I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams

Dear Internet:

Do you have secrets? You probably do. I love secrets– good secrets, not evil secrets that could destroy people if unleashed to the general public. My good secrets are always of little importance– and probably even little interest– to others, so I don't know that they're "secrets" so much as they are just personal facts that I haven't bothered to disclose.

But, Internet! I have a secret, and I've had it for about three weeks now, and if you'd met me on the street, you probably would not have walked away from the encounter musing to yourself, "Now that looks like a girl who has a wonderful secret locked up inside of her." But if you had, you would have been correct.

And if all this sounds like it's being written by an eight-year-old, it's because that's how I feel right now. Giddy, anxious, like it's the first day of school coming up– or a recital! I don't know. But, oh, I can't wait. Joy and anticipation are bubbling and coursing through my heart and veins like the purest mountain spring.


Things that are new, a.k.a., oh, hello there, December

  1. I’m living in San Francisco 
  2. I’m learning how to ride a vintage-y road/touring bike with drop-bar handles and tube shifters, and I imagine it would be a bit easier if the frame weren’t 1 cm too tall for my short self 
  3. It appears that I’m allergic to the new residence. For lack of viable options, I’m targeting dust mites. This is slightly ironic because our landlord (landlady?) is allergic to cats, though she’s graciously allowed me to bring up the Bean. 
  4. I’ve accepted that Brussels sprouts are not 100% vile and are, under the right circumstances, actually rather edible
  5. I am finally planning social events I have wanted to put together for over three years, yay! 

I’m sure there’s more, but it’s all trivial. Happy December!

Thing = things = thing. Plural, singular, whatever.

Things that make a homecoming awesome:

  • Registration tags finally arriving 1.5 months after sending in my renewal! Plus evidence that they finally updated my mailing address! (Third time's a charm!)
  • A reimbursement check from the DMV for $6! (I'm assuming this had a part in why it took so long to process my registration, though I could just be overly generous with this thought)
  • A rebate VISA gift card from AT&T for my phone! (I had 2 months to mail in that rebate and didn't think to do it until a few days after the envelope had to be postmarked… I mailed it anyway because I only had a stamp to lose, so, yeah, I'm pretty tickled they gave me the rebate after all)

Things that make a homecoming less awesome:

  • A second notice from my HOA stating I still need to get rid of the weeds in my front yard.
    • Note 1: Admittedly, yes, earlier this year I was having an issue with weeds. I'm not a fan of extraneous chemical sprays, so I usually just pull budding weeds up by hand here and there when I remember, but I kept not being home, so the weeds… got a bit out of control.
    • Note 2: Yet when I got the first notice about a month ago, I actually looked at my front yard and was startled to see that somehow, all my weeds were gone. It's a classic Demetri Martin mystery novel thriller: "Hey, Who Weeded My Yard?"
    • Note 3: So you can imagine my annoyance at the receipt of this second notice, until I saw that they included a photo of the offending weed, whereupon you perhaps cannot imagine the flames of indignation that consequently engulfed me because HERE'S THE THING:
      • The photo was of this tall, willowy tree with pretty pink blossoms.
      • This tree is deliberately planted in the backyards of many of the houses in these neighborhoods, by the community builder.
      • But because it hadn't deliberately been planted in my front yard, because it was a result of a wayward tree seed implanting itself of its own reckless accord and then arrogantly choosing to grow and thrive without applying for a permit to do so, it was considered a weed. A WEED.
      • What's more, the stupid bushes that were deliberately planted? Look more like weeds in that they grow all out-of-control and spindly-like. I never got to choose them and if I ever want to replace them (and I can't just pull them out, they have to be replaced because I have to have X number of plants in the yard at all times), I have to apply for permission to do so.
      • So basically, I'm paying my HOA every month to harangue me about the upkeep of crap in my yard that I never wanted in the first place.

I ended up cutting down the tree, just to shut them up. It was actually really sad for me– I had honeybees visiting that tree daily, but hopefully now they've redirected themselves to the sprawling overgrown mint plant that has completely overtaken an entire corner of my back yard and which I can't bring myself to prune down because of– full circle!– the bees. I have packets of black-eyed Susans and some other really bee-friendly flower seed that I keep meaning to plant, but I can never get the season right. But the bees! The bees, man, I feel so bad for them, and my unkempt mint monster has proven to appeal to at least some of them in the past, so wild and flowering my mint monster remains.

CONCLUSIVE BONUS! Things that make a homecoming a tad speedier:

  • Being picked up from the airport in an RV.

