Bon(ne?) Decembre

Well, here I am, 25 years old and on my way to getting a master's degree in air, and I still don't know how to post pictures to my blog. Someone do it for me.

Obvious moment of the day: I haven't posted to this thing in a while. I've been working, going to school, and watching Breaking Bonaduce and America's Next Top Model. Oh and trying to write a novel, which I've recently realized is hardened dog doo. There's a girl in my class who yesterday pontificated on her exhaustion at hearing other people in the writing program say they're horrid writers, and how they're merely doing this to get affirmation from it. Rest assured that this is not me. I am egotistic enough to know when I am good, and visionary enough to know how to convince myself that something bad is ahead of its time, but even this novel is out of my reach. In other word(s): BORING.

People have begun putting up their trees. There is nothing more beautiful or more accurate than walking your dog at night, and the streets are quiet with cold, and every couple of windows a tree is twinkling with tiny white lights. Once, I saw a couple sitting on their couch just looking at their tree. She had her head on his shoulder. It made me want to go home and snuggle. Then, when I got home, the snuglee said something along the lines of, "I think I have dy-dy. I took some Pepto," and all was lost. Even Lulu wouldn't snuggle, preferring instead to curl into a hockey puck on our bed and huzz every time I came near her. I had to get close with Cold Case Files for a while. That Bill Kurtis is a giver.

I got my hair cut and dyed and nobody noticed. Those are the best kinds of haircuts.

I'm reading Housekeeping, by Marilynne Robinson, and it's incredibly frustrating because every sentence is perfect. There's nothing to skim over. I've tried, and it just ends up with me having to turn back two pages and read everything all over again. I'd say that when I'm done reading it I'll have read it at least three times. My next book: Madame Bovary by a little flower named Flaubert, which I will read in French, because I'm getting rusty.

It's snowing right now. Nothing is whiter.