I was dreaming when I wrote this so sue me if I go too fast.
So...it's been a while since I last updated. I'm not even sure how long it's been. But it's been a while.
I'm home for the summer and it's killer. I hate, hate, hate being home. On one hand, it's relaxing. I actually have time to read and watch tv and spend time with my family and people I haven't seen in a while. So that's nice. But it's also boring. When I go to bed at night, I've no idea what I'm doing the next day. I'm not used to that. I usually plan the upcoming day in my head before I go to sleep. I like schedules and plans. I like structure. I'm working a shit-ass, dead-end job even though my resume is pretty impressive. I've been spending a great deal of time with Stacey, an old friend which some of you know. I didn't realize how much I missed her. And Malachi, her baby (well, he just turned three yesterday), is so precious. It's refreshing to spend time with a child -- especially a toddler. They're so easily amused and so simple that it makes you laugh at your worries and frets. They have such a simplistic approach to life, and I love it. I just can't express how refreshing it is.
I made a cake tonight. I haven't baked a cake since my senior year of high school when I did my AP English project. My biggest flaw with baking is that I'm so impatient. I don't want to wait for it to cool off. I want to frost it and have it done with. So I baked a bundt cake and didn't let it cool off and it crumbled. There now sits a half-crumbled yellow bundt cake (the pieces all holding together with smears of chocolate frosting) on my counter. My uncle says, "You'd better either marry a chef or a rich man who can afford a chef." Well, I'm not overly concerned.
My brother came to visit last week. He's doing pretty well. He's living in Hell's Kitchen in Manhatten now (he was staying in Harlem). My grandmother just recently had surgery and spent a couple of days in the hospital. I went to visit and remembered why I hated hospitals. It smells of death. And it reminds me of my own mortality. And I don't like that because I'm pretty sure I'm not going to Heaven. In fact, I'm probably not even guaranteed a spot in Purgatory -- but that's another subject I don't feel like delving into.
I'm home for the summer and it's killer. I hate, hate, hate being home. On one hand, it's relaxing. I actually have time to read and watch tv and spend time with my family and people I haven't seen in a while. So that's nice. But it's also boring. When I go to bed at night, I've no idea what I'm doing the next day. I'm not used to that. I usually plan the upcoming day in my head before I go to sleep. I like schedules and plans. I like structure. I'm working a shit-ass, dead-end job even though my resume is pretty impressive. I've been spending a great deal of time with Stacey, an old friend which some of you know. I didn't realize how much I missed her. And Malachi, her baby (well, he just turned three yesterday), is so precious. It's refreshing to spend time with a child -- especially a toddler. They're so easily amused and so simple that it makes you laugh at your worries and frets. They have such a simplistic approach to life, and I love it. I just can't express how refreshing it is.
I made a cake tonight. I haven't baked a cake since my senior year of high school when I did my AP English project. My biggest flaw with baking is that I'm so impatient. I don't want to wait for it to cool off. I want to frost it and have it done with. So I baked a bundt cake and didn't let it cool off and it crumbled. There now sits a half-crumbled yellow bundt cake (the pieces all holding together with smears of chocolate frosting) on my counter. My uncle says, "You'd better either marry a chef or a rich man who can afford a chef." Well, I'm not overly concerned.
My brother came to visit last week. He's doing pretty well. He's living in Hell's Kitchen in Manhatten now (he was staying in Harlem). My grandmother just recently had surgery and spent a couple of days in the hospital. I went to visit and remembered why I hated hospitals. It smells of death. And it reminds me of my own mortality. And I don't like that because I'm pretty sure I'm not going to Heaven. In fact, I'm probably not even guaranteed a spot in Purgatory -- but that's another subject I don't feel like delving into.