In which I post news so untimely that I’m writing about it a month later

Did you know that it was National Clean Up A National Park Day on August 23? Probably not, because it wasn't, though that's what Noah and I were telling people on that day because that's what we were doing. The day after we hiked Half Dome in Yosemite, we picked up trash alongside the main road and from the parking lot and hiking trail for Bridalveil Falls.

INTERESTING FACT: the majority of the trash we picked up was Trident gum wrappers, and let me tell you, it got old really quickly. We theorized that either one motherfucker was chain-chewing Trident and strewing the wrappers as s/he wandered about, or that Trident chewers in general are just motherfucking litterbugs. Either way, at least one motherfucker was involved in this populating of Trident wrappers on Yosemite grounds, a sentiment which I openly shared on camera more than once and which resulted in Noah getting reprimanded by the Fiesta marketing people, because apparently my NC-17 mouth was too much for their PG requirements.

DISGUSTING FACT: we also picked up dog poop, twice. The first time it was like a *pound* of shit in a bag that had split open, and the second time it was a solid log that must have come out of a St. Bernard. Or an elephant. The log, by the way, was hidden under a paper towel, so I jumped down into this stupid crevice thinking I was going to retrieve a paper towel for our growing trash collection, only to jump back and scream once it was revealed what lay beneath.

OH YEAH: the final edit of our trash day is on YouTube:

Speaking of Half Dome, though– did you catch that, before you were mesmerized by my fascinating paragraphs about Trident wrappers and canine excrement? We climbed Half Dome! And let me tell you: a 16.4-mile hike doesn't sound so bad because in all honesty, it isn't. A 16.4-mile hike, however, that consists of climbing uphill for 7.2 miles and then climbing downhill for another 7.2 (meaning there are about 2 miles total of relatively flat ground; I know I'm a girl, but I actually can do math), is really fucking hard. Climbing Half-Dome made me realize that I am either really stubborn or really proud, or both, because about 5 miles into the hike I was totally ready to turn around and go back to the car, but did I? No. I kept going.

And do you know what your reward is, for keeping on? A switchback trail where the steps are about 2 feet wide, and in places, one foot high. And do you know what your reward for conquering the switchbacks is? This:

Or, put another way, this:


That's 400 feet of near-vertical climbing. How near-vertical? So near-vertical that there are steel cables to assist the climbers in hauling themselves up. Even better, a storm was threatening to come in right as we got to the top of the switchbacks, and a woman from the NPS was standing at the base of the summit telling everyone she highly advised against anyone going up the cables because it could rain, making everything fatally slippery (going both up and down), AND even if we DID make it to the top, lightning could strike and kill us there. So we could die going up, die once on top, or die going down. Our choice.

Noah and I, however, decided that since we'd gotten this far, and since we were unlikely to do this hike ever again, we'd take our chances. Death by Half Dome: It's Death, Sure, But At Least It'll Get You Mentioned In Wikipedia.

I'd like to take a moment to share some advice. There's a popular rumor that you'll hear, particularly on the trail, particularly in the form of incentivized encouragement, that the view from the top of Half Dome is unlike any other view, that the view alone makes all the effort exerted throughout the entire hike totally worth it.

After we got to the top of the summit, I have to confess, I was amazed by the view. I was amazed because it looked exactly like the view from the bottom of the summit.

ADVICE: if you're in it purely for the view, save yourself the near-death experience, pat yourself on the back after the switchbacks, and call it a day. Better yet, just search the Internet. Not only has the Internet already done all the climbing for you, but the Internet also took pictures! Go climb 8300 steps on a stair-stepping machine and then look at this picture, and that's basically Half Dome, except better, because then you can reward yourself with an ice cream cone. Much to my disappointment, there weren't ice cream cones of congratulations waiting at the top. Which, to be honest, was my secret motivation for doing the climb. Sure, none of the websites *mentions* an ice cream reward for scaling the summit, but I figured it was just secretly understood by the Half Dome elite that ice cream would be there, because why the hell else would people put themselves through the cables? Certainly not for the view, that's for sure.

So, yeah. We climbed Half Dome and survived (also: the storm didn't come in, which made us really glad we decided to risk it because if we'd listened to the NPS lady and turned around only to not have it start raining, we would have been pretty pissed), and what's more, we made the climb subsisting solely on water and one airplane-snack-pack amount of Fresh & Easy trail mix. 

