You Know I'm a Writer By...

My rough drafts. Gosh, they're a mess. But sometimes, out of that heap of chicken scratch, comes a masterpiece.

The pencils which are constantly behind my ear, lost in my hair, in my coat pocket.

The way I watch people. I stand close enough to listen, but far enough to observe. (Like a total creep.)

My purse. Inside it you'll always discover post it notes I've written to myself, a little notebook, and at least 5 different pens/pencils.

The way I personify others. As soon as I see someone, they are immediately given a story. I'm sure most, if not all, of my scenarios are inaccurate but, in my mind, that's who these people become. 

The thoughts bouncing around inside my head. I'm constantly forming a song, a poem, a story, or even a blog post. Truth of the matter is, there are too many. And most of them never make it past a few half-formed sentences.

The books I choose to read. If it's a classic, I want to read it. Afterward I'll give you my honest opinion on whether it deserves all the fuss. (Wuthering Heights? Definitely does not. It's written well but I can't stand how shallow the characters are. Jane Eyre, on the other hand, will forever be one of my favorite reads.)

Note Taking and Tricks Up the Ol' Sleeve

This afternoon there was another group outside the student union telling people if they were going to heaven or...not. Everyone besides them fit into the "not" category. I'm pretty sure it's the same people who called me a whore-monger last week. (Although, apparently, that's only what guys are called. Girls are just plain old whores. They cleared this all up for us today, it was quite considerate really.) Anyway, I sat back from the crowd just enough to avoid all of the chaos but still close enough to hear them and took notes for a paper I'm going to write. For over an hour. I probably looked like a creep sitting there observing everyone, all the while my little pencil scratching away. Love it. That's why I'm going into writing. Anyway, after collecting about 4 pages of notes I headed on back to my apartment. As I was pulling in I saw a HyVee van. "Hmm," I thought, "someone must be getting a delivery." And then I continued on up to my little living space. (Which I LOVE, by the way. Having my own place is super exciting! Stephanie and I had our first movie party last weekend and hosted our Sunday dinner. I feel as if we're little Martha Stewarts!) Then I got a phone call from the apartment complex. What the heck!? I'm not late for any bills. So, of course I answered it to find out what was going on. "You have a delivery. Would you like me to bring it up to you?" Omygoodness! A delivery for me! I wasn't expecting anything to come so this was a nice little surprise. What could it be?! When she (Hannah is her name) got to my door I, of course, opened it and I had flowers! It wasn't my birthday or Valentines Day and no one had died or anything so I was pretty sure this might be a mistake. But alas, it was no mistake. I had gone on a nice, casual, fun date last weekend and he, the guy I went on the date with, had sent me flowers just because.  Someone had sent me flowers just because! No one had ever sent me flowers just because. I always wanted to get flowers just because! =) Oh and did I mention there was also a cute little teddy bear tied on with a ribbon? No? Well there was. Ooh buddy...we're playing hardball now and you sure have some good tricks up your sleeve.

Witnessing History/ Creeping

Today I witnessed the shortest skirt known to mankind. I'm pretty sure I was just a part of history and, someday, our children will read about that skirt in their textbooks and there, in the background of the picture, I will be. Wide-eyed and all. I wish I could have snapped a photo of this skirt to prove it to you, but it was a hit and run and unfortunately, I could not. I seriously cannot explain to you how short it was, I honestly don't believe you could even call it a skirt, perhaps some sort of strange underwear. I don't know. When I sent my mom a text informing her of this grandeur moment in time, (Yes. I text my mom. Quite often actually.) she asked where the picture was; after relating the tragic news that I didn't have time to collect evidence, the conversation carried on as follows:

Mom: Ahh...your ole mother would've taken one.Very inconspicuously...
Me: Haha like you did with the hippie in Colorado? Reeaaal inconspicuous.
Mom: Or like the bum in D.C...I'm a pro
Me: Ahh creeping. It's truly a hidden art.

Good ol' mom. I love her. =) Just so you know, the hippie wasn't subtle AT all. She grabbed my camera and very openly took a snapshot of him. I have to hand it to her though, getting the picture of the hobo on the side of the street was quite sneaky. She pretended like she was taking a picture of one of the guys who went with us in our group, even having him smile and pose, but she secretly zoomed in through the crook of his arm and captured a timeless photo of the only true hobo I have ever seen. Oh mother dear, how you've passed on your skills.