I am back after a month and a half of reposting old content, and I hope you enjoyed that trip down memory lane as much as I have. Thanks to everyone who has stayed with me during this downtime, and hello to the new readers who joined as I was reposting! I hope you find the new posts as interesting and compelling as my old ones.

As proof that I have not been totally idle while I was more or less away from this blog, here’s a brief list of some of the stuff that I’ve been up to:

  • I compiled almost 12 months of financial data to analyze my spending habits and create a budget that I think will work and help me save more and more each month.
  • I started studying for the GRE.
  • I’ve created a solid graduate school and possible eventual career plan that I’m making positive progress towards.
  • I took a week off from work and reacquainted myself with New York City.
  • I figured out what this blog is all about, and it’s sickeningly cliché but I’m going with it anyway.

A little teaser of something else I’ve been up to: I received some mint from some friends and colleagues, and this little sprout came up just last week. I can’t wait to show you the progress pics!

In an attempt to give this blog a sense of purpose and consistency of theme, I’ve been rattling this question around my brain lately: “What is this blog really about?” The answer came to me yesterday when I was staring off into space in the downtime at the end of my lunch break.

Learning. This blog is all about learning.

Whether this topic has come up in the abstract or more directly, this blog has been all about the things that I’ve been learning.

I’m learning how to be an independent adult. I’m learning how to plan for the future without entirely forgetting about the present. I’m learning how to be a better participant in my own life rather than as a bystander just watching mistakes being made. I’m learning how to take care of myself and others. I’m learning what it means to be a good human being.

The disparate aspects of my personality, my varying interests, my potpourri of blog topics, can all be summed up by the phrase:

“I am learning.”

It’s a nice phrase, a nice reminder when I feel the intense secondhand embarrassment and shame of my past self that I wish I could scrub all records of:

“I am learning.”

It’s a good mantra to repeat when I am at a loss for something coherent to say about any topic I want to write about for this blog:

“I am learning.”

Like I said, it’s horribly cliché, but there it is: the essence of this blog. It’s quite possible that I’ve come to this realization before, and it was buried beneath the avalanche of posts I’ve made these two, almost three, years of blogging.

This time, I hope to make it stick, and learn my lesson.

  1. If you don’t have a job lined up when you graduate, it’s not the end of the world. Do what you can to hustle and find something, but try as much as possible to remember that excessive stress won’t help.
  2. Keep track of your expenses. Every little bagel from the deli will add up.
  3. Read every line of something before you sign it. This goes for your lease agreement, your contract of employment, everything.
  4. Seriously, exercise. You don’t have to go crazy, but do something that will get you moving around (preferably outside) for at least a few minutes.
  5. Get comfortable with talking with people on the phone. Slow down and don’t mumble. And if you can’t be cheery (even fake cheery), then at least be neutral.
  6. Keep your important papers in a single, secure place. It’ll make things easier when you have to start filling out paperwork for a job or an apartment application. Plus, you don’t want papers with potentially sensitive information floating around where you can’t keep track of them.
  7. Never stop learning. Maybe you’re glad that school is over and you never have to take an exam or write a paper ever again if you don’t want to, but don’t let your 9 to 5 turn you into a dull, ignorant person. Keep your mind fresh somehow, whether that’s reading more books (seriously) or taking a free online class on a casual basis.
  8. Learn how to cook your favorite dishes from your favorite restaurants from scratch. It’s easier than you think and definitely cheaper in the long run.
  9. Redo your résumé. Seriously.
  10. Don’t be afraid to ask questions.



I’m reposting some old blog posts until I get out of my blogging funk. This was originally posted on March November 9, 2014, and was my 322nd post on this blog. You can read the original here: Ten Things I’ve learned since I graduated from college.

Disclaimer: Since the original date of this posting, there have been several accusations made against Alex Day in regards to sexual harassment and mistreatment of several women he has interacted with. I do not condone these actions, and I now am wary to support his endeavors, however, this post was made before these events were brought to light, and the general sentiment of the post still stands.

Last night I watched Alex Day’s TEDxYouth talk about how he became “The Future of Music.” Alex Day is one of my favorite YouTubers because he seems like the sort of person who can change his habits and his life to better fit who he wants to be. And his TED talk really reflects that.

