Wow, that "I want a cool car!" line turned into a big rambly paragraph. Yes folks, I think I am destined to write. My new next door neighbor is coming over for tea and scones today, so that should be delightful. My new neighbors are awesome. I picked some corn from the garden, but the deer and bugs keep getting in and eating bits of vegetables, so we'll have to cut parts of the corn off. But I love corn on the cob! I have my own special way of eating it too. I don't know if any of you have ever watched me eat corn on the cob, but it's interesting. I pick off a couple rows on the bottom and sometimes the top with my fingers and eat them. Then I pick off 3 or 4 columns of kernels. After that, I go down the columns, pulling the kernels off with my thumb or bottom teeth. Sometimes I leave a few strategically-placed kernels so the cob has a face. By the time I'm finished, all that's left is an empty cob, cleaner than anyone else's corn cob. It usually takes me half an hour to eat corn, and my family finds it amusing.
That must have been a boring paragraph. I've been playing Pokemon too much recently. I'm not at all prepared to go back to school (though I did buy some school supplies today and had to deal with my sis bugging me to get the "cool" stuff instead of the cheap stuff). Oh well.
Gee whiz, what I lack in height I must compensate for in width. I was walking to the bathroom, and my hip knocked into a bulletin board, so now it's hanging by one corner. I need kitty whiskers or something, because I am one heck of a klutz. I tend to bang into walls and doorways wherever I go, and I trip over stuff, knock things over, and generally wreak havoc every time I move. I can innocently walk by a door or cabinet, and my sleeve or pants or something will snag on the handle. I don't watch where I fling my appendages, and I end up knocking things off tables or stubbing my toes. Once I knocked some poor girl's drink off her desk in the middle of one of my classes a year or so ago. In high school, whenever I made something ceramic in an art class, even if I was super careful carrying it home (wrapping it in gym clothes and stuff), half the time I'd manage to break or chip it. In 8th grade, Kathy called me Senorita Tripandfall for obvious reasons (we had lots of Senorita nicknames... I was also Senorita Whackamonkey, and she was Senorita Fucknblow, Senorita Dropthecandy, and Senorita Doorslam... I remember calling one of our substitute Spanish teachers Senorita Horkensmear, and that name still cracks me up...). Anyway, point is, I'm uber-clumsy. Clums-tastic?
Lunch time! Katie is so pathetic - she's 13 1/2 years old, and she can't even make her own lunch. Sheesh.
