today is today and is never going to happen again.

listen:

i'm still struggling with the glaring reality that i have nothing interesting to contribute to the internet world of blogging. that, and i haven't written anything of note for months so i'm frighteningly (more) self-conscious about every keystroke combination. i am ashamed.

so let's start off random i suppose:

- i recently purchased the most expensive bottle of lotion in my spending history. which, really, is not that much. like $7. i know. gasp. but i swear it works: curel ultimate healing in the blue bottle.

- scentsy is awesome. i scoffed at its promise to deliver "scent-sational" smells in 6" tall pots. as i inhale the delicate yet refreshing scent of pima cotton from my raised-dot daisy warmer, i point and laugh at my inner skeptic.

- my betta toby is not a killer fish like i originally thought. carl the black mystery snail is just a lazy slug that hibernates for weeks (upside down) at the bottom of the tank. i'm both relieved and somewhat disappointed that murder in my apartment will just have to occur at some other point in time.

- my mother informed me last week that she was very upset and disappointed that i recently donated all my size 00 and 0 jeans and xxs/xs(/and yes some small...) shirts to the goodwill. her comment was as follows: "all you have to do is lose some weight. what, 20 pounds?"

- november 21 marks my one year anniversary in my lovely apartment. if i could, i would give it a hug.

- i used to think i dated needy boys that just needed attention, needed praise, needed affection, needed time, needed all that mushy stuff, etc. while there may be some truth to that, i've painfully analyzed my unwillingness to supply such needs and have concluded that my heart is about thisbig. solution: feel more. it's hard. really hard. but i have to do it before i end up self-confined in a safely sealed room-- alone.

let's hope my attitude reflects a little less of this:




and more of this:

leave out all the rest

dramatic statement: my life fell apart in december 2008.

philosophical statement: whatever "normal" used to be cannot be again.

reflective statement: i half-heartedly attempted to find "normality" because i was scared of yet more disappointment when i settled into a "normal" life.

depressing statement: 2009 is the worst year of my life, hands down.

enlightening statement: i'm currently content and feel absolutely no desire to sabotage all that's good around me.

i realize this blog is very self-centered. i'm not sure why my life is important enough to deserve internet space, but i've decided to accept this small limelight and promote why i think this world is a good place to invest in (see my earlier hemingway post for that literary allusion).

in many ways, my life has just been one big circle: i've returned to the medical field as a pharmacy tech, i've returned to a boy only to be (un)comfortably taken with his late night hottub conversations and beautiful lips, and i've returned to enjoying the little highlights of my day.

sure, i wish i was still friends with so-and-so. sure, i wish my moody days of self-inflicted apartment quarantine didn't result in mass consumptions of pasta and ice cream. but you know what. i like that i "held out" for a job i enjoy, that my boyfriend spent over 2 hours giving me beta fish advice at 3 different pet stores before finally purchasing lovely little toby with me, and that i feel monetarily stable enough to run my AC this summer.

don't worry, i still listen to britney spears. there are some things that just aren't worth the change.

i ♥ _____.

currently:

free movies and books from the library, including a "pearls before swine" treasury. stephan pastis, marry me.




Qdoba.




listening to blink 182. watching videos on youtube. wishing they'd play in boise on their reunion tour.


(i know it's not an official video, but i sort of like the nauseated feeling i get from watching these words dash across the screen.)
taking emo self-portraits with my new side bangs and tan-in-progress.


gregory house, m.d.



a few other things i don't have awesome graphics for:

• boise weather. hello, sunshine.
• new folding chairs for my balcony. hello, mosquito bites.
• my new twitter account: http://www.twitter.com/andreamj9. hello, addiction.
• BSU's semester end. my friends can come out to play. goodbye, boredom.

it's like watching someone run over your dog:

i wake up with words in my mouth. not literally, of course. each morning, there's a phrase waiting to be spoken-- and it's usually a line or two from a song. i used to diligently keep track of these lyrics in my journal to decode their significance and see what my subconscious was trying to tell me and/or what it sorted out as i slumbered.

i've been (un)surprisingly emotionless despite a rather traumatic break up. i tried to write about it. nothing. so i decided to read what little i've written over the last few months and-- lo and behold-- i started reading into the snippets of song lyrics i recorded since january.