He talked a little bit about the period before he started taking his music seriously, about how he didn’t feel like his musical dreams were attainable because he didn’t know the first thing about music production. The death of Steve Jobs is what set him into action; it made him reevaluate his priorities, and he just jumped immediately into the deep end of putting his music out there.

And I found this particular part of the story very inspiring and, in a way, comforting.

I am in a very strange part of my life, approaching the so-called “Quarter-life crisis” where I will be finished with my undergraduate education and will have to eventually face the “real world” outside of academia. For most of my college years, I have been drifting, somewhat, not giving much thought to what kind of career I would want or what I would have to do to get there. I am not like one of my old high school friends who is going through the process of applying to grad school and has at least that part planned out. I am not like my friends here, who either have academic achievements that will carry them to whatever they choose to pursue after graduation, or have a plethora of work experience through relevant internships that fill out their résumés nicely. I have been adrift. And as a result of being adrift, I feel like I don’t have much of either depth or breadth of knowledge, just a jumble of random and slightly useless facts.

This is what has been holding me back from taking advantage of a lot of opportunities. I see that others are so qualified and are so knowledgeable that I don’t even try to go for the jobs that I want, or go for the jobs at all, really. And not just jobs, but there are other creative pursuits that I’m really interested in but don’t go for because I feel like I don’t know enough. I feel like, “Oh, well, I have to take a class on that first before I can be qualified for it,” or, “I haven’t had any experience with it, so I can’t go after it.” And that’s a horrible thing to do to yourself.

It sometimes seems like everyone else has their stuff together, ready to graduate, and they know what they should do to get it. Me? I have no idea about anything to do with the professional world of my chosen field, but I’m not going to let that stop me. I don’t have to rocket through anything—I just need to keep working. Slow and steady wins the race, after all.

What all of this means for this blog is that I will hopefully start blogging a bit more and a bit more seriously about environmental issues. A potential post-grad plan will be to do some research on reforestation and permaculture techniques that play a role in that. I will also be continuing my other rantings and ravings, doing regular Blog Every Day Challenges (I’m considering doing a Blog Every Day in January challenge to start off the new year strong), and book reviews. But hopefully I can fuse the blogging with my future goals in a coherent way.

2013 was a good year. (More on that in a later post.) 2014, though, will be the year I really let go of whatever fear and ignorance I had and really go for everything.

Here’s to jumping into the deep end.

halcyon: adj. 1. Calm and peaceful; tranquil. 2. Prosperous; golden

halcyon: adj.
1. Calm and peaceful; tranquil.
2. Prosperous; golden

I’m reposting some old blog posts until I get out of my blogging funk. This one was originally posted on December 22, 2013, and was my 230th post on this blog. You can read the original here: Jumping In.


The tops of the larger trees at the site.

Today, Aaron and I went way uptown to Inwood Hill Park to take care of some young trees that were originally planted by the MillionTreesNYC initiative. The area was being taken over by invasive plants that were crowding out the trees, taking all the sunlight that the young trees needed in order to grow.

We went through the site and picked out burdock and porcelain berry and other plants that, while beautiful and thriving, are thriving at the expense of the plants around them. In particular, the burdock was tricky. Some of the female volunteers had problems with getting the seeds stuck in our hair since the outside of a seed is covered in something akin to the “hook” side of “hook and loop material.”

Aaron and I were chatting with a fellow volunteer, and she made a comment about how she almost felt sorry for the invasive plants that we were cutting out and bagging. They’re just trying to live too, you know. But there was a general consensus that the way these plants were living, abundantly, but at the expense of the other greenery, that meant that they had to go. There was a vine wrapped around a young pine tree that this volunteer and I untangled from around the trunk, and where the vine was wrapped, no branches or needles had grown. So while the upper and lower sections of the tree had the beginnings of their needle clusters, this middle section was entirely bare because the vine was essentially strangling the tree.

It was hard work, and at one point I did feel like I was going to faint because it had been so long since I’ve done hard labor like this and it was hotter than I had expected, but it was a good experience. I now know how to recognize poison ivy (even though there wasn’t any at the site, they described it with enough detail that I may be able to spot it the first time I see it), I now know some of the few invasive species to keep away from whatever young trees I may plant in the future, and it was nice being outside.