Come to think of it, Noah might have had something else to eat, but all I remember is the trail mix. We'd just finished the switchbacks and I was a super-sized scratchy pair of cranky pants, and Noah was all, "Hey, you should eat something, you'll feel a lot better", and I was all, "No, leave me alone", and he opened the trail mix packet and started eating some and did the whole "Wow, this trail mix is SOOO DELICIOUS, you should try it! Yum yum!" thing that parents do with their finicky-eater kids, and I was still all "No! Fuck off!", and then he more or less shoved some sunflower seeds and raisins into my mouth and I grudgingly chewed and swallowed, and suddenly I was in a much nicer mood. Noah: Wild Beast Tamer. He's available for birthday parties and bar mitzvahs, people.

(In my defense, I didn't actually whine at all during the hike. But I am a very poor judge of realizing when I need to eat something and taking subsequent action.)

So, in conclusion: HALF DOME

  • Was it worth hiking?: Yeah, sure.
  • Would you do it again?: Ha ha, no. [1]
  • Comments?: It's a geology-fanatic's treasure-trove, so that was really cool. The waterfalls were pretty, but you're not allowed to go over them in a barrel, so they're mostly useless.

[1] Surprisingly, not because it was too hard, but because it's really not worth the effort to do it again when there are so many other equally great (or greater) hikes to do– Angels Landing being one of them.

The busy calm before the happy storm

So, things 'round here. I guess they've been good– they've probably been great, and I just haven't consciously absorbed that fact yet– I guess they've been busy. Stressful with work, but when I don't think too much about what I'm doing or how I'm doing or why I'm doing it, I'm rather happy with work. That is to say, I'm happy so long as I'm not trying to justify that happiness, because when I start thinking too much about things, I start to wonder if I shouldn't be happy, if my happiness is actually just a cover I've woven to distract myself from secret self-disappointments or regrets. If I've convinced myself that I'm happy. It's terrible, all these questions and doubts and needs to validate what simply, automatically is.

I've been reading Malcolm Gladwell's books lately– I don't know if "reading" is the right word, maybe something more akin to "devouring", albeit in intervals; the way a few people have expressed their sentiments about me by way of my writing, which I have never understood, is the way I feel about Malcom Gladwell, which I think a couple universes of people could understand. I read "Outliers" over a weekend  during the plane flights in and out of SFO, then did the same with "Blink", and I absorbed the two books so deeply that now I just think in terms of his chapters and anecdotes and I have trouble explaining my thoughts to people who have no idea who he is, because it would be so much easier if I could say, "Remember that part about the rope experiment and the three solutions?" and then the other person would nod, and I'd make an expressive and thoughtful face and one of those indicative gestures with my arms, and my point would be so clear.

Or, basically I just want hyperlinks in real life.

Also, I'm writing again (for work, though that maddening little creature in my head has started to nag me about picking up creative writing again), and one of the most fun parts about that is seeing what subtle ridiculousness I can sneak into articles. Seeing as how I'm the only person who reviews the articles before they get published, it's not exactly hard to put things in there, but I do have editorial taste and I don't want to get fired so I can't exactly throw whole paragraphs about dinosaurs in without concern. I did a guest post for a fairly respectable tech site and they took out my math reference (for good reason; it was cacophanous to the narrative flow but I wrote it anyway because I just wanted the stupid reference that badly) but didn't fix my coder quotes, and that was my crowning glory.

TheNoah is reading this right now and wondering why I haven't offered you links, especially given my statement up there professing such an attachment to hyperlinks that I wish they could exist in the real, offline world. The first answer to this is, I don't really know. The second answer is, I guess it's because I'm still not used to this idea of throwing myself into the public arena. For as long as this particular site has been in existence, it's pulled up as a search result for my full name (though hardly by my own accord; I just never remembered to find out how to disassociate the two)– however, my last name is nowhere within any of these entries, my first name only occasionally (I didn't even include it on this current "About" page). In short, while my identity is hardly a secret, I don't go out of my way to make it readily known.

Which is, I know, ridiculous. Especially when I'm dating TheNoah, who lives on the far other end of the online-identity spectrum. Granted, everything I've written and published here, I've done so knowing that it would be submitted for the world at large to access and read, should they so choose. I just never really expected there to ever be a reason for my name to be queried by complete strangers, whereas now I have a domain of my name registered and redirecting to here. It's– well– um, it's different.

