Ponderings
Writer’s block
The portions at restaurants are getting smaller. Or at least, they are at Cheeseburger in Paradise. There was (as usual) not nearly enough popcorn shrimp in the cone for 3 people for appetizers (perhaps because it’s not meant for 3, but whatever). And while the bacon burger was greasy goodness, they were stingy on the fries. I think I was the only one at the table who cleaned by plate. Maybe I’m just a pig. I mean, I’ve gained 3-5 pounds this month. I thought it was the meds, but it’s probably just the fact that I am a fatass.
As has become the norm, we headed to Starbucks after dinner, and the closest one happened to be inside a Barnes & Noble. I perused the rows of books with my Venti Mocha with Whip (I had to make up for the small number of fries somehow), reminding myself that I would not be buying books as I have a perfectly good library card to use. This, of course, steered me right towards the wall lined with ugly, pretty, thick and thin writing journals.
I love the look and the feel of a new, empty journal. Lined paper, waiting to be written on. The spine is still new, not bent and creased. You can get them with buckles, with straps, recycled or not, thick or thin, large lines or small, or unlined if you’re a masochist. I have kept a journal in some form since the Christmas before my eleventh birthday. My grandparents got me one of those journals with a combo lock (I think the combo is MOM - ha!) and a girl staring out her window on the cover. I am still of the belief, to this day, that the girl looks like Sara Gilbert, but with lighter hair.
Anyway, I don’t believe I have ever finished a journal. There are always empty pages at the end, and I always convince myself that it’s the wrong journal. I bought a nice one with a suede-like cover a few years ago, thinking that if I spent twenty bucks on a notebook, I’d use it. Yeah, not so much. A couple of years ago, I bought one that you can refill. Great, I can write and write and then I will have volumes of black notebooks that someone can read when I’m dead. Except the first one is still in the cover and it’s about an eighth full. Oops?
So, I found myself staring at the wall again last night, sipping my chocolate coffee goodness, wondering which volume would be good for a fiction notebook - one I could keep with me so that I could copy down stupid conversations while people watching, later incorporating them into a story. Fortunately, Steve showed up before I could make a final decision on where to waste my ten dollars most inappropriately, and I left empty-handed.
Except for the mocha. Because nothing comes between a fatass and her extra-large Starbucks drink.
Discussion
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How fantastic that you keep a journal! That’s something that’s likely a dying activity, what with blogs and all. However, I know there are few of us who blog all of our thoughts for the world to see, and thus much goes unrecorded. I need to pick up a journal and start doing that. It would be a nice outlet when compared to the boring stuff I have to write about all day at work. Plus I’d look so much more pensive while sitting at the coffee shop.
Another Conchords note: I ended up having to buy the DVDs so I can watch them anytime I want. I believe my favorite song is Foux du Fafa. Gloriously silly!