and now you can share in this discovery:

january 11
"call me a safe bet, i'm betting i'm not"
-brand new, "the boy who blocked his own shot"

january 17
"this cannot wait, i'm yours"
-jason mraz, "i'm yours"

february 2
"i don't know why, i can't take my eyes off of you"
-lifehouse, "you & me"

february 6
"someone call the doctor, got a case of love bipolar"
-katy perry, "hot n cold"

march 3
"by the way i tried to say i'd be there waiting for you"
-red hot chili peppers, "by the way"

march 15
"i'll be fine if i don't look around me now too much for what's gone"
-the submarines, "brighter discontent"

march 23
"this love is difficult but it's real"
-taylor swift, "love story"

april 1
"i'm lying on the table with everything you said, keep it mind"
-taking back sunday, "this photograph is proof"

april 12
"i had that dream about you again where i wait outside until you let me in"
-blink 182, "roller coaster"

and now all i hear is a heartbeat when i wake up. maybe it's my subconscious trying to comfort me-- "you're not alone"-- or taunt me with the realization that i have nothing left but my pulse to remind me that i'm alive.

"unfortunately perfect"

i picked up a thin book called "something i expected to be different" by joshua beckman (verse press) at the boise public library book sale last weekend. i recognized beckman's name from a poetry class years ago and figured 50 cents on a most-likely-decent read wasn't a bad deal.

something happens to me when i open a book and find myself on the page. it's like all breathing stops, all senses fade, and it's just me and the text and this incredible ache in my chest that throbs: "i could have written this." this is exactly what happened when i read the last poem in the collection, "block island," which begins with the speaker in a too-small bathtub reflecting on his sulking around his lonely apartment after a life-wrecking break up, writing little, and drinking lots of tea. the narrative follows the speaker's thought process about his mental state ("me/always repeating what you say/ and what everyone says/ because I am distracted just not listening/ distracted distracted"), emotional state ("I have a lot of directional-going within me"), unrequited love ("Your presence/ somewhere else is the sad warm thing/ blowing around my room"), and other peoples' advice to move on ("Do I know what it feels like, of course I know").

i don't know copyright rules, but i'm pretty sure it's illegal to transcribe the entire poem here on blogger, so i'll share some snippets of magnificence.


"Dull heart,
you are out of breath.
One day you are hoarse
one day you promise to do everything
silently, and are hoarse again."


"Love, you are dull
you are simple
unacceptable incomplete
you rush places
sway crowds
act mean
and low
and honest
every chance you get.
Come, take me away from this.
I have romance for you.
I have passion for you.
I have the shrill sounds
of a bird* caught in your hallway."

*The poem references a bird in the hallway a few times. In the middle of the poem, Beckman writes, "Did a bird/ get loose/ in your house/ like the high key of a piano/ ting tinging a song/ off your walls and windows?/ Welcome to the electric mind/ of I am and want to be/ twenty all day long." I think the bird is a symbol for the mind trying to free itself from grief. Plus, Block Island-- the title of the poem--looks like a bird, doesn't it? This is when I need a book group...


"Soon she will
be attracted to everyone"


"there is always a third person with us"

(what does it mean to leave someone behind?)


" You need my love
and I give you a poem, you need my understanding
and I give you the criticism
of love's temperature always changing
and never returning
though some people will tell you
that everything returns
acting this way
is people's way being
distracted me
the sour look of her
no longer in love face
not infatuated, worse I say
is that you just keep longing for her
stop longing for her"


"When I am out in the world and the air does its little displacement
with my body, I think of you moving with the horizon
in and out of view."


" I wanted no more
than the little I wanted."


i thought having a boyfriend meant i wouldn't have to feel heartache anymore. when i see my exact feelings encapsulated in small black type on a white rectangular page published in 2001 by poet i've never met, i am seized with the realization that we all experience moments of sadness, of inability to move on, of throat-clenching frustration. here is to acknowledging heartache,

and here is my goodbye.

dear thinkers of the year 2009:

*thanks to patrick for this link on facebook.

dose of hemingway

i'm jealous of the students who are taking the hemingway seminar at bsu this semester. to ease my jealousy, i decided to read "the sun also rises" solo.

sometimes i think there's something somewhat like divinity that directs me to works of literature that vibrate to that iron string in my chest at the perfect time. instead of musing and reflecting endlessly like i normally do in these blog posts, i'll simply transcribe the passage from hemingway's novel with scant background information for context.

the protagonist jake had been and still is in love with the beautiful brett ashley. she dated and lived with his friend robert cohn and is currently attached to michael at this point in the novel. jake hears brett and michael laughing (who are in bed in the room next to jake), and he can't sleep. jake realizes that he's been given a metaphorical "bill" for his relationship with brett and realizes he's been the one taking (acting on expectations, &c.).

