I sometimes don't charge my cell phone on purpose. I know it's bad, but sometimes i kind of look at the last bar of battery, and then I look at my charger, and then I look at my solitude and I think, "You know, I could be unreachable for a while and that would be fine by me." I think this is a hold over of spending an entire summer cell phone-less, and my incredibly bad phone karma of the past few years, but sometimes I like the idea that if somebody wants to talk to me, they're really going to have to work for it. Plus, I like not getting all the somewhat urgent, "Oh my God where are you, you have a car and I was really hoping you could _________." phone calls, which are generally all about coffee and cigarettes, which I think says a lot about your average college student (or maybe just my group of friends). Either way, sometimes not setting the alarm and not getting a million phone calls is nice, especially when you've spent two weeks in motion and you just need to stop, collaborate (with yourself?), and listen (to nothing?). (I can't help myself sometimes with the song lyrics. It's a sickness.)
I think I enjoy cleaning my ears too much. It gives me a feeling of accomplishment that is rivaled only by cutting my toe nails.
I have trained myself to actively crave ramen noodles. Oh, the sodium. Delicious, delicious sodium.
I am choosing to think of this as a life skill - could I perhaps put it on a resume? Also, I'm starting to wonder if I can put everything on a resume. Things from, "I make quiche!" to "Dude, I can totally head bang better than anyone you know, probably. Check out my head of hair!" These are the things that I will probably not need in an office setting, but I can't imagine why not.
I become irrationally furious at all weight loss commercials. This is because it's always like this: "Hey, if you're fat, then you're unhappy! But if you're fixing your body situation you're going to want to dance and smile and you'll have friends! The only way to have friends is to lose weight! Oh, God, lose that weight! Lose it, fatty!" It makes me want to shake the television and say things like, "Do you know how many girls you just convinced that bulimea is the way to go, motherfucking ad agents!?"
My window overlooks the yard of my across the street neighbors. It's an entire family from grandparents down that lives in one big white, gabled house. In the front yard, the grandmother is gardening. She's wearing a red flowery skirt and a bright yellow apron and a big blue straw hat. Every now and then she stops and rubs at the lower part of her back before bending back to the earth, which is dark and still wet. When she digs her spade into the ground she does it with regular even motions - it looks amazingly the same every time. And for all that she's old, and the white fuzz of her hair escapse from the confines of the hat, wisps over her thin, brown neck, as she digs, it looks perfectly effortless. Her arm pulls back and goes forward, and dirt spills off the dark metal like she's moving in water. Like her bones don't hurt, which they must, because when she walks her legs shake and she holds onto whatever's closest to her. But now, she turns digs at an even pace, humming to herself a tune that the wind carries into my apartment every now and then - just little snitches of something that sounds like a hymn whenever the breeze strikes right. Every now and then, she turns her face toward the tall, white barked tree above her, and the cloud dotted sky above that, and she laughs.
"Lord have mercy," she said one time. "The real spring has come, at last."