i think i am too behind now to do the best of 09 blog challenge. oh well. it was a good thought.

this morning i got up early, again, and applied for a job at the co-op. i was thinking about applying for other jobs too, but the lady at the co-op said "oh, we're always hiring. we'll call you in a week or something," and the co-op is where i want to work the most because i miss working with food and everyone who works there always seems so damn happy, and they pay enough that i can make my loan payments, save money so i can go on trips whenever i need to run away, and only work 30 hours a week. this is one of the joys of living in buffalo.

on my way to and from the co-op, i almost slipped and fell on my bum approximately 45 times. i stopped counting after 20 because it was distracting me from not falling. ice is my least favorite thing about winter (except when it coats tree branches, then it is one of my top five favorite things about winter).

until i get a job, i am looking forward to learning how to use a sewing machine without tangling the thread, watching law and order, and spending a lot of time writing letters to people who i love in distant places, and spending a lot of time in my bed.

here are two things i wrote this time last year. one mine, one stolen. it is a season of anniversaries.

it's the darkest time of year. i grew up reading stories about trolls and norse gods, st. lucia and forest fairies. i eat lingonberries on my pancakes. these few weeks leading up to the solstice, night increasing in length and power, make my blood sing. even if the rest of winter does throw me into an embarassingly resounding and enduring funk, these weeks...they're mine. when i'm not holed up in tleaves shelving and making lists of books i want "someday," im'a be outside in the lake effect snowglobe making the best of them. - 12/8/08

My brother and I used to play a game. I'd point to a chair. "THIS IS NOT A CHAIR," I'd say. Bird would point to the table. "THIS IS NOT A TABLE." "THIS IS NOT A WALL," I'd say. "THAT IS NOT A CEILING." We'd go on like that. "IT IS NOT RAINING OUT." "MY SHOE IS NOT UNTIED!" Bird would yell. I'd point to my elbow. "THIS IS NOT A SCRAPE." Bird would lift his knee. "THIS IS ALSO NOT A SCRAPE!" "THAT IS NOT A KETTLE!" "NOT A CUP!" "NOT A SPOON!" "NOT DIRTY DISHES!" We denied whole rooms, years, weathers. Once, at the peak of our shouting, Bird took a deep breath. At the top of his lungs, he shrieked: "I! HAVE NOT! BEEN! UNHAPPY! MY WHOLE! LIFE!" "But you're only seven," I said." - from The History of Love