drinkerthinker

Yesterday I stood at the bus stop holding a plastic pumpkin of Fun Size™ treats, avoiding the eyes of passing drivers. One man points, a rolled-up window blocking the commentary he shared with his carpool. I am relieved when I get within the safe candy-loving confines of my office and can unload the orange globe.

Walking home today, I pass a princess, an archer, a wedge of cheese, the obligatory Guy-wearing-regular-clothes-and-a-Scream-mask, and what I could only describe as a “Pirate Pimp.” Sporting fleece and a messenger bag, I’m the conspicuous one.

What a difference a day makes.

Or a year.

I want to write, better. I want to appreciate my own writing the way I do that of Ethan, Bronwyn, and Greg. When they put up a new piece of writing, I can’t wait to get to it. I’ll go into work late, stay up for fifteen more minutes, let dinner cook just a little bit longer.

My writing of late has been limited to work. The fit proceeds until it converges to within the set tolerance or hits the maximum number of iterations. Thrilling. So I am going to try reviving things here at drinkerthinker and see where it takes me.

Umm… the end? Clearly I have some practicing to do.