Anyway. Things 'round here, they're also currently quiet, which I'm trying to appreciate while it lasts. TheNoah flies into town in a matter of hours (well: nine or so), and then according to the list of names on recent correspondence, I'm hosting 10 people this weekend (starting today, Friday) for a dance event– and then Saturday, two friends from L.A. are driving up and bringing their dog (Schroeder-dog! I love that dog! Though the resident felines of this household will undoubtedly not), and on the one hand I'm starting to panic because while I have more than enough space, I don't have nearly enough furniture to sleep 12 guests, but on the other hand, 10 of those 12 are dancers, and dancers will sleep damned near about anywhere. Dancers will sleep in the bathroom if need be; depending on how drunk they are, the bathroom may even be the slumbering quarters of choice. So I know, I shouldn't be stressing. As I told my mom (who was the first to start raising eyebrows over where everyone was going to sleep) the other day: I'm not a hotel. If people require hotel accomodations, they can go stay at a hotel. If anything, I offer free wi-fi. Can't sleep because someone's elbow is in your ear? Blog about it in real-time! Not that sleep is expected to be much of an issue this weekend: blues dancers don't seem to have much comprehension of the notion of it. They're a motley bunch, they are.

Nearly one a.m. Time to start cleaning. Have a good 4th!

If they could just not move so spastically. And have fewer legs. And not be shiny. I think we could get along better, then.

TheNoah was recently here, in Vegas, for five days, which was beyond fantastic, except that on the third evening on our way back to the house, he hopscotched into a convenience store and bought a 24-ounce can of Chelata. I would have stopped him except I was too busy being uselessly drunk in the shotgun of my car, good for nothing other than updating my Twitter account from my phone regarding just how useless I was. A lot, in case you're wondering.

And Chelata, in case you're wondering this as well, is the most useless beverage created by middle-class America. It's Clamato and Bud Light. Because it wasn't enough that someone created a beverage based on the premise of: "I really like clams and cocktail sauce, but all this chewing requires so much effort…" No, someone actually proceeded to take the next step, and voilá! Clam juice + tomato juice + crappy beer.

Anyway. He bought it and put it in my fridge and then never drank it. And then two nights later I found a giant dead roach in my kitchen: [1]


And then five minutes later saw a giant LIVE roach pacing around the baby fig tree I keep inside by the balcony door.

I screamed bloody murder (both times, actually) and leapt on top of the kitchen island and watched it move around for a good ten minutes before it disappeared into the shadows, whereupon I realized I was now trapped, because if I didn't know precisely where it was, it could be anywhere, hungry for the flesh and blood of a freaked-out 20-something girl. So I continued sitting (sometimes standing) on top of the island, gazing nervously at the floor, for another hour before I finally grabbed all my pertinent things (laptop, phone) and made a break for my bedroom upstairs.

Fourteen hours later, I finally had the courage to go back downstairs. TheNoah had chastised me the night before, saying I should just suck it up and kill the roach, but the thing is, I can't kill bugs. Usually I just trap them under a cup and put them outside (see: crickets, spiders (even fucking poisonous brown recluses) and moths), but this doesn't apply to roaches because HELLO THEY'RE ROACHES. (I've never been squeamish about rodents because we don't have rodent problems out here and also because I grew up with pet mice and a pet rat.)

It was afternoon, though, with plenty of sunshine still flooding the kitchen, so I had little expectation of seeing anything scuttling across the floor, and true enough, the only things moving across the kitchen floor were lint bunnies (the blanket that I drag between the kitchen couch and the big couch thing pills and sheds linty pieces like nobody's business).

Turns out, though, this was less because of daylight and more because of this:


I want to take a second to point out to you how difficult it was to take these pictures, by the way. I had to streeeeeeeeetch my hand over the point of interest and squint through one barely-opened eye at the screen to confirm that said point of interest was within the frame, then snap the picture and run away. When I transferred the pictures to the computer? I had to cover my face and look between my fingers. Same for uploading. Actually I haven't even uploaded the pictures at this point in writing; I'm still debating whether to put the pictures inline with this post or just put links, because frankly, I don't write often enough these days to ensure that this post will be off the front page anytime soon.

I'd also like to take a second to ponder something with you: the fuck is up with roaches committing suicide in my kitchen? Though I had my doubts about the first one for a good while; for all I know, roaches consider dishes of leftover vegetable oil to be the finest of spa treatments and that dude was just getting some R&R before leaping up to gnaw my face off. But more importantly: why are they climbing on top of the counters? It's like realizing that oh, bears can climb trees– after you've already climbed to the top of one. Roaches climb up cabinetry? Willingly? Is there no justice in this world?

