I left my book at a friend’s house. A friend that has gone to visit his parents in Florida and won’t be back until the 29th.
Excuse me while I breathe into this paper bag.
You know the book, right? The book I carry in my purse, the one in which I write down such interesting thoughts as “that woman’s shirt is far too small to be comfortable” and “I no longer remember the Pythagorean Theory – am worried about my relationships with right triangles”.
I was shocked when I discovered that not all people carry notebooks. What do they do when they have ideas, need to make lists, witness something particularly amusing? Oh, sure. You tell yourself that your current thought is so clever that you couldn’t possibly forget it, but you will, you know you will!
I need this book! I’ve got pages and pages of smart aleck treatises in it, works of blurred, sometimes scatological observation which eventually make it to my blog and/or the sign in my front yard.
Just kidding. There is no sign in my front yard.
I once pulled this book out of my purse, on the bus, to jot down what I’m sure I thought was a bit of brilliant deduction when I overheard one person whisper to another, “Good God. Just shoot me if you ever see me writing in my diary on the bus. Pathetic.”
I had to laugh. It’s not a diary, you bozos! It’s a blog journal!
Diary. Pshhhhhhhhh. As if.
And now? Now here I am, blog-journal-less.
I feel a little undressed.
What if something entertaining happens on the bus tonight? What if I run into a celebrity lookalike or need to copy down some succulent bit of graffiti?
Do I write it on my hand? Call myself on my cell phone and whisper the play-by-play into my voice-mail?
Now who’s pathetic?!
35 minutes ago