Birds are pretty cool, but in the springtime they are always instigating fights with clean windows and mirrors. If I think about it too much, I might start losing respect for the cardinal that keeps hurling himself into my boss’s car, asking that punk rearview mirror, “You think you’re better than me? You think you’re a hotshot because you got into the MFA program and I didn’t? Oh, so you’re going to cry now, you whiny baby?”
My weekend was a country song
I have bookmarked a hundred things that I want to blog about, but all the links are on my home computer and I’m currently at work. And I refuse to write about what I did over the weekend, because that’s no one’s business. Even though what I did was REALLY cool. I could win the gold medal in the Drivin’ & Cryin’ event at the Olympics. I can simultaneously cry, steer, change gears, make note of the speed limit, and find the most tearjerking song on the radio. But I’ve been training ever since I got my license. I keep tissues in the glove compartment. Maybe I just own the world’s saddest Honda.