And thirdly, a second to inform you that the blue dish? Yeah it's like four feet across. Same with the plate in the sink (it's a big sink). Just so you have an idea of how big the bugs are. TheNoah didn't believe me but I swear it's true.

So the moral of this story is Chelata is the devil's hairy ball sweat and serves only to be a harbinger of evil and doom, and if you ever need an efficient tactic to scare your girlfriend into finally moving out of the house she (deeply) loves in the city she (strangely) loves and up to San Francisco instead, well, here you go.

[1] There's an argument floating around out there that the bugs came into my kitchen because I've been leaving the balcony door open (with the flimsy screen door still closed) for the last week or more and their presence has nothing to do with the bringing of the Chelata into the house. This argument is wrong.

Also chocolate-covered grasshoppers to represent the locusts, with baby bottles of cab to represent the Red Sea. Passover Baskets: not for pansies. Or kids, apparently.

We spent the better portion of a gorgeous, sunny Easter Zombie Christmas Sunday in Napa, which was fitting, you know, because Jesus had that whole water-into-wine thing, and Napa is renowned for, uh, turning grapes into wine using water to grow grapes to be turned into wine (ta-da!). Also Jesus was held up by a cross. And Napa wineries have wooden structures sort of shaped like crosses that hold up the vines. Yeah.

Anyway, the ironic bit was how I got and finished being drunk all before we even got within the Napa Valley limits. That 808 drink I mentioned in the last post? TheNoah paid for it and I felt guilty for not drinking more than two bitter-faced sips after I opened it, so I stuck it in the fridge and then carried it out to the car with me Sunday morning, thinking I don't know what. Open-container laws and what-have-you. And then I set it on the floor and got out to rummage through the trunk for something and it spilled (TheNoah swears I jostled it; I adamantly blame a shift in the gravitational axis for causing the bottle to knock itself over), but by the time it was rescued, it was still at least half-full. And in a moment of frazzled irritation, I just downed what was left.

I'd only been awake for about two hours and it had been at least 14 hours since I'd last eaten. And I think it had been over a month since I'd had anything else alcoholic (ever the lush, I know).

Cue: drunk on Zombie Christmas Sunday. Before noon.

But did I mention the weather was beautiful? We took the top off his car and stopped by Trader Joe's and bought cheeses, Spanish Champagne-style wine, a loaf of artisan bread, strawberries and dark chocolate. Basically, I was only a scarf-wrapped-around-my-head away from us being a scene in a 1940s film.

And Napa was, as everyone says, lovely. We secured a spot on a grassy, tree-dotted lawn at V. Sattui and ate and drank and watched cute kids dressed up in festive Sunday attire run around and play (we decided we're going to start making Passover baskets, with little chocolate baby Moseses to represent the basket in which he was sent down the river and discovered) and it was a perfect, perfect introduction to the valley. I'm pretty sure it would get a stamp of Zombie Jesus approval, no problem.

Love is having your dog throw up in the car, and then instead of swearing vehemently NO MORE CAR RIDES EVER, thinking, “Okay, so next time I need to bring an emergency garbage bag.”

My parents are out of town for nine days to go cruise around the Hawaiian islands. I feel like I should be jealous of this, because typically you can say "Hawaiian cruise!" to just about anyone, any time of the year, and they'll respond with "I WANT TO GO!" but 1) the wrenching allure of Hawai'i doesn't work on me because I've spent so much time there for family, and 2) I have no current desire to be stuck on a boat for a week, even if it were a boat the size of a city. Maybe if my parents went backpacking through Europe, then I'd be jealous… and now I can't stop laughing at the image of my parents backpacking together through Europe. I don't think they even own backpacks. They have fannypacks, though. I guess they could go fannypacking through Europe.

But anyway. So my parents are on vacation and I'm house/dog-sitting for them, and my mom's dogs– I can't stand my mom's dogs. They're dust-mop dogs; there's very little about them, physiology aside, that's dog-like, and mostly all they do all day (every day) is sleep on the floor. With the exception of Maya, they don't play fetch, they're not companionable, they don't like to rough-house, they don't come when called and I'm not really sure they even *like* people (unless it's my mom– they stick to her like glue).

They're also not exactly housetrained.

They drive me insane. I can't see the point in them– they're not bright, so they're no good for cute tricks or obedience. They're not fun, so there's no playing with them. They're not loving, so there's no affection to be found from them. These dogs basically have zero return. Also, it's annoying as hell to have to continually be cleaning up after them.