There were some rather disgusting moments (finding a bag full of rotten food, for example), and some frustrating moments (stubborn burdock seeds in our hair and getting pricked by thorns), but there were some really beautiful moments that captivated me. Stepping around the site, rotten logs would crumble underneath our feet, sending up a small cloud of dust that swirled and quickly settled. Near the end of our time at the site, I sat with a group of volunteers around a large fallen tree branch. I sat down on the smooth, pale wood, eating an oats-and-honey bar, and the sunlight filtered through the leaves of the larger trees. The way the light filled the space, illuminating the small whirls of dust and the pattern of the leaves leaving interesting shadows on the ground, I thought about trying to capture it in a photograph, but I knew that I wouldn’t do it any justice. Around us, young trees were cleared of their invasive canopies and seemed to stand taller because of it.

My arms are still lightly scratched from thorns and sharp needles, my legs are a little weaker than normal, and I still have the lingering remnants of a dehydration headache, but I wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything in the world right now.

I’m reposting some old blog posts until I get out of my blogging funk. This was originally posted on July 20, 2013, and was my 162nd post on this blog. You can read the original here: Natural areas volunteering.

I tried reading my tea leaves today.

Not seriously. I just saw tea leaves in my cup this afternoon, and I thought I would reminisce about the days when Harry Potter was the most important thing to me. When I drank my tea until only the dregs remained, I swirled my cup three times with my left hand, turned it upside down on the table, and this was the result.

The leaves of my narcissus tea.

The leaves of my narcissus tea.

Maybe I just didn’t have enough tea leaves, or the pattern of the cup is making the leaves unclear, or the divination is screwy because I didn’t have a partner to swap with, but I couldn’t really make much of it.

I’m not superstitious, and I didn’t do this seriously expecting to read my future in the leaves, but I stared at this cup for a long time. Long enough where I started believing that there were actual shapes in the leaves, and not just the random positioning of the liquid depositing the leaves on the cup. I see a chubby, fluffy-chested bird. I see Mickey Mouse.

Divination really isn’t my area.

I sat in the teahouse at the White Rabbit Gallery this afternoon after perusing the collection, drinking tea, reading, and writing. Walking from the gallery and back to the main roads that I now know so well, I looked up at the buildings and I realized that I don’t know Sydney. Lately, I’ve been growing bored. I walk in the same areas, from my dorm to Science House to Observatory Hill to the Botanical Gardens to wherever, and it has gotten to the point where I don’t see anything new. Even if I take roads that I have never taken before, I feel like I’ve been there, seen that.

But I haven’t been to that area of Sydney before, Chippendale, where the gallery is located. I’ve never seen so many residential buildings in one place; I’m used to the offices of the CBD and the restaurants in Haymarket. I’ve never seen alleyways that curve into streets lined with houses. I’ve never seen a long stretch of places to live occasionally punctured by a restaurant or a store, but rather the inverse. I’m used to long stretches of stores occasionally punctured by homes.

I may have been looking too hard at Sydney, to the point where all I could see were the things I believed to be true. I believed Sydney had no more surprises for me. I believed that Sydney had nothing interesting to offer me anymore, that the kilojoules have lost their novelty, that the coffee was starting to taste the same, that the coffee art was starting to look commonplace. I believed I saw an unchanging Sydney, one that felt too much like a boring Chicago suburb.

Being in a different part of Sydney reminded me that I can’t look too hard at things. Analyze things critically, always be skeptical, but I can’t make myself crazy to the point where things get boring. There is always something to see.

And I need to keep my eyes fresh and new to see them.

This post was a response to the Weekly Photo Challenge: From Above.

I’m reposting some old blog posts until I get out of my blogging funk. This was originally posted on May 5, 2013, and was my 118th post on this blog. You can read the original here: Don’t look too hard.

A sun shower occurred while I was walking. Actually, several sun showers occurred, and these things have occurred multiple times before, but today was the day that I was able to balance the objects in my hands well enough to snap a picture.

It may be kind of hard to tell in this picture. But it is indeed raining. On Valentine Street, Sydney, Australia.

It’s hard to tell in this picture, but it is indeed raining and sunny at the same time. On Valentine Street, Sydney, Australia.

For a majority of my life, I didn’t have a word for this phenomenon. I stuck with the bulky, “It was raining while it was sunny today,” but in high school I finally came across a term for it when I read xxxHolic, a manga that I didn’t get too far into, but nonetheless enjoyed greatly because of its art and the quirkiness of Yuuko. I don’t remember in which volume I came across this term, but in Japan, a sun shower is also called a Kitsune no yomeiri, or a fox spirit’s wedding. I said, “The fox spirit is taking a bride today,” (which wasn’t much less bulky, but more fun to say) after I read about it. Now, I have the term sun shower.

