Moose in the Kitchen

Psychic ability is said to be helped along by head injuries – especially if you clonk yourself in the center of the forehead. When I was in first grade, I fell face first into the sharp metal edge of a cafeteria bench, slicing myself under the left eye so blood poured festively all down the front of my pink and white sweatshirt. A year ago, I smacked into a mutinous water spigot and bloodied the top of my left eyebrow. Each head injury gets me closer to the forehead. The only conclusion a reasonable person could draw is that next time I shed blood from the neck up, I WILL BE ABLE TO READ YOUR MIND. So…we can all look forward to that.

You know, I vowed to start making these posts more coherent, gem-like examples of the essay genre rather than random paragraphs strung together with section headers in bold font.

That Day Is Not Today. Apparently.

I’m sitting in the library trying to quell my inbox from sky-leaping inferno to modest campfire. I like the stark smugness of an empty inbox. For reference, my inbox has only been smugly stark twice – once when I opened the account and then for one brief shining moment in July of 2009. I like clearing things out, mentally and physically. It lends an airy feeling of making way for something new. And then the new falls on top of your head and you’re just as buried as ever. But we are valiant humans and can, on very rare occasions, stand triumphantly over our small domain, confident that everything is just where it should be. (For the record, it’s not. Not in my domain, anyway. But a girl can dream.)

My Keen Discernment Has Discerned…

That a good half of my desire to find a significant other can be attributed to feeling somewhat attention starved. On Monday, I got fawned over for a good four hours – this was an event that deserves its own blog post – and that’s when it hit me. My god. I just want someone to pay attention to me. Seriously. It feels a little odd – self-centered? – admitting that, but it also makes sense. I work from home and I live alone. I spend a lot of time with only my (alarmingly blank) walls and the inside of my head for company. While I do very adamantly Need My Space, I’m also a social creature and, frankly, kind of an affection whore. Monday night, high on hours upon hours of attention and realizing that I was having a good hair day the likes of which I might never have again, I decided to leave my cave for a beer. And managed to end up on a date. (Date = 1 hug.) Then I managed to leverage someone I met on the Infamous Weekend o’ Yukon Jack into a friend for steak sandwich-eating and library faux-working. (Friend = 1 hug.) THAT’S TWO HUGS IN AS MANY DAYS. Not to mention other human beings in my personal sphere of the world, human beings I could reach out and poke right now if I succumbed to the urge. I feel so much better, I can’t even tell you.

I probably won’t finish cleaning out my inbox or become psychic today, but I bet I can con another hug.

Related posts:

1. You Can’t Fight City Hall
2. Life is in the Cards
3. Zsa Zsa Gabor Would Approve. Deena Kastor Would Not.
4. Demonstrating Who’s Boss (Hint: Me)
5. Puritans May Not Be Much For Drinking, But Boy Can They Compose a Stirring Pamphlet