And yet– as exasperated and frustrated and sometimes even furious as I get with them– as their caretaker, I find I can't *not* be kind to them. Twice a day, I come over to change their water and feed them (each has a custom diet) and give one of them an insulin shot, and I bring books or work stuff with me so I can stick around for a few hours so they're not cooped up in the kitchen 24/7. One of them, the least intelligent of the batch, refuses, initially, to eat when I put her dish down, so I sit down next to her and hand-feed her. Twice a day, I'm on hands and knees cleaning the aftermath of their destruction (et cetera).

I'd like to say that I'm only nice to them because my mom loves these dingbat animals so damn much and I don't want it on my shoulders if one of them dies and I didn't do everything I could to make their separation anxiety as minimal as possible– but even if my mom said, hey, just stop by every few days to clean the kitchen and refill the food and water dishes, they're pains in the ass and I don't care if they die while I'm gone… I'd still probably be doing this. Because being locked up in a kitchen from sunup to sundown is no life for a dog, even when the dogs in question are more like dust-mops.

It's strange, still caring about the lives of creatures who do nothing but irritate me. Maybe because they can't help being irritating; they're dogs and they can't change how they are on their own. The stupid one can't help being stupid; the grumpy one can't help being grumpy; they all can't help having dust-mop natures. And I don't know how to communicate to them what kinds of dogs I wished they were– and anyway, they're not my dust-mops to change in the first place. They're my mom's. But I love her, and so maybe by proxy, I love them, too.

Beware the ides of March!

Which is in seven days. You've been warned. Don't be a Caesar.

Two things about my hair and then I guess I'll be back in April. It's Lent season so as a pseudo-Catholic, I'll just cover my bases and say I gave up posting for Lent. But:

1. It took two years, but I think my hair is finally back to where it used to be (the length aside).

2. I dyed my hair jet-black in the middle of January, shortly after the Hair Fiasco of 2009. I'd been dyeing it since the end of 2007, usually red-bases, then I dyed it a sort-of brown at some point in autumn of 2008, only it didn't really stay so it was still a reddish-brown-base by the time I decided to go emo-black.

And now my hair's brown. A deep, rich, dark brown, brown with plum-ish sort of undertones, but brown most definitely, brown and not black. It's not a matter of the dye fading because I don't have any signs of roots (and after two months, I should definitely have roots). It's actually a really nice color– I would willingly go out of my way to dye my hair this color, happily– but the fact that my hair turned on me and changed its color without my permission infuriates me. So I'm simultaneously perplexed and annoyed (and a little delighted, I really do like the color).

I'll be back eventually, once the dust settles a bit more 'round these here parts.

The State of the Lorasaur

A female sheep (3 letters): _____
Beverage made from steeping herbs and/or leaves in hot water, typically served hot (3 letters): _____
A pirate's affirmative (3 letters): _____

Currently, I'm at least out of the "RAGING" neck of the woods. The absolute worst part has probably been being stuck on the inside of two people on a plane experiencing so much turbulence that the flight attendants weren't even allowed to be up and about, and then a half-hour later when we finally landed, having to trek five minutes in heels to find the nearest bathroom only to have it be closed off for maintenance. Yeah, that sucked.


Refrigerator Experimentation Q&A Time!

Q: How long can you keep store-bought packaged cookie dough in the refrigerator before it goes bad?
A: Not two months, apparently.


I've always liked the fact that I don't write for anyone (or for anything (read: money)) because it makes it easier to shrug off the guilt for not writing very often (or for not writing particularly interesting things) in times like these, when I'm only posting once a week, if even that, and when I do it's probably something crap (see previous).

Except now I actually do feel more pressure to write, with more frequency and quality– I was going to say, because I've been getting more traffic thanks to his sending everyone he knows in this direction (so much so that he bought an easier-to-remember domain for me– [firstname][lastname].com– and redirected it here), but really, it's not even for them. It's just him.

He likes my writing and supports my (currently dormant) writing ambitions; he claims that my writing is what initially hooked him, what made me stand out in his memory over these past two or three years even though he meets a staggering number of new people every month (every week, even). He doesn't ask me to write more, but I get the feeling that when the intervals run as long as they have been, he's wondering what's up. Or maybe I'm just projecting– *I* get antsy when *he* doesn't update after two days, which is made even more ridiculous by the fact that his updates are purely recaps of what he's been doing, so it's nothing I don't already know. Either way, it's… different, now. But maybe in a good way? We'll see.