It’s one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen. The light from the sun highlights every raindrop, creating a shimmering atmosphere. In the distance you see rainclouds, but you yourself are in a patch of sunlight with rain falling down on you, getting all the refreshment of the rain but with significantly diminished dull grayness. And 1000 Awesome Things has a set of pretty good reasons to enjoy sun showers as well.

Seeing two seemingly mutually exclusive events actually occur simultaneously is breathtaking. It feels like an accident, or a little secret, rare treat that only you can see. Things like this make me wish I were creative enough to make my own little myth or legend about the phenomenon.

But I’ll stick to standing in the sun with raindrops falling on my umbrella.

I’m reposting some old blog posts until I get out of my blogging funk.This was originally posted on April 9, 2013, and was my 93rd post on this blog. You can read the original here: A fox spirit took a bride in Sydney today.

A pen's point of view.

A pen’s point of view.

These are the bits my pen will soon write in this notebook, a collection of facts that will be used for a story that I’m trying to write:

The Harbour Bridge in Sydney, Australia is referred to by the locals as The Coathanger, or simply as The Bridge.

On the day of the Bridge’s opening on March 19, 1932, Captain Francis de Groot rode forward on his horse, and cut the ribbon with his sword since he believed that only a member of the Royal Family, or at the very least the Queen’s representative in Australia, should open the Bridge. The ribbon was re-tied so that New South Wales Premier Jack Lang could cut the ribbon and officially open the Bridge.

The four pylons are mainly for aesthetic purpose, and have little to do with the support of the Bridge.

The top of the arch rises and falls within a range of 180 mm due to temperature fluctuations.

When the Bridge was opened in 1932, it was the largest (though not longest) steel arch bridge in the world.

Two stories, from my Creative Writing professor. During the Bridge’s construction, a man fell from the very top of the arch and into the water. Immediately before he fell, he dropped his hammer. The man survived the fall because the hammer broke the surface tension of the water and thus the impact didn’t kill the man. Also, during the construction of the pylons, a man fell into a pylon as they were pouring wet cement. They couldn’t get him out.

These are the bits my pen has already written in this notebook, from stories that have already been written:

“The temperature of a dead body will, immediately after time of death, drop 1.5 degrees Fahrenheit every hour.”

“Getting back into the habit of writing poetry is, like, hard.”

“There will be some days when I will climb this hill and not feel inspired to write something. There will be some days when the sun will actually burn me. There will be some days when I will not realize that my feet were taking me to this place, over and over again, almost ritualistic, almost religiously. There will be some days when I will not want to write anything at all. There will be some days when there is not enough time in the world to get down what I have to say before it escapes me.”

“The day that Laura left, I knew it wasn’t going to be the last I saw of her. Call it foreshadowing, predicting the future, or simple kinetics, but I could calculate her parabolic path and tell you within a certain margin of error when she would return to the ground.”

“I have sat in front of my laptop, looking at a blank email, trying to come up with words to say. ‘Sorry I bitch about you in my personal life,” isn’t right. More, ‘I am too tired to hate. Hate is wrong. And I cannot even begin to say how sorry I am.'”

The blank page is the promise of fulfillment, the anticipation of action, the release of tension in resolution. It is every writer’s worst nightmare. It is every writer’s best friend. It is every person’s awkward silence. It is everyone’s clean slate. Things I will write, about the past. Things I have written, about the future.

And a pen is in a weird place in time and space.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5

For the Weekly Photo Challenge: Future Tense.

I’m reposting some old blog posts until I get out of my blogging funk. This was originally posted on March 25, 2013, and was my 83rd post on this blog. You can read the original here: A pen’s point of view.

The remains of a landslide that happened just the other night after heavy rains in Sydney.

The remains of a landslide that happened just the other night after heavy rains in Sydney.

I used to be the kid that used to give my parents grief because I didn’t want to come inside for lunch, I didn’t want to come inside for dinner, and I didn’t want to come inside when it got dark outside. I wanted to ride my bike around the entire neighborhood instead of just around the small cul-de-sac our house was on. I was that kid.