"I thought I had paid for everything. Not like the woman pays and pays and pays. No idea of retribution or punishment. Just exchange of values. You gave up something and got something else. Or you worked for something. You paid some way for everything that was any good. I paid my way into things that I liked, so that I had a good time. Either you paid by learning about them, or by experience, or by taking chances, or by money. Enjoying living was learning to get your money's worth and knowing when you had it. You could get your money's worth. The world was a good place to buy in. It seemed like a fine philosophy. In five years, I thought, it will seem just as silly as all the other fine philosophies I've had."

word.

find some conversation

the oddest things set me off these days: "say yes to the dress" premiere, my pink chair (that i was trying to cover with a black sheet even though the chair is perfect fine pink), and my boyfriend's silly quest to figure out a nickname for me even though i rather despise nicknames. truly, my long unemployed days give me too much time to ponder and reflect my existence (and books like "play it as it lays" by joan didion surely don't encourage anything else). i'd like to dedicate this blog post to the exploration of nicknames: what they are and possibly their effect on our self-perception.

according to wikipedia, a nickname is "a descriptive name given in place of or in addition to the official name of a person, place, or thing." nicknames can be broken down into a few different categories such as: shortened names, titles or pseudonyms, and hypocoristic names (like terms of endearment or diminutives).

my parents ascribed me a nickname early in my childhood: andi. this shortened name-- or contraction-- served as an alternate to my full name; i think of it as a cuter version of "andrea." it's also harder to mispronounce. "andi" lasted a few years, but my paternal grandmother used to taunt me with a line from a childhood nursery rhyme: "andy pandy pudding pie kissed the boys and made them cry." when i was 4 or 5, kissing boys seemed like a vile activity that i did not want any part of. i boycotted "andi." in high school, a few friends tried out "drea" as a contraction, but that didn't stick either. "drea." the end. some remnants. a left over.

titles are rather short on my nickname list. past students called me several combinations of: miss johnson, mrs. johnson, ms. johnson, professor johnson, YOU. one family i babysit for calls me "miss andrea," which the mother insisted on because it creates a "clear boundary of authority." the pseudonym list is much longer:

• roadrunner: in 5th grade, my friends and i decided to form the "WB gang" or "warner bros gang" and title ourselves after WB cartoon characters. i was roadrunner. there was tweety, sylvester, and others. perhaps i resembled a roadrunner: i was a fast runner in my black suede hi-tops (i was stylin'), and i was rather slender.
• lucy dew: in 7th grade, mostly the same friends and i gave each other nicknames with a first and last name. the first name was some sort of trendy, cute girl name and the last name consisted of a kind of soda. i picked lucy after the hanson song "lucy," which i thought was a beautifully simple and sad love song. mountain dew was my favorite soda. i combined these two names to represent some aspect of my identity-- perhaps that i wanted to be a cute, longed-for sweetie.
• shandelle lynn carter and sari: when i was 14 and 15, i went through a weird, dark phase. i created a new name for myself because i could imagine a different me that was more elegant (doesn't shandelle sound pretty? it looks nice when you write it too) and flowy. "sari" was the name of a character in a christopher pike book that i no longer remember; she was a vampire. my french teacher wanted us to pick nicknames to use in french class (why? i don't remember), so i picked sari. i dotted the "i" with a star on all my papers.

in most of these cases, my nicknames were self-chosen. i was able to present someone else with a fake name, a persona, a label that perhaps better indicated my personality or how i'd like to be perceived. long after i created and abandoned these fake names, i looked up "andrea" in a baby name book, and under "name associations" for "andrea," it read: "fat." great. my ex-boyfriend also stated once that "andrea" reminded him of an annoying loud-mouth. great. no wonder i made up nicknames for myself. according to professors of communcation eimi lev and anat lewinsky from the university of haifi, israel, "nicknames are thought to reflect a person's identity better than the formal name." in my younger years and in my professional life, perhaps "andrea" just doesn't cut it.

terms of endearment-- or hypocorisitcs, basically the best word ever-- are really what ignited this reflection in the first place. we all have pet names for others, and we all have been called a hypocoristic. these are usually assigned by others and for some explicit purpose, and my list of "endearments" over the years is quite interesting. my friends have called/still call me:

• girly girl
• pudding cup
• sweets
• pumpkin pie
• andre the giant
• kiddo

they are a good combination of labels (like "girly"), terms of affection (like "sweets"), and sarcastic pokes (like "andre the giant"). these nicknames indicate that my friends view me as something pleasant and feminine (with one blatant exception). and i am.

the boys in my life also ascribe fairly diverse hypocoristics:

• poopy, poophead, poopface: brett and i certainly loved each other (as we should have after 4 years together), but i think we had an odd way of showing it. we each called each other a combination of poop + body part.
• my love: i'm pretty sure brett came up with this from the scene in "dumb and dumber" when lloyd drops off mary at the airport, reaches out his arm to her, says, "goodbye, my love..." as he runs into a car and deploys the airbag.
• babe
• sweetheart
• sunshine: apparently, i wake up happy and full of energy. apparently, this is enough to warrant a hypocoristic related to my AM-demeanor.
• lil girl: this was from the cardiologist, and it used to sort of weird me out.

all of these nicknames demonstrate how others perceived me. i think these nicknames also affected me and my own perception of how i functioned in the relationship: i was the annoying one, the loved one, the sweet one, the happy one, the young one. can my role in a relationship always be relegated to x? especially in terms of what the other is not?

my current boyfriend has been trying out different nicknames for me, which has been an interesting exercise that has revealed what he seems to like/value about me:

• baby
• snookums
• gigglesworth
• lil asian

"baby" and "lil" are diminutive nicknames (and they usually come into play when i'm being difficult, much like a child), and "snookums" functions much like "sweets" by indicating a desired pleasantry. i do giggle. and i am asian. i think he's rather fascinated with my being short. and my being asian. although i really don't like that nickname...

our nicknames indicate what we think of ourselves-- both to ourselves and others. i'm interested in the desire we each have to represent ourselves to others with nicknames as both labels and symbols. i think our nicknames do have an effect on how we perceive ourselves and our relationships with others. perhaps we're just looking for that connection.

fact versus feeling

i truly love babysitting. i get paid to have fun, eat sweet treats, and be told that i'm the coolest big kid ever. (always good for the ol' self-esteem.)

today, i was playing tetherball with a set of nearly-eight-year-old triplets (two boys, one girl), and they were marveling at my ball-on-rope hitting abilities.

"whoa! she just did an airplane!"
"you are sooo good, miss andrea! do you practice?"

(i have no idea what an airplane is, and i haven't been told i'm good at any sports-related activities since i was... oh wait, never.)

but it's my rule to always let the kids win whenever i can. so i started to go "easy." the other two kids were cheering me on when i pounded the ball with fist-shattering pain to untether it...

as it thwacked scott in the face.

like a hollow sucking sound combined with slapping something wet. it was followed quickly with him collapsing to the grass, hands clasped against his cheek. the two on-lookers gasped and ran to his side.

i think i screamed somewhere in the midst of all the trouble.

but then, like a resilient nearly-eight-year-old boy with an ego and ability to forgive and forget, he arose and smiled and grabbed the ball-- confused as to why i was visibly freaking out. i asked him if he was okay, if he needed ice on his cheek, that i was sorry, and that he could stop playing and go inside and lie down. he ignored all of my pleadings and wanted to keep playing.

later, scott looked at me.

"miss andrea, how old are you?"
"23."
"is that old?"
"sometimes i feel old."

pause.

"you feel? why do you FEEL old?"
"i just do."
"well, why does it matter if you feel old? ARE you old?"
"yes, i'm old compared to you."

the conversation continued for a little while, but i pondered his words for quite a long time after. (are you surprised?) perhaps the ability to distinguish between fact and feeling, between events and emotions, between mind and heart.

i need to remind myself of this. mind over matter.

i got mad skillz yo

the skills section on my resume is blank. after pouting myself into oblivion, i decided that i do-- indeed-- have skills. not only are they enviable, but they've all been developed by board games. here's a quick brag list:

game: monopoly
skill: selecting a formidable yet fun game piece as i strategically purchase real estate with hard-earned cash. no one wants to be wrongfully represented; just ask 18th century americans.

game: boggle
skill: seeking unique (yet viable) answers using a perceptive and analytical mind. not only are my answers reasonable but they often receive "oh yes, why didn't i see that?" which clearly shows i can acquire intellectual praise.

