What does it mean when your tummy hurts? (And what does it mean when a 26-year-old refers to his stomach as tummy?) No one will ever know. Luckily, granola bars are the solution to everything—and I have one!
What was I going to talk about again? (Don’t worry. This does not mean that granola bars will not be the main focus of this post.) Oh yeah, filing out forms and bureaucratic stuff. I don’t like that stuff. I am terrible at it. But that’s not why I don’t like it. (I like plenty of stuff I’m terrible at, for example, base jumping.) I don’t actually know why I don’t like it, but I don’t. I pity the foo-orm-completing person who has to complete forms all day long. Anyway, this is all probably part of the reason I have screwed-up my passport application 3 times already. Actually, only one of those things had to do with what I’m talking about, but …
Sorry, that paragraph started to bore me, so I dosed off. Luckily I have reawakened in a library that is in an underground cave with Vikings and disco balls! Wait a minute, those aren’t Vikings. Where was I? Oh yeah. Yesterday I was planning on spending all night (again) finishing some essay on Thomas More and Daniel DeFoe and plagues—“I’m not dead. Yes you are, shut up!”—until someone at the library told me that it isn’t due for another 5 days. Hooray for sleep! I thought to myself, as I rolled under the bus. But then I thought: why did I get that date wrong? Usually the only kinds of dates I get wrong involve Roxanne—“Oh, you meant PM. That explains why it was so dark.” (British accent: I say, that was a most disappointing pun. To the cricket field, Chauncey!)
I think the reason that I got it wrong is that I have been anxious about the future, specifically, about being accepted into a Bachelor of Education (or equivalent) program. This is normal, I think, since it’s a major life … lifey thing. I mean, I think I’ll be a good teacher because I really want to be one, and my skill-set, such as it is, is suited to teaching. Also, people whose opinions I respect a lot (like Dr. Gardner and Juanita) have said I will be a good teacher. Yet the anxiety persists. I guess this is inevitable. It must be, I tried to evit it and I couldn’t. I’m worried that I’ll somehow mess up the application process, even thought here isn’t really much one can do to mess it up. All you have to do is write your name on a piece of paper, put that inside a crate of granola bars, then ship that to SFU, right? What could possibly go wrong? Ostriches, that’s what!
They’re out to get me. I had a dream, and it wasn’t the Martin Luther King kind. It was the 30-foot-giant-robotic-ostrich-trying-to-pooh-on-your-head-but-you-deflect-the-pooh-with-some-special-glove kind. That really happened, in my dream.
You’re going to edit that out, right? You can’t tell people about ostrich pooh dreams; that's like the #1 rule on the blogosphere. Seriously Dave, if ever there was a time for self-censorship …. Hey! Stop waving that cursor around the publish button … wait, what if the Queen reads your blog? You can’t say ostrich pooh to the queen!
What was I going to talk about again? (Don’t worry. This does not mean that granola bars will not be the main focus of this post.) Oh yeah, filing out forms and bureaucratic stuff. I don’t like that stuff. I am terrible at it. But that’s not why I don’t like it. (I like plenty of stuff I’m terrible at, for example, base jumping.) I don’t actually know why I don’t like it, but I don’t. I pity the foo-orm-completing person who has to complete forms all day long. Anyway, this is all probably part of the reason I have screwed-up my passport application 3 times already. Actually, only one of those things had to do with what I’m talking about, but …
Sorry, that paragraph started to bore me, so I dosed off. Luckily I have reawakened in a library that is in an underground cave with Vikings and disco balls! Wait a minute, those aren’t Vikings. Where was I? Oh yeah. Yesterday I was planning on spending all night (again) finishing some essay on Thomas More and Daniel DeFoe and plagues—“I’m not dead. Yes you are, shut up!”—until someone at the library told me that it isn’t due for another 5 days. Hooray for sleep! I thought to myself, as I rolled under the bus. But then I thought: why did I get that date wrong? Usually the only kinds of dates I get wrong involve Roxanne—“Oh, you meant PM. That explains why it was so dark.” (British accent: I say, that was a most disappointing pun. To the cricket field, Chauncey!)
I think the reason that I got it wrong is that I have been anxious about the future, specifically, about being accepted into a Bachelor of Education (or equivalent) program. This is normal, I think, since it’s a major life … lifey thing. I mean, I think I’ll be a good teacher because I really want to be one, and my skill-set, such as it is, is suited to teaching. Also, people whose opinions I respect a lot (like Dr. Gardner and Juanita) have said I will be a good teacher. Yet the anxiety persists. I guess this is inevitable. It must be, I tried to evit it and I couldn’t. I’m worried that I’ll somehow mess up the application process, even thought here isn’t really much one can do to mess it up. All you have to do is write your name on a piece of paper, put that inside a crate of granola bars, then ship that to SFU, right? What could possibly go wrong? Ostriches, that’s what!
They’re out to get me. I had a dream, and it wasn’t the Martin Luther King kind. It was the 30-foot-giant-robotic-ostrich-trying-to-pooh-on-your-head-but-you-deflect-the-pooh-with-some-special-glove kind. That really happened, in my dream.
You’re going to edit that out, right? You can’t tell people about ostrich pooh dreams; that's like the #1 rule on the blogosphere. Seriously Dave, if ever there was a time for self-censorship …. Hey! Stop waving that cursor around the publish button … wait, what if the Queen reads your blog? You can’t say ostrich pooh to the queen!
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posted by DJH at 5:46 p.m.
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