November 26th, 15:45 | StalkerEx's duck -- expunged!

Since I don't really know how to talk about myself (heh, even though anyone who's conversed with me would say otherwise) in this thing anyway, I figured I'd just tell stories. (Of course, they also come across sounding more serious than I am. But oh well.)

So today, I finally manage to get myself motivated enough to read. I've got some four chapters to cover and then a total of ten to review for my exam which is in a week and two days. Right. Anyway, as a break, I figured I'd walk to the post office and mail off some stuff.

I really like mail. I've been sending people postcards every time I go anywhere (even places as glamorous as... Sault Ste. Marie!) simply because it's fun. I like getting mail, but sending it really is fun, just all on its own. I've been obsessed with calligraphy for a long, long time, and so have developped quite the fetish for ink pens. (Somehow, this doesn't impact the fact that my preferred writing tool is still a pencil.) I have, over time, amassed a remarkable collection of nibs, quills, inks, sealing wax, seals, paper, even Chinese writing brushes (which, to be fair, I've never had the guts to try using). Anyway, the point is I love letter writing.

Actually, that wasn't the point at all. I'm realizing these days just how bad I am at story-telling. ;)

One of my exes -- StalkerEx -- gave me, over the course of our courtship, his plush duck to hold on to. (He liked ducks. Whatever.) I didn't want it, even back then (I, unlike him, had no particular fondness for the creatures, and really didn't need yet another plush toy on my bed) and told him so, but nonetheless, ended up with it. We broke up about two years ago. Up until ten minutes ago, I still had that duck.

Sometime last summer, I got in the mail one of my Beatrix Potter books. (I love Beatrix Potter; every time I read her, I feel all cozy and rustic English cottage-y. Besides, she's part of my childhood.) Not just any book, but one of my favourites, which had been missing. StalkerEx had been nice enough to mail it back to me, as apparently he'd had it. And at the time I thought "Hmm, I should really give him back his duck." but of course, you can imagine how that went. I know where he lives. I drive past there fairly often. I could as easily have dropped off the duck in his mailbox with the little note I wrote sometime this summer. But I didn't. Either I'm really lazy, or there was some other, unknown force at work keeping that duck on the premises. Until today.

Yuletide is coming up, a little tugboat with The New Year looming up behind it. I know self-improvement and all that stuff should be a year-round thing, but New Year's is always important to me for ending/starting things. Loose-end-tidying. It's the time when your debts are repaid, and you either forgive and get over it, or you determine to wreak your vengence in the dawn of January. Most people do hectic spring cleaning. My mom and I do a vicious New Year purge (I think that's a Chinese thing though) and I never think up quite as many goals for myself as at New Year's.

Which brings me to the diary thing. This year, I started, Bridget Jones-style, a diary to keep my resolutions on track. I stopped writing in it sometime mid-April. And I've decided that I'm approaching this all wrong. I already know what my "resolutions" are. They're the kind of general self-upkeep and betterment things that everyone makes up for themselves. There's just too many. I'd be better off making those small, ongoing projects to be kept up throughout the year. That way I wouldn't be faced with this feeling of failure at the tail end of every November, and resolve to make myself ten more resolutions for the following year.

I've only got one resolution for next year. And it's the only one I'll make. For all the rest, I'll be coasting on the glowy feeling of doing things I know I should.

I'm so fucking glad that duck is gone. I really hated that duck.

Last book read:

( prev ++ 0 comment/s ++ next )

prev ++ next
(or "today"'s)