game: scrabble
skill: working with what i've been given as best as i can (and when i can't, i can tactfully persuade others using altered precedent to establish that "azule" is absolutely a word- you know it as the uncommon synonym for cerulean and other elite crayon colors from elementary school).

game: stratego
skill: using deductive reasoning and skillful assumptions to assert my position over others.

game: pictionary
skill: effective communication in the form of simplicity-- especially when working with a useless team of complete morons who repeat "boat! boat! boat! ship? boat! boat! boat!" when i'm clearly drawing a baby carriage.

game: scattergories
skill: producing fast responses while working under the obnoxious buzzing deadline. my creative thinking earns me extra points above the ordinary-thinking minions.

game: risk
skill: world domination. enough said.

game: cranium
skill: exemplifying a well-rounded education, including working knowledge of standard lexicons and word puzzles, nonstandard trivia, good-smelling purple clay, and cheesy hollywood tunes.

game: sorry
skill: demonstrating motivation to reach the top while still exercising humility and respect for others with a totally insincere apology for screwing over another player.

game: blokus
skill: utilizing spatial relations and foresight to diplomatically foil an opponent while still maintaining pleasant small-talk and friendly relations beyond the task at hand.

game: apples to apples
skill: knowing when to play it safe ("funny" + "jim carrey") and when to risk it ("sexy" + "beer bellies") by reading and researching individual preferences and then tailoring my responses to what will ultimately result in success.

there's no way anyone could turn me down.

an attempt at reflection:

suddenly, i simultaneously resemble the grudge-holding, slightly neurotic character of billy (vincent gallo) and the people-pleasing, filled with ennui character of layla (christina ricci) in buffalo '66.

let's start with layla. (if this was an academic paper, i'd be criticized for reverse the order of items in my "thesis." well, this isn't academia. i hope you're okay with that.) layla goes about her own business, happily tap-dancing in class before she is kidnapped in the hallway by billy. he covers her mouth. he pulls her hair. billy "coerces" her into her car (which consisted of yelling, mostly), which she drives to his parents' house (because he can't drive a "shifter") and is introduced as his significant other. for the rest of the movie, she goes to a diner with him, goes bowling, gets a hotel room, and basically becomes his "reason" for life. layla is swept away by a crazy person who--only hours earlier--was just released from prison. she has choices, she has outs, but she doesn't take them. and it's not like billy is prince charming; he bosses her around. right before meeting his parents, billy said, "if you make me look bad, i'll never talk to you again. ever." right before billy leaves the hotel, she pleads with him to come back. "i love you," she says. billy mesmerizes her. she understands him.

here's the analysis part (again, if this was an academic paper, i'd be criticized for exposing my "skeleton" and intentions with explicit verbal cues instead of just getting to it): i've lately been wrestling with my own derailment from my seemingly content, bubble-like life as a student, friend, and daughter. you know: the usual. i wasn't whole-heartedly dedicated to continuing my education or to constructing an life independent from other people (like friends, or my parents' expectations, or the desire to be in a relationship with a boy). i let the newness of graduation freedom, the fear of confrontation, and my own passive personality sweep in and forge a new direction for my life. i didn't even throw a fit. i let billy in.

billy-- a character that simply could NOT be played by anyone BUT vincent gallo-- was semi-wronged by a strip club owner that he spends nearly the entire movie trying to track down so he can blow his brains out. he's mentally, emotionally, and physically cut off from the world. socially awkward. slightly violent. self-destructive. a thinker. in some ways, billy tries to reason with societal acceptance. he puts on a show for his parents (including his football-obsessed mother played by angelica huston) in hopes they'll break out of their prejudices to acknowledge him as he is. layla tries to hold his hand to put on the front that they are a happy couple for his parents, and billy freaks out. "we are a couple that doesn't touch," he scolds. when he's released from prison, he asks if he can go back inside. the world according to billy is full of goons and smelly people. he shows some semblance of feeling by buying layla a chocolate milk at the donut shop. he's not entirely unredeemable. he's just billy.

