degree

I made the mistake of looking through my Instagram photos right before sitting down to write. It was a mistake because looking at old photos makes me kinda melancholy and leaves me momentarily trapped in the past. In other words, I am not fully present. But when am I ever fully present? I'll tell you when. When I am eating a peach. Peaches consume me, I do not consume peaches.

The fog of nostalgia is starting to lift a bit. Oh, did I say the fog of nostalgia? I clearly meant the fog and pearls of nostalgia. Name dropping my blog! The blog which you are reading right now! Awwww yeah! Hell yeah! Frick yeah! (My mom reads this blog, so I gots to keep it mostly PG-13. Gots? Gots. Gawts. Gahts. Ever remind yourself that language is a social construct and also a DEADLY WEAPON? I do. I do every minute of every day, even on the days when the fog and pearls are so thick I can't breath and pass out for an indeterminable amount of time.)

Should I get my college diploma professionally framed?

One thing I think when I look back on old pictures is daaaamn girl you were a babe. I was such a babe! And I gave my dumb dumb babe self such a rough time. I should have taken advantage of my youth and Baberaham Lincoln looks and married a billionaire with a dumb dumb yacht and a totally unnecessary private jet except it would be totally unnecessary because we'd use it to fly to Russia in the middle of the night to solve crimes and/or spy for the government. Wasted youth, wasted beauty, missed opportunities.

I don't want to get my college diploma professionally framed. I'm not even really sure where it is. I do, however, still want a graduation dinner at a fancy restaurant, dammit. Dam it. Dam this whole river! Our city needs electricity! (I don't know how we get electricity or where it comes from. It sometimes comes from dams, right? Don't correct me if I'm wrong. Allow me to live in the fog and pearls of my own delusions.)

Okay. OKAY. Okay, focus. I want to write nice things again. "Nice" meaning purposeful, linear, coherent. But I don't know where to start. I never know where to start. I can't come up with that one particular subject which will hold my attention for an extended period of time. I dunno. Sometimes I think I just don't care too much anymore about writing "seriously." Sometimes I think I just want to care about plants and rocks and lizards and moss and the direction of the wind and the way the day cracks open like an egg, spilling its yolk over the still mountain peaks.