I am so sorry. I was going to write a beautiful post for you about midnight hikes and nieces and the zoo (twice) and school and playgrounds and German and froyo and Jester'z, but I kept having no time to write a post the way all posts deserve to be written, and the longer I went without time for writing, the more there was to write about, so the more time I needed for writing, and pretty soon it all started resembling that Infiniti commercial with the giant snowball that rolls down the mountain, and now my metaphorical car is totaled. Dang it.
Although, other than some slight agitation and the lingering feeling that I've been a rather fail-tacular bloggess the past few weeks, I can't really feel that bad about it all. I didn't have time to blog about my life because I was busy living it. There's a beautiful quandary.
Generally, I don't feel like I really do much living. I'm alive and all, but in a quiet, homebody sort of way. It's genetic. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love cuddling up with my books and doodling and marathoning cult TV shows on Netflix, but every once in a while I start to wonder if maybe I'm doing it wrong. I'll never be a full-time Liver, one of those people always going, going, going, but sometimes it's nice to--Ahaha!
I just noticed my unintentional funny. "Liver." As in the internal organ that deals with toxins and produces bile and stuff. I'm sure there's some deep metaphor there. I'm only pointing it out because it completely derailed my already rickety train of thought.
I suppose the destination I was headed towards was some grandiose thought about being out of the world for a spell and liking to walk it awhile.
I've never had so many high-energy friends; it boggles my mind, but I'm perfectly happy to ride along in their wake.
This living business is wild. Why, I'd say it's almost like an adventure!
Listening to: "Alles Neu" by Peter Fox
Reading: The Fault in Our Stars by John Green