Oh, Sweet Summer

So it turns out that most techno songs are no longer free for me to listen to. Techno is eternally bound to the summer I turned 16.

There I was, just sitting there, philosophizing and the radio pulsing with music, when a techno song came on. And all at once, as if I were a child standing underneath a mushroom at a water park, it hit me.

I had bought two techno CDs that spring, and they really were the soundtrack of my summer. I listened to them, and nothing else. Dance remixes, DJ remixes, whatever what was on those CDs. I adored them. I couldn't get enough.
And so it really shouldn't come as a surprise, then, that I've created a mental link from that genre to that summer.
It was the summer I got my first love letter.
It was the summer I fancied myself in love.
It was the summer I learned I could write.
It was the summer I learned how to take a picture.
It was the summer I was independent.
It was the summer I felt like I belonged somewhere.
It's not a bad memory, that summer. Nostalgic and semi-bittersweet when I think of the goodbyes and the hellos that vanished as time washed over the months.

Here is to the summer.

And I'm taking back my toast to the radio. Because it made me realize that techno is dead to me, as all summers must die.

Just point me in the direction of the BINGO tournament.

The other day while I was in the bathroom of the suite, I got to thinking about where I will be living next year.
This in turn led to a shiver running down my spine, at what kind of horrors are going on in that apartment now, it being occupied by male swimmers.

I had a day-mare(?), imagining walking down the hallway with a black light, and the walls lighting up like a Christmas tree, in March, on fire.

At that exact moment, another, terrifying thought struck me. The other type of enclosed living environment. Not housing for seniors, but senior housing.


Think about it. A nursing home is the college dorm of the golden ages.

• An all you can eat buffet style cafeteria, complete with little cups of jello.
• You're stuck with a roommate with whom you may or may not get along with.
• You are completely free to wander the halls, if you are on the right floor, of course.
• If you become lost, you can ask anyone to help direct you to where you are going.
• There are visiting hours.
• To be quite honest, you can have sex with whomever you want, and they won't remember it the next morning.

I'm now terrified at stepping foot in a senior housing facility, much less carrying a black light.

waffles + batter = you're playing baseball all wrong

I've discovered that Potato Bread has a tragic flaw.

When I was buying two loaves last Sunday (not this past Sunday, but the Sunday before that), I was frantically clutching them to my breast while I ran up and down the aisles looking for food-stuffs I would need. Seeing as how I don't have a way to get myself to a grocery store, whenever I find myself at one I am sure to stock up.

As I was checking out, I noticed that in my desperation I had held them a tad too tightly, not unlike a child clinging to the lifeguard as he is learning how to swim. As a result, smack in the middle of both loaves were huge arm-shaped indents.

Oh, that should not be a problem! Right? I'll just kind of stretch it out when the time comes, or use it for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Well, I have gone through the first loaf. Mostly. There are four slices left in the first bag - the end caps, and two squished-beyond-recognition slices with holes in them from me trying to un-squish them.

I'm dreading the middle of the next loaf. I had no idea that potato bread was so sensitive! I don't have a toaster, or I would make toast. I can't use it for grilled cheese, because I don't have a stove - I would have to put it in the grill. This bread is useless to me. Maybe I'll just make peanut butter without the jelly. and force myself to take them for lunch to work.

It will be a sad little sandwich, but I'll cherish my thriftiness as I try to stretch the $70 I have left for food out for another month.

And if I do have to make more grilled cheese, I hope that I don't forget to take out the waffle plates first. As cute as it was, eating a cheese sandwich shaped as a waffle, I thought the bread was too compact. Not fluffy enough to my liking.

....Scratch that. A waffle-cheese sandwich is the second best type of sandwich there is.

It is second only to a peanut butter sandwich cut into the shape of a dinosaur.

I guess we all need a meteor every once and a while.

I totally forgot that I had this blog.

It is about the same as starting a new one, since the last time I blogged was seven months ago and as I'm restarting, I've deleted those posts.

My previous attempt at blogging was mostly an effort of trying to make myself feel more artsy and creative than I actually felt. Seeing as it was forced, and re-reading them I realized that I sounded like a self-centered-basket-of-day-old-trout, I thought it was best to start all over.

I prefer not to sound like that. I regret ever thinking that sounding like trout was a good idea, actually.

Heaven knows I would have hated reading that in the archives. I used the word 'telly' for crying out loud. I'm glad that I found it before anyone else did. It gave me the chance to destroy it.

Thank goodness for small favors.