We, my friends, are going time traveling.
I’ll admit, this is partly an attempt to make sure I post at least once a week, even when I’m swamped by school and have no time to write. My first day of classes — that is, the day I start taking Mechanics I, Fluid Mechanics, Thermodynamics, Computer-Aided Design, and Engineering Math A and B — is August 25th, and I only have a week left before I ship off across the country. I want to keep blogging. Nay, I SHALL keep blogging. But just in case, I’ve invented my own version of Throwback Thursday: Mini-Me Mondays.
Each Monday (or so I hope), you’ll hear from a special guest writer. I’m bringing in the cavalry here, guys, and you know the coolest part? It’s still ME.
Most of the pieces will be pre- high school, I think, although anything that seems juvenile enough and tickles my fancy will probably make its way here eventually. I might publish it raw, with just a date to specify exactly when in the prehistoric era I wrote it. I might polish it up. I might comment on it. Anything’s possible, really. You never know what might happen when you start tinkering with time travel. First Mini-Me Monday is projected to take place in three days…see you in the future!
When I was twelve, I lived in a rental house. Our plans to update the kitchen had turned briefly into a kitchen and bathroom renovation before morphing into a complete house remodel. Since our real home was stripped down to the studs, my family was forced to relocate for about a year.
It wasn’t terrible. It was weird, though, having to worry about not changing things. No customizing here — like the ideal public bathroom, we would leave it cleaner than we found it.
My bedroom walls were red. Not bright, R: 255 G: 0 B: 0 red, more like a deep red wine, burgundy color. It was cool for the first week, but the dark walls made for a dark atmosphere. I don’t actually remember anything about the room, because I never spent any time in it. All the fun happened out of doors.
In the back-back yard — there were two, sort of — there was a huge grassy space with an enormous tree at the back fence. Up the fifty foot ladder, up the rungs built into the tree, and I could just reach the plastic green handles of the zip line. I flew. Past the tree branches, past the mini apple orchard, and straight at the shed, painted red with white accents to look like a barn. The house owners had kindly left a big piece of plyboard leaning there so I could slam my feet into it before I crashed into the shed.
One time, I forgot to prop the board back up before I jumped. Continue reading
I hate becoming an adult.
Childhood is a warm, fuzzy place where it’s never your fault, where there is always an excuse for your mistakes–even if the excuse is that you’re young.
Adulthood means responsibility. Maybe on occasion there is a reason, but there is never an excuse. Adulthood means being self-motivated, with no parents or teachers holding your hand or pushing you along. Adulthood means making choices that are yours and yours alone, and accepting their consequences.
In theory, I have no problem with being an adult. It’s the transition that kills me.