Words

In my younger years I would lay down on my back next to a pile of books, one leg propped up on the other and read. With the book upside-down. Why? Obviously because that was the cool way to do it. And I was cool.

I like words. I like books. I like pens. I like paper. I have friends who would buy bras instead of a notebook. Weirdos. Personally, I find adjectives more fun than boob-support.

Over the years of my schooling I have perfected my handwriting to a unique font. Oh, speaking of, I waste my time searching for anomalous fonts for my computer. It's just that exciting.

There are many theories that I have explored that may explain my peculiar interests. Among them are: my mother fell during my residency in her womb; Jane Austen's soul has taken over my body; or I have caught a permanent case of writing fever.

I commonly feel a need to write (usually while I'm supposed to be writing a paper for a professor -- which I love doing). And I feel that need now.

During the summer, my family travels. A lot. I recently returned from a trip to a city I simply adore. Chicago is messy pony-tails, business men, and shiny revolving doors; it's lengthy walks in high-heels and the thrill of public transportation. (For me, Chicago also equals babies, for all our friends there have been blessed with at least one.) Whenever I saw a for-sale sign, I wanted to take it down. If I can't live there, no one else should, right?

Now, I am in Michigan, on the farm, where our abnormally large family is always present. We hug, eat, we play in the grass and love.

Before we get back home for the rest of the summer, my family is making a stop at our country's capitol. That should be fun. The truth is, though, with our family anything could happen.