i counted five hangnails before i thought about milk and honey

the weekend consisted of stories. stories that were told this weekend and stories that will be told about this weekend.

the past fifty-two hours were filled with tapes (don't do them.), frequent bouts of raucous laughter, eyebrows, a nearly impossible genre, unavoidable references to Team America and one of the geekiest things ever, contorted faces, a pair of crutches and a wheelchair, bruises, scratches, dirty purple, crawling in cold gravel, people who didn't sleep, people who immediately fell asleep, people who lost it, technical difficulties and yelling at said difficulties, a plot to make me scream, dark hallways, big ideas, not enough time, a growing revelation (or two), the best pot roast/spaghetti i've had this year, new shoulders, our own composer, takes, sun chips, a crowbar, john williams, and a tiny fishbowl, among other things.

no awards but a certificate of participation.

all the rewards were in the time spent working.

the only thing i hate about it is myselfmyselfmyselfMYSELF.

well, alright. hate is a strong word.

cuss it. i chose to say that word. i chose that, albeit, the entire time i was asking myself, "what are you doing?" more than a month later and i'm asking "what have i done?"

evilevilevilevil. i'm hanging on to a wispy excuse of a branch that thinks it's a bough. that i thought would hold against the current. but the opposite bank is greener. always.