Brown pants.

I really wanted to wear my comfy brown pants today. But I didn't. I wore my less comfy, but still brown, pants instead.

I want a job where I can wear whatever the F I want. Is there one of those out there? Is there really anything stopping me beside some obsolete over-ambitious dress code? Ahh...

I've been thinking lately. Pretty dangerous ideas, actually. I'm working on my MAT. I had actually looked at a MFA program in creative writing, a long distance residency program, before applying for this teaching gig. And I think I should have done that. I'm not writing nearly enough. Not writing good stuff, stuff that is being read and looked at and devoured for the thoughts behind it. I am thankful I've committed to blogging, that at least has kept me from going crazy. But I need to feed my soul too. Write something with soul, flesh, a tongue and taste.

Three little girls just walked by, their inchworm piggy tails sticking straight up from the tops of their heads, blonde at the base and white at the tips. Beautiful eyes, big and wide, still young and full of unquestioning love. I try to emulate those eyes sometimes--staring wide with my mouth open in an almost smile, but it's never as innocent, and never quite as cute. I end up looking like a cupiedoll, (I say that because I've been called that several times recently, though I'm not sure what exactly they are, or their uses) some kind of mismatched face/body/heart of frandkenstein pieces put together for a museum of horrors.