I find myself writing as a twenty-seven year old, stomping my feet to a Counting Crows' cover of Pure Prairie League's "Amie," reflecting on the hundreds of blue words I just had directed in my general direction, cold from below freezing temperatures and warmed from a rugged Carhartt. Life, it seems, is treating me better than I deserve.
Heading off to HazMat training for the next few days. Gonna be holed up in a ultra fancy, sleek, swanky, modern hotel, learning about hazardous waste and how to correctly (i.e. safely) manage it. Ever a student, I really enjoy going to classes and workshops and things.
Well, there's Matchbox Twenty on shuffle. They were a favorite back in high school, and I suppose I still can dig it.
Settling into the new house (still unnamed). Furnace has finally been replaced. Only out four grand from the start. Quite disappointing to not have followed the inspector's suggestion at getting the furnace further examined. Nevertheless, I learn.
On a creative writing note, I've done hardly a thing. A few ideas scribbled in haste, but nothing more than that. I've had a fundamental shift of focus on writing and it's kind of restrictive.
And well, it's my birthday, so really I guess that's about it. Journaling's prominent flames are now reduced to embers. Poor, neglected Rememorandom. Looks like I may shift the blog to a more focused thing, too, using it only as a collection for reviews and little more. Makes sense, honestly. Makes me a bit sad, too. We'll see.