Oh my goodness, summer is the paradox of my LIFE. I love the break, but I feel like the most useless member of society right now. I'm not working (but I'm spending a little. There ya go, economy!), although I did look for a part-time job for a little while there.
I did get some summer hours approved, which is great because there's a lot of things that I can do to prepare for September. I sat with one of my books open writing out what the mid-chapters covered. I'm still really concerned about my combined class. It' going to continue to be a challenging class with clearly different levels.
I will do a lot of reading this summer, and hopefully a lot of exercising. I'll read a book for French 3/4 (I have about 20 books to read), and then go do something physical. I have my eye on the state park. Mom and I are going to Wisconsin next month (to Baraboo - I'm pretty stoked about it), and I'll take a little excursion to Devil's Lake. Maybe Brandi will be able to drive up for one of those days and go with me.
Oh, and I've been cooking more than usual. Pros: Realizing that my stove/over do indeed still function, saving a little money. Cons: DISHES. I really wish I had a dishwasher, Sometimes, I don't make such amazing food.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
The June Bug - Entry 1
Identity

Pretty lady-
How did you get into this debacle?
Did you wake up thirsty?
Were you in need of a song?
I imagine you
in a stupor.
staring blankly
at the slew of slung clothing,
you sitting in shame on your sleeper sofa.
Are you a smoker?
Do you leave that lipstick smudged on your Virginia Slims?
After your show,
you sit at the bar,
blow billowing smoke
from another cig,
whose flaccid ash
dares anyone
to come near its mother.
I sing. I survive.
Pretty lady-
How did you get into this debacle?
Did you wake up thirsty?
Were you in need of a song?
I imagine you
in a stupor.
staring blankly
at the slew of slung clothing,
you sitting in shame on your sleeper sofa.
Are you a smoker?
Do you leave that lipstick smudged on your Virginia Slims?
After your show,
you sit at the bar,
blow billowing smoke
from another cig,
whose flaccid ash
dares anyone
to come near its mother.
I sing. I survive.
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