People You Don’t Even Know Think You Are Amazing
I’m back. My bloggy absence has weighed on you deeply, I’m sure. Maybe a little too much. Seriously, your inability to function without a new daily posting from yours truly—well, it borders on excess.
Still, I can understand your addiction to reading about the minutiae of my life. You’re no doubt dying to hear about my inability to light my grill or my favorite font (remagg_cz) or my annoyance at having to replace cyan before I can continue to print in black and white or my attempts to sell my RAV even though it can’t be test driven since it doesn’t like to turn left or right. (You can’t take the car around the block, but you can drive it straight until you hit a dead end or run out of gas. If that’s not the sign of an awesome car, I don’t know what is.)
It has been a busy week. Yesterday, for example, I got up at 4:30 a.m., rocked out 3 hours of work, biked to my Heart of the Novel class, spent 3 hours in class, biked home, did 2 hours of client work, biked to a meeting, biked back to Lighthouse, attended a 2.5 hour class, went to Cheryl Strayed’s book reading from 7:45-9:15, tied garbage bags around my shoulder bag to keep out torrential rain, hauled ass back home, dried off, and did 2 more hours of work.
While biking I took the picture above. The words are painted on a big metal box on a street corner. It’s the kind of box that contains electricity or a secret sewer entrance or bomb shelter supplies or telephone wires or water pipes or Internet technology. Can I be more specific? No. I just told you that people you don’t even know think you’re amazing. That should be sufficient.