On Wednesday my group and I spend four hours editing the methodology section of our research paper. It would have taken half the time if we did not log onto Facebook every single time we reached a point of indecision. It would have taken a quarter of the time if I did not have to change everyone's "I's" and "our's" into passive voice.
And during this group editing session, I suggest that room smells a lot like blueberry muffins and that somebody should bring food next time. And five seconds later, I realize how gay that just sounded.
And during this group editing session, one of my colleagues tells me I have a "way with words." This is the third time in my entire life that I have heard somebody say this to me. I know because every time it happens, I carve a mark three inches above my left (your right) nipple to keep tally. So upon hearing this, I am extremely tempted to drop everything and take up a career as a novelist in the Tuscan hills. I can get Polish immigrants to renovate my house. I can fall in love with an Italian man who is completely uninterested in a long-term relationship. I can be BFFs with Sandra Oh.
And I will continue blogging, albeit in Italian: a language that I manage to pick up 3 months 15 days 4 hours and 24 seconds. And as I type up a post about how my life still sucks on my HP special edition laptop in ceramic white, I'll sip on some wine to go with the whine.
But I could never write novels because I can't write anything longer than 500 words in length. So that's that.
Figure 1: And I imagine my days would go something like this. With the Barilla Man. Who is perfect because he loves children and al dente spaghetti.
And the meeting probably would have been shorter if I hadn't been thinking about this.