growing on me

I drove to my new school Sunday. It's twenty minutes from my house, fifteen miles. Dead simple to get there, too: just get on 316, turn right on the Oconee Connector, then go through two lights and it's on the right. Can't miss it.

I'm confident about my upcoming driving test. I can get almost anywhere now, and safely to boot. I obey all traffic laws, don't have a lead foot, and can park reliably and accurately. I just need to learn how to parallel park and I'm in business.

My job still sucks, but I'm determined to stick it out for another couple of weeks. Maybe I can find a car between now and then, so I know exactly how long I have to work to be able to afford it. I'm not working a minute more than I have to. The monotony is too much, and my carpal tunnel is getting worse entirely too fast for my tastes.

I need to start writing again and sending material out to magazines so I can get published. I need a muse, though, and it's hard to be frustratedly in lust without daily physical interaction with the target of your affection.

You know, I used to think that the whole "muse" thing for artists and writers was bullshit. Then I lost my muse, and realized it wasn't. You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. Seems there's a reason I can't write during the summer besides general procrastination. This site is the only writing I really do, and it's far too inconsistent to count for all that much.

I spent the afternoon (after I did my work for the day) looking for "A Horse of a Different Color" for my cousin, who is on leave from Iraq for two weeks.

It's hard to see someone you love, respect, and admire come back from a turning point in their life a completely changed person. But it happens, and I understand why. He's been on certain missions that can't really be spoken about in open channels, and he's seen things and done things he's not altogether proud of.

On the plus side, he got his ass handed to him in a jiu-jitsu/MMA/NHB match by Royce Gracie, and how many people can say that? (The Gracie family has a training relationship with the Army, and Special Forces does extensive martial arts work.)

I've been watching a lot of old cartoons lately. Heathcliff and Marmaduke, Muttley and Dick Dastardly,the Snorks, Wally Gator, Magilla Gorilla and the like. It's frightening to think how many jokes and gags I subconsciously steal from all these old cartoons. And it's more frightening to think of how much television I actually watched as a kid. An average of eight hours a day for eighteen years = 8*365*18= 52560 hours of television, roughly.

And no, I'm not exaggerating about the eight hours a day part. I was (and still am) an information sponge. Think of all the time I've wasted on the internet in addition to that, plus all the books I've read, and it's downright scary.

There, I think I scratched my writing itch for a day or two. Adios, and remember: "Homestarrunner.net: It's dot com!"