Writing makes me feel creative. I don't paint, draw/take pictures or sculpt. At least writing I can express myself without needing to be talented. The past 10 months were a learning experience. I experienced living with strangers in Philly without cable TV, learned a little bit about some new species, and allowed a few cats to taste my fingers. Overall, it was interesting, but not satisfying.
Secret about myself: If you're ever talking to me and I am biting my lips or cheeks, I don't hear a word you say. It's not that I do it on purpose, I just usually have something else on my mind. My hair is turning gray and my doctor told me I have high blood pressure. He asked about my diet and I explained to him how I really only eat lean cuisines, 2 or 3 at each meal... but c'mon there's like nothing in there. There's also the the possibility that I have anxiety, but nothing the buccal mucosa on the insides of my cheeks can't take care of. Better high strung than strung out. Right?
I just finished The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz and I really liked it, very nostalgic considering part of the story is set in New Brunswick at Rutgers. When I read I am often more concerned about finishing the book then actually thinking about what I am reading and what the message is. I don't really know why this is. I enjoy reading but once started I just want to move as fast as I can to finish it rather than appreciate it and all the subtle ironies that have made it a great book. Then when the book's finished, everything I just rushed through is now gone and I'm stuck bored again, now forced to do physics homework and pay my bills online... or I could start another book. Same is life.