billy is not entirely rational. he makes decisions based on deep-seeded revenge and rebellion. i've been skeptical about the goodness of humanity for a while now, and many different events in life confirm for me that people just plain suck. my unemployment has caused more than one person to explode with anger; one even told me that i am "the greatest disappointment" of her life. at the time, i didn't think this statement would affect me so profoundly. but it has. i'm a disappointment? then 1) what it takes to not disappoint someone is clearly beyond my means, and 2) fine, i'll show you a frickin disappointment. another certain someone in my life criticizes me for not acknowledging his actions, when his words (and philosophies on relationships, interactions between men/women, etc.) often undermine and contradict what he does. like billy, peoples' outward actions mean nothing to me unless they are backed with a true, legitimate character beneath. i don't know what it means anymore to be loved. or to love. my heart is cold.

yet, despite that coldness, i still seek acceptance. i want the people in my life to accept me, to advise me in productive ways, and to desire me not based on what they think i can be. i'm flawed. so are you.

so what? perhaps we all have conflicting aspects to our personalities: sometimes one screws up, one tries to console the other, both aren't strong enough (or viable enough) to exist as independent entities. they depend on each other.

or perhaps some of us have it figured out. i'm not one of those people.

breaking up with bro-dy

it's a well-known fact that brody jenner is dreamy: dark hair, long eyelashes, tan, rich, and "cool."

however, it's also a well-known fact that brody is, indeed, somewhat of an asshole. he hangs out with the hollywood elite (he's step-sister IS kim kardashian), has been nicknamed the Prince of Malibu (strike one), and routinely makes out with the so-cal blondes like haylie duff, nicole richie (pre-harlow, of course), kristen cavallari and lauren conrad. actually, his douchebag treatment of LC on season 3 of "the hills" put my celebrity crush on tenuous ground. strike two. don't mess with lauren.



strike three for brody all started with a harmless perusal of MTV's website to search for a TV show to watch online. (i don't have cable.) in the bottom right-hand corner, a picture of a bright orange and yellow sunset popped up with the show's title "BROMANCE" in silver block letters beneath it.

seriously????, i thought. so lame.

but then i looked closer at the black and white face centered as the "sun" in the sunset. perfect jawline. dark, mischevious eyes.

brody. jenner.

i clicked on the list of episodes. titles like "little jeans, big hearts" and "bro-athon" and "broast!" flooded my page. i suppressed the desire to gag.

it gets worse: MTV describes the show as an exploitation of an epidemic in hollywood, the "bromance" between two guys. the show's premise relies on the popular notion that Brody is "looking for that one special guy to join his elite entourage." the reality TV show sought out "regular joes" to become "bros vying for the chance of a liftime" who participate in a series of challenges, hang time (including sky-diving in las vegas, hanging out with playboy playmates, etc.), and eliminations. all of this boils down to the crucial moment when brody finds "true bromance" with his "true bro."

needless to say, things just aren't going to work out between brody and me. call it "irreconcilable differences."

a little special something.

as i drove into my apartment complex after dinner and a movie with friends (i saw "push"-- entertaining but by no means the best movie ever), i decided to check my mailbox. please don't tell my mother.


i hadn't checked my mail since i got home from visiting bobby in las vegas. i regard my mailbox as the messenger of andrea's financial ruin, since its contents often include bills, bills, and coupons to meal places i end up going to because i have a coupon.

(that's bobby and me. aren't we cute? yes, yes, please send compliments. thx.)

i drove up, parked, jingled my keys to find the smallest silver mailbox opener, jammed the key into the latchhole, squealed open the metal door of doom, felt around inside for paper contents, and then my finger nudged against a foreign metal object. i squinted in the dark since the light above the mailboxes is out (again, please don't tell my mother) and withdrew key #2 to the parcel delivery boxes.

my pulse quickened, my breaths became shorter and faster, and i barely contained a squeal that finally erupted after i plopped the large brown box onto my black airmchair.

quickly, i found a knife:

bobby bought me a betsey johnson watch the last night we were in vegas, and it had finally arrived!

i love the little bureau box with leopard print. i love the star shape. i love the sparkly black face. i love the skinny patent leather band.

i love that my boyfriend likes to make me happy even if he can't be here in person. long distance schmistance. i'm smitten.

my anxiety levels hit a new high, but then i opened ED's collected poems to this:

"XXXIII"

How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,
And doesn't care about careers,
And exigencies never fears;
Whose coat of elemental brown
A passing universe put on;
And independent as the sun,
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute decree
In casual simplicity.


is this how meticulous bible readers of the world feel when they open a book and find the perfect passage nestling in pages like its been waiting for you?