to lay on and she deliberately kicked it aside. Yep.
I have a to-do list, or an idea list, of things to do when I'm bored over break instead of surfing around the same 5 sites on the internet... this isn't on the list... I consider it more of a do more often thing in general.
Write down four things each day that you are grateful for. A doable family, nothing horrible like people complain about. They are adventurous enough and comfortable and very kind to me... I don't know why I'm using this language, it's absurd.
The warm dog at my feet. Because she's warm.
A queen sized bed, which has room for the queen sized cat and dog that share the bed with me.
Washing machine. Because I would never wash clothing by hand if it could at all be helped and that would take so much time.
40. A shocking experiment: Rip pages out of books at random (I guess you could xerox them) and study them as if they were a collection of poetic/literary material. Use this method on your old high school or college notebooks, if possible, then create an epistemological work based on the randomly chosen notebook pages.
Hmm... what do I have on hand here... Got a cookbook. "Even More Top Secret Recipes: More Amazing Kitchen Clones of America's Favorite Name-Brand Foods." - Todd Wilbur (Wilhelehlehlehl-burrrrrrr) pg. 92
"Kellogg's Cocoa Rice Krispies Treats
It's the Rice Krispies Treat for all you chocolate lovers. By simply replacing regular Rice Krispies with Kellogg's Cocoas Rice Krispies, then adding a bit of cocoa to the recipe, we can clone the exact flavor of the product you otherwise have to buy in boxes in the grocery store. This recipe makes 16 of the crunchy brown bars, or the equivalent of two boxes of the real thing.
3 tablespoons of margarine 4 teaspoons cocoa
1/4 teaspoon of salt 6 cups Cocoa Krispies cereal
5 cups miniature marshmallows non-stick cooking spray
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1. Combine margarine and salt in a large saucepan over low heat.
2. When margarine has melted, add marshmallows and vanilla and stir until marshmallows have melted. Add cocoa and stir well. Remove from heat
3. Add Cocoa Krispies and stir until the cereal is well coated with the melted marshmallow mixture.
4. Spray a 9 x 13-inch baking dish with a light coating of non-stick cooking spray. Pour the mixture into the dish and, using wax paper or lightly greased hands, press down until it's flat in the dish. Cool. Slice into 16 bars.
-MAKES 16 BARS. "
I see the draw of using old notebooks instead. But I have none here... In any case.
It was obviously the author's intent to make the reader hungry. By introducing the piece with a familiar childhood snack and covering it with chocolate, the intent is mouth-watering. The appear of the childhood snack in itself evokes feeling of pleasant nostalgia, a time when things may have simply made sense. As the piece continues, the author deftly pulls apart the snack to it's very essentials and describes it's coming back together. This piecing and then re-piecing give the reader this poignant and mouthwatering insight to what it is that might make up his or her favorite food. The author reveals the complexities of the rice krispie, just as he may be revealing the complexities of life at the age. At the time someone enjoys their first rice krispie treat, the world may make sense, in it's delicious crunchy way, but even then, it takes the effort. The effort of margarine and marshmallow, melted down to be combined into something greater than they are, just as flexible and smooth as margarine, yet just as sticky and holding as marshmallow. The flavors of vanilla and chocolate themselves creating that balancing act that is apparent in all facets of life, heightened by the surprising and earthy seasoning that is salt and the every day. The rice krispies themselves being the very stuff of life; the people, the things, the ideas, the opportunities. Bound and flavored by the work and heat of life into one shape. Intense as this may be, the reader, by learning of the essence of the Chocolate Rice Krispie treat and the effort of combining these elements, perhaps is heartened by the possibility that they create this on their own, life and rice krispie treats and all.
One thing that seems a little strange and worth noticing is the author's apparent emphasis on the number 16. In this way, the quantity, not the quality, of the recipe. In Western culture, the age of 16 is seen as a right of passage, especially with young women. It is possible that the 16 bars corresponds with the 16 years of traditional childhood. Afterwards, the youth is expected to grow up and become a man. As easy and fun as it may be to relive childhood, the author is reminding us that childhood, and life itself, is quite limited. As there will always be the last rice krispie treat that must be eaten, there will be a last day for all of us... But that doesn't mean we should be so serious as to refrain from delicious chocolate rice krispie treats.
