Okay, now that I have that abstract crap out of the way, I can begin washing the plates in clear water. PSYCH. My mind is going to jump around all over this post, okay? A warning to either stop reading now and take cover or continue on at your own peril.
I am tired in general, but I am specifically tired of people worrying about me. Ohhhh, that sounds bad. Let me rephrase and explain it. I am humbled by and grateful for the concern others have shown towards me recently. I believe I needed to know that others were concerned in order for me to seek treatment. It showed me that something was wrong, that people cared, and that maybe I deserved to get better. BUT NOW, and mostly due to me talking about it all of the time, I feel defined by my eating disorder. I feel like I am treated like fragile china around certain folks and it makes me very uncomfortable. Then again, I am probably just assuming everything. Maybe people aren't being purposely delicate with me. Maybe people actually think I'm fucking strong. I hope so. I hope I see myself as strong -- if not now, soon. Because I am.
Okay, now that I have that ED crap out of the way, I can begin drying the plates with a clean towel. PSYCH. I only use bowls.
So what do you jokers wanna talk about? I know! Let's talk about me! This is my blog.
I typed "bog" twice before successfully typing "blog." This monstrously large error led me to the Wikipedia page for "bog." It was a fairy interesting read in a boring scientific way. I wish I had grown up to be a scientist. I sincerely do. If there has ever been anything I have ever been sincere about, it is this. I wish I wouldn't have let OUR DAMN SOCIETY tell me that girls don't like science. Girls don't like math. Girls don't like sports! Girls don't like girls! Girls don't like blue or race cars or palindromes or bogs or dogs with blogs! Girls should be fresh sticks of gum, unchewed by the jaws of man. Well, guess what? You can't unchew what's already been chewed. And you certainly can't spell bog backwards and expect to get race car. It just doesn't work that way.
Scientist Meg. In a lab coat making potions. Well, I'll trade in the white coat for the black cape and voila -- I can still be a scientist, but people will call me a crone.
I feel like my brain is on loan from a private collector. Or maybe a private eye. Maybe my brain is wearing a trench coat and spying on me from behind a potted plant. It's the only explanation for something I never needed to be explained. To be or not to be. That is not a question because I ended it with a period. A period of time is frozen in my head. I think it's the Ice Age.
Time for some pictures. My favorite part. (To sum up this post for all who skimmed it: My mind does the dishes while my brain sweeps the floor. A deposit of dead plant material reignited my interest in becoming a scientist. Girls! Who needs 'em?! Race cars seem highly dangerous. Chew your gum before you spit it out. Oh gross, I just stepped in your gum. Thanks a lot. Also, I am totally not spying on you from behind this fiddle-leaf fig.)
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