So there's this chick, and she's got this cute little blog called huminbean, except that she only writes things like "i'm tired and am going to bed" in it. Then she wonders why no-one's horribly interested in what she has to say. The problem is that she's telling the truth, she really is tired, and when she's tired can't think of anything to say. No, that's not entirely it, it's also that what she would most likely say she's already said to a lot of other people that day or written in her journal, and as much as there is evidence to dispute this, her brain doesn't like to go around in circles. Maybe it's that her brain goes around in circles enough in normal life that in her blog she wants to be Fresh! and New! (tm) but then she's too tired to be so.

Enough talking in the third person, you all know I mean me. Or did I...? (Cue sinister music here)

You can't escape having emotional baggage once you start dabbling in sex, love, relationships. There will always be 'the one who left me', 'the one I left', and so on in variations until you keel over. I'm missing someone a little these days, and I have my reasons (he was tall, and was good to lean on, among others) but it's not something I can pick up again. It's like an oil painting I never finished but it's too dry to work with now. I wash my dishes and I tell myself to stop thinking about him, and sometimes it works.

And then there are all the other boys I don't feel for but are here and have interests, which I have entertained to varying degrees. And the wreckage of those is small, and easily left behind, mostly because there were no feelings on my side to start with. I don't feel bad about this; on the contrary, I feel as though I am single and happy at it, and this is a manifestation of it.

You thought I would write something intellectual, didn't you? No, no. Nothing about war or culture or life. I figure you can make your own decisions. Plus, I'm tired, and going to bed. Natch!

'Months before I go' turns into 'weeks before I go'.

The season winds down, 'last drinks' happen with everyone. Everyone's question turns to "are you staying for the summer?" instead of "where do you work?" That used to be the most popular way to start a conversation here. Not the most interesting, granted, but most popular. Kind of like the Steak Potato and Cheese pie, but I digress.

I think I may go up the hill one last time, before I go and before the snow melts. But I really have to get my ass in gear and my fear of getting hurt conquered, all at once, and then go rent some stuff and get up there. Getting my 'instructor' for the day helps too--yay Will!

Enough shout-outs. Time for bed.

Skunk cabbages. This plant grows everywhere in the swamps around here, and it looks like an alien invasion of bright-as-yellow hoods, skulking around the undergrowth. Don't they know they don't blend in? Maybe it's like crickets, how they can't actually hear the noise they make when they scritch their wings together: maybe the alien skunk cabbages are perfectly camouflaged in some sense that they have and we don't.

Spring is coming, if not already here. The mountains are still amazing and alive, huge beautiful presences around me. I don't care if that sounds all touchy-feely-hippie, I really don't.

I'm packing, and planning my trip home, and still trying to remain sane. I think I'm doing an admirable job. Pat me on the back, wouldja?