That. Was fun. And so much crap. I should write standardized testing... what does the wheelbarrow stand for, IT STANDS FOR A WHEELBARROW.
Tuesday, 27 November 2012
What is happiness?
First of, I've had fuck floating around in my head all the past hundred days and yet when I find myself in company it's difficult to complain. So, friends are good.
But in any case, it's still all there. And I need to try and draw it out while I have time here. Which means this is going to make absolutely no sense.
I read just the introduction to Nietzsche, yeah, just the introduction. But he goes into happiness. Happiness versus contentment. Is it better to be a sad wise man than a happy fool? What is happiness. In one case, happiness is quoted out in a formula, a calculated thing to be gained by good, honest, hard work. In another quote, happiness is a note from a bagpipe. The pursuit of happiness...
Happiness v. Content.
At a glance I'd the say the two are synonymous. But in this context, I suppose happiness is a wholesome goodness of the soul and a content is a settling for the wants of the body... I've been reading a lot of Socrates as well.
We are not born knowing what happiness. If we are, we have forgotten it. It's probably the first injustice, being born. In any case, we are. And we forget what happiness and need to rebuild it.
The pursuit of happiness, the pursuit of happiness. But no one tells what happiness is. Is happiness comfort? Is it knowing you are safe and loved? Or being of worth?
Who determines your worth? Yourself? Or is your worth measured by your usefulness to other people? Here is the start of my crisis.
I feel awkward and worthless at my job. We succeeded once. And we can succeed again. I taught a group of kids a song and they sang it in front of a small church of adults. What does that do for them? They either found it boring or difficult and confusing. There is all the good stuffs surrounding music. All the studies, and the joy, and the focus building and nonsense. Maybe I believe, but for now I am going to scoff at it. I have no presence in a classroom or as a visual leader. I am a soft friend, a side line component, an excellent second command.
What's more, I lack talent. I'm getting burnt out with piano. I flounder. I've always floundered. I have never played as well as I wanted and I lack something to get me there. It's frustrating. The sight of music and pianos draws me down. It used to be I wanted to play and show off whenever I saw one. Now I shy away from it. It's not like I have anything prepared anyway. What's the point of being ok when you need to be brilliant? That's how this world works. Not only that, but I grow weary of this music stuff. It could be because I haven't had been practicing and am obviously being looked at by the professor .... I mean this could all be arising because I've just been tired and not practicing...
Someone said the other day I would make a good vet. I wanted to be a vet when I was younger. I didn't seriously go after it though because this freaky strange ethical part of me says its silly to spend so much energy on animals than on humans. So I'm a music major...
No. This is why being a vet is totally plausible. And why I am suited for it. Tonight I will be making a case as to why I should switch majors.
First of all, I know better than some, if not most people, that animals are not people. If animals are killed in accidents, or intentionally, humanely or out of malicious intent, they do not, and will not, receive the same justice. That is our hierarchy, that is the cruel truth, and that is how it fucking works.
With that being said, animals are better than people. Because they do not concern themselves with justice. They are the noblest of gods creatures because they serve and live unquestioningly.
Second, I know as well as any that your dog is your best friend and brother. Because they do not judge you. Nor do they hold grudges. They trust you completely unless you do something intentionally to lose that trust. And for that reason they are worthy of our help.
Third, they are adorable, and furry, and honest.
Fourth, I am good with animals. I am quiet, patient, yet strong. Not squeamish... I think? Not adverse to scratching in any case. I am interested in how things move and work. I am a secret tinkerer with making things beautiful or fixing them. Or legos. And knex... and Ikea... I'm good at Ikea furniture... I miss science.
Another reason why I dipped on the idea of vet school was because I never seemed to get good at science after middle school. My brain refused to do the math... and I was still enamored with astronomy. But I should have done biology. My big dreamy part of my brain wanted to deal with the heavens and the things we didn't yet know, and art, and poetry and science.
But I think my heart would be happier, and my brain better challenged, fixing animals. I'd like to think I'd work hard and be dedicated and really know my shit to be good at this stuff... but my brain and personality are super adeledly.
like now. its 2 am... Im leaving... more work to do tomorrow... I do feel better. Haven't even touched on matters of love...
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