I love when I receive notifications that comments have been left on this blog. They come right to my Gmail and always make me laugh. The one I received yesterday (thank you, Anonymous!) in particular made me out loud crack up.
I will paraphrase in both the interest of time and cognizance of not wanting to commit anonymous plagiarism: “Get the picture of you wearing the old man booger glasses off your blog. You’re way prettier than that.”
OK! I get it! And lemme tell ya – I have been trying to find the time and patience to change that ridiculous picture. When I first created this blog, it was on a mere whim to fulfill my passion for writing. I can vividly remember where I was sitting and what I was feeling: ready to write and really ready NOT to screw around with the setup of the thing.
When I have a lot to say, I just want to say it. Like, now. Right now. Messing with all the settings and HTML this and that and picking bubbles or rainbows or whatever else screamed NO wasn’t going to happen. It’s like sticking up all that blue painter’s tape around every window, baseboard, and corner in a room. I JUST WANT TO PAINT. (Well, not really, but I know exactly how the room will look when it’s done and that’s what I want. Like, now. Right now.)
Patience is a funny thing. Sometimes I think I’m getting better. Other times, say, oh, maybe 25 minutes ago when I was watching a YouTube video and reading forums about how to change a blog header picture, I realize I have a long way to go. But in my defense, who in their right mind wants to read 1648 lines of code? (not embellishing and yes, I know there is the “ctrl+F” thing – no matter).
Back in the day at OSU when green screens weren’t even quite yet all the rage, I took a programming class because the sticking-hot-pokers-in-your-eyes elective class was all filled up. As I’m sitting there in a room filled with people who I managed to offend with the very first sarcastic thing that flew out of my mouth, I realized right then and there what it means to say, “find your passion.” Mine was in the class which preceded that torture hour. English Lit. Henrik Ibsen. Hedda. Wow.
“If”… “Then”… and the inevitable valedictorian were all on my nerves so I walked out of that class and according to this blog’s picture of me at the top of Mount Arbel, apparently never looked back. If this is what awaits me upon college graduation, then I better figure something else out in a hurry. Like, now. Right now.
(Please leave me a comment on here if you have instructions for how to change that crazy picture which my non-programmatic impatient brain can understand. Oh and if you wouldn’t mind – then please tell me why the stupid TV won’t turn on either.)