It is Friday, which is good, but it needs to be five and it is not, which is bad. I find that I am in desperate need of distractions. I want others to amuse me. I want to be elsewhere. I am just biding my time, trying not to bite my lip or the inside of my cheek, which I sometimes do when I’m nervous, which I sometimes get when I have too little to do. It’s been a difficult week, and I just want to go home, but those thirty minutes to quitting time suddenly seem like forever.
Day: March 1, 2002
Spring is sprung, de grass is riz.
I wonder where dem boidies is.
I hoid de boid was on de wing. Ain’t dat strange?
I tot de wings was on de boid! — The Goon Show (??)
I wonder where dem boidies is.
I hoid de boid was on de wing. Ain’t dat strange?
I tot de wings was on de boid! — The Goon Show (??)
It seems like every year around this time, winter makes one last-ditch effort to impress us. After days, or weeks, of unexpected warmth, shortsleeved shirts and open windows, the temperature drops and the wind picks up. It’s as if all this time someone, somewhere, has been asleep at the wheel and has only now remembered that March is supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb. So we bundle ourselves up, turn the heat back on, and try not to act too surprised when, after a month of almost-spring, it starts snowing again.
I don’t think I’ll ever learn to appreciate central Pennsylvania weather.