I haven’t been that kid for a long time. I’ve invested my time in electronic pursuits, in Internet fodder and constant inundation of information that, in the larger picture, doesn’t matter. And a day trip to the Blue Mountains reminded me that I need to be more like that kid that gave my parents grief.

While on the trail, we encountered a place where there was a sudden patch of missing trees, like somehow a seam was ripped in the even fabric of the treetops. Our guide explained to us that this area was filled with trees, much like the area surrounding it. But the heavy rains that fell on Sydney the night before made that entire strip of land fall down, taking the trees with it.

It was the most interesting wake-up call. I’ve always been aware that the natural world, the world that’s devoid of steel, concrete, plastics, and whatnot, is so strong. But to be reminded of it in this way was really something else. All of this happened just because of wind and rain. No bulldozers could make it up the steep slope, no plow would stand a chance. And yet water and the rapid and collective movement of air particles was enough to push an entire strip of trees off the side.

It has been a long time since I’ve done anything truly nature-y. Walking through Central and Prospect Parks in New York, while beautiful, don’t count. They don’t have the same feel of being raw and rough and wild; Central Park was entirely man-made and Prospect Park is rather well-groomed. Hiking through the Blue Mountains like this, no matter how brief, was more than good. My legs felt like they were actually doing what they are meant to do. This was more than walking. I like walking; I prefer walking to class than taking the bus on most days. But there is always something detached about it, my mind wanders too much. Doing this hike, I was forced to pay attention to where my feet were going. I was forced to orient my body to maneuver around the uneven ground. I like hiking.

I need to go outside more often.

I’m reposting some old blog posts until I get out of my blogging funk. This was originally posted on March 16, 2013, and was my 77th post on this blog. You can read the original here: Go outside.

Caroliena Cabada:

I’ve been following Milkwood Permaculture on their various social media channels for a while now, and I decided to write a post about them. They’re a great organization that is always putting out interesting content about permaculture and regenerative living, so definitely check them out!

Also, I’ve been trying to come up with new content for this blog and get better about posting consistently. If you have any suggestions or feedback for what you might like to see, please let me know!

Thanks for reading!

Originally posted on Food Forests Forever:

A screenshot of the Milkwood Permaculture website, taken on 8 June 2015. A screenshot of the Milkwood Permaculture website, taken on 8 June 2015.

What is Milkwood Permaculture? [1]

At Milkwood we are all about helping folks to cultivate community. We want everyone to become skilled, active, knowledgeable and motivated to create the futures they need.

from Milkwood’s “About us” page [2]

Milkwood Permaculture is an organization dedicated to providing resources and educational opportunities to aspiring permaculture designers, gardeners, farmers, and community members. They hold courses in Sydney, Byron Bay, and other parts of Australia [3], and are highly accessible and informative for people of all skill levels.

What do they offer?

Milkwood offers resources both online and in-person.

  • Courses [3]. Milkwood offers courses throughout the year, from animal raising to mushroom cultivation. Most of the courses are one or two days, with the exceptions being their two-week Permaculture Design Course and their…

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It was in the dead middle of summer after my first year at college. Those days, I slept in until past noon unless I had an errand to run or work to finish for my part-part-part-time seasonal job at my old high school. I would spend hours with my laptop open and scrolling through endless pages of Internet fodder. I would spend hours with my laptop lid closed and a notebook open, and then hunting for a discarded and empty notebook to fill when I reached the second-to-last page. I never really slept unless I had to, and then I would overdose on sleep. This routine was enough to content me for a few weeks. Then I started to feel my brain getting smooth from repetition. It was nice, but I wasn’t.

The entire semester before that summer, every accomplishment sent my heart into a syncopated frenzy. I embraced the arrhythmia that was waking up, shaking off the steady, even breaths of sleeping. The skipping beats were stones on still water, and every skip was a ripple that I could read the future in.

The end of the semester did not bring that skipping feeling.

I remember reclining on the couch and reading a book I was able to find online and planned to add to the hefty stack I had completed so far that summer. It was a biography about a homeless man that took me by surprise. I’ve never been into biographies; they always seemed to either glorify the person or degrade him or her. But either way, the person was always larger than life. Biographies always read like extended tabloid stories, outlining the events that came before their big contribution or a personality quirk that would show up later on in life. I have no interest in the actions of the events in people’s personal lives, I want the consequences.

That biography gave me the consequences.

