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Captain's Log, Stardate 10.09.2007
Today I went to lunch with my friend Dineen, and afterwards, we headed into Borders just to browse.
Borders has this section full of cute little notebooks. Small ones, big ones, colored paper ones, you name it. They also have pens and wallets and zippered bags and iPod cases.
I must have spent at least thirty minutes just going ga-ga over the stupid little notebooks!
What is it with notebooks and me? I can count the number of them that I’ve actually filled on the fingers of one hand. I have them all over the house, most with only a page or two written on, and an entire BOX of new ones in my closet.
And I keep coveting more!
This thing with notebooks is completely irrational. I cannot understand it, and I cannot stop it.
I also cannot seem to fill them with any speed. And considering how much I like to talk, that’s pathetic. I should at least be able to spout nothings enough to fill a few.
But when I open it to write inside, a part of my brain suddenly insists that I must only write meaningful things on the sacred pages. With a good pen, no cheap ballpoints. And then, of course, I have very little to say.
Isn’t that completely stupid?
What about you? Any irrational loves?
Today I went to lunch with my friend Dineen, and afterwards, we headed into Borders just to browse.
Borders has this section full of cute little notebooks. Small ones, big ones, colored paper ones, you name it. They also have pens and wallets and zippered bags and iPod cases.
I must have spent at least thirty minutes just going ga-ga over the stupid little notebooks!
What is it with notebooks and me? I can count the number of them that I’ve actually filled on the fingers of one hand. I have them all over the house, most with only a page or two written on, and an entire BOX of new ones in my closet.
And I keep coveting more!
This thing with notebooks is completely irrational. I cannot understand it, and I cannot stop it.
I also cannot seem to fill them with any speed. And considering how much I like to talk, that’s pathetic. I should at least be able to spout nothings enough to fill a few.
But when I open it to write inside, a part of my brain suddenly insists that I must only write meaningful things on the sacred pages. With a good pen, no cheap ballpoints. And then, of course, I have very little to say.
Isn’t that completely stupid?
What about you? Any irrational loves?
Comments
But I still can't help browsing the journals section of B&N every time I go in.
Although I do fill mine (the $.10 back-to-school sale ones)