I used to think, back when I was a theater employee at the ripe young age of 16, that an hour lunch was more than enough time to eat and have some time to spare; but, then it took me almost two hours to eat my lunchables (without the treat and drink, a rip-off if you ask me). Apparently, I am making the transition to senescence and will soon be spoon-fed by some of my closest friends and relatives.
On that note (the one of imminent deterioration), I have been reading Tina Fey's Bossypants (yes, I googled whether or not book titles are underlined, italicized, or in quotes) and have come to the realization that I have nothing to leave my posterity (AND that I should write a book so I can start thinking about paying off student loans I haven't even acquired yet.) I know what you're thinking, but Liz, you're only 21, you will have your whole life to make memories and then compile them in a 300-page autobiography titled, (how do I double italicize?) Lizzing Through Life. To which I have an answer--I can barely remember the first 21 years of my life, how am I supposed to remember the next 21 when my brain is supposedly deteriorating faster than I can type out this sentence (I have horrible wpm. I still look down at the keyboard, but that's another story). Example, I took a 2-minute break from writing this post to Google work-related nonsense and already forgot where I was going with this post. I don't remember if I was going to make a sudden resolution to exercise my long-term memory or if I was going to begin to document my childhood memories, or what I have left of them anyway.
Why not both? Well, I've already tried to exercise my brain since infancy (whenever Brain Age for Nintendo DS came out is when I consider my infancy to have begun). Every night before I went to bed I would borrow my little brother's Nintendo DS and play for 30-minutes, or usually until it told me I had successfully reached a new level of intelligence. I soon lost interest, however, and...actually, now that I think about it, some would argue my creative peak was probably around the same time I conducted my brain-exercising-nightly-ritual...but if that was my creative peak then I have some rough years ahead of me...ANYWAY, the ritual died. Now, in my geriatric age (I may or may not have made that word up) I try to find ways to prevent Alzheimer's by taking different routes home, a task made simple by the round-about located south of my apartment complex.
Ah yes, I remember now. I will begin to journal. This seems easy enough, but...it isn't. Since I was old enough to know what a notebook was, I began to collect probably thousands of dollars worth of the most ingenious (and less than genius) varieties of notebooks (ask my Mom). I would literally go around the house looking for notebooks to store in my desk. So, one would assume I was fond of writing...I'm not. I never wrote in those notebooks. As a matter of fact, if I got the urge to use a single sheet in one of my glorious notebooks, I would promptly tear it out. I had to leave my notebooks unscathed! I soon began to realize that no matter what I tried to fill the pages with, it never seemed good enough for the notebook. My handwriting was too messy, my diary entries were to blah, my ink splat drawings were too similar to each other. It was never good enough, so I stopped. And now, I must begin again. Except. SOLUTION. I will not write in a notebook. I will write on the INTERNETS. I know, I'm behind on the times, but can you blame me? I already admitted to needing a caregiver in my near future.
Ah yes, I remember now. I will begin to journal. This seems easy enough, but...it isn't. Since I was old enough to know what a notebook was, I began to collect probably thousands of dollars worth of the most ingenious (and less than genius) varieties of notebooks (ask my Mom). I would literally go around the house looking for notebooks to store in my desk. So, one would assume I was fond of writing...I'm not. I never wrote in those notebooks. As a matter of fact, if I got the urge to use a single sheet in one of my glorious notebooks, I would promptly tear it out. I had to leave my notebooks unscathed! I soon began to realize that no matter what I tried to fill the pages with, it never seemed good enough for the notebook. My handwriting was too messy, my diary entries were to blah, my ink splat drawings were too similar to each other. It was never good enough, so I stopped. And now, I must begin again. Except. SOLUTION. I will not write in a notebook. I will write on the INTERNETS. I know, I'm behind on the times, but can you blame me? I already admitted to needing a caregiver in my near future.
Now to the title of this post. It has nothing to do with marriage. I can probably come up with some deep way of tying memories into time and thus resulting in the act of borrowing, but...I don't want to waste the space in my brain that can be used to store such implied memories, so I won't be making any complex analogies, at least not today. As for the unblue bit...well, I guess the title does have a little bit to do with marriage, what exactly, I have no idea. Thus, I conclude the first chapter of my memoir-in-progress.
Liz out.
p.s. I hate old people marriage...just thought I'd throw that out there.
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