Hey, presto.

Life is okay.

I'm still working at Iron Bridge Inn (and enjoying it for the most part), and now dogsitting for a church friend on Thursday mornings. I've hit upon an ingenious solution for writing--I carry a small notebook with me to work. Anytime we're slow and I have nothing to do, I pull it out and write a few more sentences in it. There are only 32 pages (I hit page 11 today, and I've only been working on it for about a month), so when it's done I'll probably type it all up, edit it, and post it somewhere for people to read if they so desire. I wrote three pages today, and then a poem, because I was angsty. 

My problem is I never feel the drive to write poetry unless I'm being a particular sort of angsty. Thusly my poetry all tends to be variations on a theme of angst and bores and embarrasses me when I re-read it later. 

The story is fun, though. 

Hint: there is an alien. 

Actually, come to think of it, my story is like E.T., only not as horrifying. I think I accidentally saw that movie when I was very young because my parents weren't paying attention. It scarred me. This is exactly how my fear of volcanoes played out, only the movie in question was Dante's Peak and I recall hiding behind the couch while people dissolved in acid lakes. 

Half of this woman is a puddle of bubbling goo. 

If I think to myself "nightmare" and "alien", the first picture that pops into my head is of E.T., all white and pasty, lying at the bottom of the ravine or in the clear plastic sheeting.

This = Pure Terror

Incidentally, the second picture that comes to mind is this:

I blame this one on the fact I also live in a house in PA, surrounded by cornfields, and we had a German Shepherd.

Unfortunately, we do not also have Joaquin Phoenix living in the barn. 

At any rate, despite the fact I love Signs, I do not like aliens. I suppose those two facts are not mutually exclusive. 

True story--I made one of these hats. 

I also kept a spray bottle of water with me for about a month for 

whenever I had to roam the halls of our house alone. Ask my siblings.

To return to my original point: In my mind, E.T. sucks; my story is my attempt to remedy this, mentally. Caitling helped me come up with characters and their names. The basic story is that there is a family, and then an alien shows up in their backyard and all parties react. I don't know how it ends. I presume it will end well, considering I dislike tears and as of yet don't know if I can write well when the topic includes any sort of sentimentality. Stay tuned, though.

Anyhow, I feel kind of lame sometimes, living at home and working a non-college-degree-appropriate job. My comfort is I had the possibility of a couple college-appropriate jobs that would also have been awesome, but made the decision myself not to pursue them. If my reason for not pursuing them ceases to be a reason, I can always pursue them again later.

But I do feel better, writing.  

Disclaimer: there is a female butt I do not approve of. Awesome music, though.