Resurrection

Hello!

All my fellow bloggers dear
Have written something new this year,
So I suppose
It's time I chose
To try and put up something here.

Because rhyming lines to form a limerick, even one that's in no way remarkable, makes it seem like I put in more effort than I actually did.
Also, not ALL my blogger friends have posted; just most of them.

On new year's eve, I considered writing a line and posting it so I could complete it later and pretend I'd taken the trouble to finish the year off with a proper post. That was before I realized that it would probably make all my future posts a couple of lines long (and not in an awesome way like http://www.dullestblog.com/) and that I'd rather be partying with my friends than writing a half-hearted post.
This paragraph has the word "post" too many times. Post.

If you're wondering about the silent months before new year's eve, here's a list of the exciting events in my life that prevented me from blogging:

1. Nothing.
>
>
>
>
(Wait for it . . .)
>
>
(I actually find this symbol annoying when it's used as a spacemaker.)
*
*
*Post. Also my favourite cereal brand ever.*
*
*
2. Hold on, I'm sure there's . . . oh, sorry. Still nothing.
*
*
*
*
3. I always think of a third thing when I'm listing stuff. (Thank you, Liz Lemon.)

Now, because I haven't blogged in ages (Wow, I really didn't think it had been THAT long!) and because I feel like I should add pictures whenever possible, I've made a visual representation of the resurrection of my blog.

There. Make of it what you will.

By the way, if I were a dead fish, this is how I would want to be treated:

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Ramsay rocks!!!!

Nothing

Running helter-skelter, busy, trying to score, 

Each day nearly just the same as the one before,

Schedules to stick to, deadlines to meet, 

Running along on two sore, tired feet 

Wishing time would let you do just a little more. 

Or maybe nothing at all.

Rub your eyes, wake up at a quarter to four,

Each day nearly just the same as the one before,

Nothing exciting, no people to meet,

Look out the window at the empty street

Wishing you were able to do just a little more 

Instead of nothing at all.

Then one day you realize you’ve had enough, you’re done.

Step out of the narrow life, step into the sun.

Close your eyes, feel the gentle heat,

The earth so soft, the air so sweet,

Telling you to open your mind and do something fun.

And maybe just a little bit

Of nothing. 

A Tale of Two Tees

It was the best of tees, it was the worst of tees.

Well, not quite. They were both regular black T-shirts. Also, they weren’t very different. You could mistake one for the other quite easily if you flipped them back to front. Or if you looked at the front and were illiterate, maybe. Basically, as I mentioned before, they were both regular black T-shirts.

*****

We first noticed T1 when it mysteriously emerged from the washing machine. 

Now I hadn’t seen any of my cousins actually wear it, but I hadn’t seen anyone else wear it either, and since the cousins leave behind some of their clothes every time they’re here, I assumed it belonged to one of them and promptly adopted it as my own.

T1 was just the kind of T-shirt I like: big, black, unfussy, and, to put it in one word, extremely convenient. (Okay, two words.) As the months went by, T1 simply became mine.

*****

A few months ago, a friend of mine came over for a couple of days, and when he left, he left one of his T-shirts behind. I’d seen him wear it when he was here, so luckily for him, we just hung on to it (and I didn’t start wearing it). I told him it was with me, and he said he missed it, and that was the end of that.

Or so I thought. But boy, was I wrong!

Turned out he threw a fit because he was totally upset and wanted his Van Gogh T-shirt (let's call this one T2) back.

It wasn’t actually autographed by Van Gogh or anything. If it were, I wouldn't tell him about it; I'd just secretly wear it.

It might be worth mentioning that he didn’t actually throw a fit (not one that I know of, at least). It's just funnier this way because he doesn’t seem that temperamental a guy I needed to say that here because he may read this.

Eventually, through some long-winded process that I still don’t quite get, someone came over to collect T2 and took it to him. It traveled way more than he did, and that was the last I ever saw of it.

Strangely enough, it was at around this time that my friend who lives downstairs came home and saw me wear T1. She stared at it for a few moments and said, “My sister used to have a tee exactly like this.” (Ah, so that's who it belonged to!) She said they'd forgotten about its existence, and we had a good laugh about it.

A few days later, I went to return the washed T-shirt and was told to keep it. After a few minutes of debating, I figured they really weren’t going to keep it, so I took it back home.

So, although an autographed Van Gogh T-shirt would have been brilliant, it's not something I would have got anyway. I doubt such a T-shirt exists at all. Besides, to wrap up this story, T1 is a far, far better thing that I own than I have ever done.

P. S. - If you haven't read A Tale of Two Cities, you really should. Dickens at his best, if you ask me, and one of the most brilliant classics ever!