Trying again. I like reading, cooking, working out, sleeping too late, writing, going to school, pretty clothes, trucks, makeup, fall, spring, birthdays.
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I’m sort of sick, in the way that I always get sick: which is to say, only annoyingly so. I’ve got a sore throat and a dry cough that won’t stop. It’s 3 a.m. It’s 3 a.m. and I’ve got a dry cough that won’t stop. I can’t go to sleep. How terrible is it to have a nasty tickle in your throat, acting up at the very minute you lay your head down next to a sweet, warm person?
That’s another picture of my new school. A teacher told me today that my comment on “No Haid Pawn” was beautiful and neato and he hoped that everyone wrote it down. I don’t take compliments well, and I don’t give them well, but for some reason I was really flattered that this professor I respect was respecting me back. I probably care too much about literature, especially about the small themes and “neato” little things, but it’s nice to know that there are successful people who care about those things too.
I’m going to go try to sleep and cough my lungs up some more. Hopefully tomorrow morning will be a little less sickly than tonight.
I once had a sparrow alight upon my shoulder for a moment, while I was hoeing in a village garden, and I felt that I was more distinguished by that circumstance than I should have been by any epaulet I could have worn.
— Thoreau.
If a fish is the movement of water embodied, given shape, then cat is a diagram and pattern of subtle air.
— So thinking about getting allergy shots and getting a cat.
I made it home on the train in one piece. It took four days, though, which felt like an eternity at times. I learned how boring America’s heartland is—America’s heart is evidently made of cornfields and decrepit industrial yards. I saw Chicago. Big place, busy place. I even met a couple people that I could enjoy sitting next to. Of course, I met some people who creeped me out and some who were insufferably dull. But all in all, it was a long trip and a fun trip, and it’s really a relief to know that I never have to fly again.
That up there? That’s my new school.
So tomorrow I get on a long train to North Carolina. I’ve packed all my stuff up (except my toothbrush), said goodbye to the people I’ll miss, and boxed my books so my dear mother can mail them for me.
I’m ready to be back—ready to spend time with Brandon again, ready to see my new school, ready to wear dresses instead of the winterish layers that Half Moon Bay requires. As always, though, it’s hard to leave.
Thanks everyone for the amazing summer. Let’s do it again for Christmas.
A scrupulous writer, in every sentence that he writes, will ask himself at least four questions, thus: 1. What am I trying to say? 2. What words will express it? 3. What image or idiom will make it clearer? 4. Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?
— George Orwell, Politics and the English Language, 1946.
