Ever have one of those moments when you realize you’ve matured?
Mom mentioned it in one of her posts recently. It’s a little harder for me to see myself growing up, but I notice the little things.
Hey, there. Do you really want to know why I’m so sad today?
It’s a long story. No, it’s a really long story. I was kicked out of a country back when I was fourteen, and I get sad every year around when it happened. Then I go through the archives of my family’s blog to relive the events as they happened. That makes sure the whole thing is one big bittersweet mess.
Here’s how you play right back in soccer: take a look at Mathaus, and do the opposite of what he’s doing.
No, that’s not because I’m an amazing left back and you just need to mirror my actions.
Today I met my current arch nemesis. Laugh all you want, because it was a little blue Honda. I’m a good enough driver at this point in my life that cars don’t scare me anymore (well, until I think about all the other people on the road) but this car had something a little out of the ordinary.
I’m talking about a manual transmission. The kind with a clutch… and the stick of doom.
There comes a time in every man’s life when he looks out at the world and says to himself:
“What the heck happened?”
It’s been one of those years.
I wrote a short story on October 18th, 2015. It’s ten pages long— the result of a particularly vivid dream I had. (I won’t bore you with the details. Dreams should be summed up in one sentence or not at all.) I did nothing with the story until May of the following year, when I did something I would never, ever normally do. I wrote a sequel. Then I wrote another. And another. And another.
In our family, there’s this guy named Mathaus. In the same person, there’s also this guy named Yaya.
Go ahead. Laugh. I bet your family nickname was Mr. Fluff.
“I’m Pooh,” said Pooh.
“I’m Tigger,” said Tigger. —A.A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner
Squeals of delight.
Dad has been reading A.A. Milne’s beloved Winnie the Pooh stories to my younger siblings for the past few weeks, just like he did with me and Jack. Though the tales have been enjoyed by all (even me, listening in as I wash dishes) there has been one fateful question asked every night.
Ever had a pumpkin field you’re not sure what to do with?
The season is over. All the pumpkins have been brought in and sold. The brush is slowly moving back into the plot you evicted it from in the spring.