After a while, my eyes began to droop, a sign that I needed to change activities. I set the book on the floor next to the couch and opened the nearby notebook to a blank page and uncapped my pen. A few minutes later, I capped the pen and closed the notebook, setting them on top of the book on the floor next to the couch.


Something in my brain told me that weird stretches were necessary so that my body didn’t get too comfortable in the conventional poses of sitting, standing, and walking. I pulled at my left ankle so that my left knee was bent and the toes on my left foot were in line with my shoulder. I pressed my abdomen against the back of the couch and pushed the backs of my shoulders towards the bottoms of my feet, knees and back bending. I laid belly down and twisted my hips so that they stacked oddly on top of each other, my feet flat against the wall behind the couch. A contortionist’s dance, only I’m (still) nowhere near as flexible. Just strange and (still) unable to keep to whatever code my body tries to keep me in.

My heart beat a little bit faster from the physical exertion; holding yourself in weird poses when you’re not exactly in the best shape of your life is hard work. But the beats were still even, just accelerated like the slowest of crescendoes; indiscernable until the sound gets unbearably loud. But nothing out of the ordinary. I always did this when there was nothing else to do. I writhed on flat surfaces, stretching my limbs at odd angles and clenching my fists like I was trying to grasp something just out of my reach. Always, always, always out of my reach. My heart would sink when I opened them up, empty.

I ended up sitting inverted on the couch, my legs where my torso should be and my torso where my legs should be, my hips acting like a pivot point, my head and vision upside down.

My mother used to get flowers for no reason. She wanted things to spruce up the room, add some beauty to the house. But this house can never keep a plant alive; multiple trials yielded the same results.

But on this day, there were roses in a glass vase filled with water. They were a rusting pink color, a shade unsaturated from the original blushing pink, and the tips of the petals were browning.

I saw a petal drop.

I pulled myself off the couch so that I could sit up properly on the floor, an off-beat heart contraction snapping me upright. I can’t even tell you where the petal fell from. The area within the circle created by the outermost flowers was already littered with fragile and crumbling petals, a clue that the petal’s fall was inevitable. But my heart still skipped a beat anyway.

There was no drama in it. Just gravity overpowering the forces keeping the petal bonded to its brothers and sisters, making it fall the short distance from ten inches above the tabletop. It didn’t flutter. It wasn’t carried to any other place except right below the node that it dropped from. Still, though it didn’t make a sound my physical ears could discern, in my head its contact with the table cloth echoed. A drum mallet dropped suddenly on the pulled-taut skin of a timpani.

I can’t tell you where in the bouquet of roses the petal fell from, just like how I can’t tell you the x, y, z coordinates of where a raindrop fell from inside a cloud. But I am never surprised by rain. The clouds are too obvious an indicator; my skin prickles in anticipation, an imitation of a raindrop falling on my cheek.

But I was surprised by this petal dropping. What are the chances that I could have witnessed this event happening? What are the chances that I will ever see that again? The experience was singular, singular in the sense that only one petal dropped in that split second, and singular in the sense that I feel like I will never see just one single petal dropping ever again.

I tried to look for other things that placed that particular moment out of the ordinary. But it was the same sunny day that had happened for the past week. It was still the same empty house with just me in it for the afternoon. It was still the same table, the same bunch of flowers, even the remote controller for the television hadn’t moved from its place in the holder, the same x, y, and z coordinates from the previous night. The trees still swayed in the same predictable way outside with the light breeze through its branches. The same children played the same types of games in the front yard next door and were called in for lunch at the same time as the days before. I was still reading the same book from yesterday. I woke up at the same time as yesterday. I still did the same non-routine stretch that I always did. There was nothing obviously extraordinary about this day.

Though maybe that’s why I found that spontaneous but inevitable drop to be so out of the ordinary, instead of just physics. Maybe I got too used to constantly living my life with eyes pinned open to take everything in that I forgot that small things can take your breath away too.

I am still catching my breath.

These are not the roses described, but they are pink roses that I did receive from friends after a dance event during freshman year that fit the description.

These are not the roses described, but they are pink roses that I did receive from friends after a dance event during freshman year.

Inspired by the Writing Challenge: The Devil is in the Details. Written in one sitting with very little editing.

I’m reposting some old blog posts until I get out of my blogging funk. This one was originally posted on January 27, 2013, and was my 56th post on this blog. You can read the original here: One moment.


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