On my walk this morning I was reminded of the following:
*How I used to write fiction.
I wrote a short story a few months ago, pretty much out of nowhere, and I was damn proud of it at the time. Laura has read it -- I'm not sure anyone else would be interested in it. It's wacky and could possibly get me checked into some kind of institution. Anyway, it was incredibly fun to write and I wonder wonder wonder why I don't write fiction more often. What is stopping me?
*How much I get grossed out by public displays of affection.
*How frustrating it is when people practically push me off the sidewalk while I'm walking. I am a ghost to everyone in Utah County!
*How funny it is that I get so frustrated at impolite people who practically push me off the sidewalk while I'm walking around like a ghost in Utah County.
*How much I miss painting.
Sure, I regrettably stopped taking art classes after a junior high teacher gave me a bad grade on a shading assignment, but I can still enjoy the act of painting being the NOVICE that I am. I enjoy painting, but I actually don't do much of it anymore. What is stopping me? Blessed be the day when I can create absurdist fiction and paint abstract whatever without any road blocks. But if there are blocks, let me write all over them and spray paint the sides neon green.
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