I write to you now from an undignified ball position on my bed, where I am alternating grading papers and falling dead asleep. This morning, I ran nine miles for Crohn's Half-Marathon Training (it was supposed to be 8.5 miles, but did not take into account my poor sense of direction). I had every intention of doing this at a noble strolling pace, but it turned out that if I wanted to keep on course, I had to keep the rest of the group in my line of sight. Good-bye, noble stroll. Hello, running interspersed with occasional Jane-Fondaesque speed-walking.
I sort of liked having to run as fast as I could to keep the group in sight, particularly with all the turns. It was sort of Bourne Identityish for a while there. There they were rounding the corner! Quick, get them before they melt into the oncoming crowd! There's a bomb under that car! A really hot French woman wants to make out with me! I'm sailing away from this building by convenient steel cable!
Toward the end, however, I was beginning to lose hold of the conceit that I was Jason Bourne in a CCFA running shirt, making my way through the Marina to cure Crohn's Disease, and began to just feel really, really tired instead.
"Just finish," I thought, which swiftly gave way to creepy out-loud exhortations of "Just finish," and then, "Come on, just finish," and then, "Just finish, just finish, just finish, you're finishing, you're doing it, you're finishing," and then, before I knew it, I had done it. I'd finished it. Nine miles. Running.
"It's so hard to be in The Bourne Identity!" I told the group. They smiled kindly, as nice people will smile at the slightly deranged.
Fast-forward about forty-five minutes to Fort Phil Collins, where after a shower and an egg, I slept for three hours straight. Then I woke up, drank some Emergen-C, ate half an avocado, and went back to sleep again. If allowed, I think I would sleep for hundreds of years. How do people run long distances and then lead regular lives? I think I just expended the amount of energy it takes me to conduct a normal week of business.
What I'd really like to do is crawl into a cave in the Arctic with several hundred pounds of seal and sleep out the winter, like a bear. But I'm not going to do that (at least not yet). Grading calls. So much grading. And you know what? I'm a roll here; I'm going to finish that too.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
just finish
I've been a bad, bad marathoner.
A few weeks of suffocating workload followed by a week of colonoscopy + Tysabri somehow resulted in three (count them, three) missed weeks of training. In my defense, I had to finish the work or I would have been fired. And you can't really run when you're under anesthesia with a tube up your ass (if you can do this, please contact me: We have a lot to talk about).
However, the frigid truth remains that I will, come hell or high water, be completing the half marathon on December 5 on behalf of the CCFA, and I will be raising that money for research for our intestines, and I will set a good example for other Crohns who think they may want to run a half-marathon someday, for whatever deeply disturbed reason.
Today I went back to training. I did it on a treadmill at the gym, with the assistance of Pandora's Akon radio. (This was a special occasion, as I usually save Akon for writing, but I divined that I would need the extra push of the Soul Poet today.) I was right. This run was... just short of a near-death experience. Even with walk breaks. Even with Akon. Even with a voice inside my head alternating furiously between stick and carrot:
Voice A: Move it, you sorry sack of brussels sprouts! What a disgrace.
Voice B: You can do it! Great job! Just a few more miles!
Voice A: Is that the best you can do? I'm appalled!
Voice B: This is great! Look at you!
I finished. Not gracefully, but I finished.
And that's just what I'm going to do on December 5.
After my colonoscopy last week, I received the best report I've had in 19+ years of Crohn's Disease. This is probably the healthiest I'll ever be (unless a cure is found, in which case, whoa, everyone). But that doesn't mean I can do more than I've ever done before. In fact, it may mean the opposite. To keep my Crohn's in this kind of remission, my body is working extremely hard. It takes energy to stay in remission. And being given a good report at the doctor's office after 20 years of Crohn's isn't the same as being given that same report after 3 years, or 6 years, or 9 years. The effects are cumulative, your body gets older, and the apex of your physical ability isn't constant --- no matter how "well" you are.
There's a part of me that, in the spirit of Voice A, tells me I have no excuse but to run as fast and as hard and as long as anyone else. After all, I got a great report at the doctor's office. I'm in remission. But the other part of me knows I don't need an excuse. I don't need an excuse for anything. I'm already going above and beyond what my body can do, whether I run or walk or crawl the half marathon. Does this mean I can't do what other people can do? Absolutely not. It just means I have to do it differently.
I know a lot of you struggle with this back-and-forth too. I'm well/I'm sick; I'm normal/I'm different; I can/I can't. You can. You may just have to find your own way of doing what you want to do. I know people look down on those who walk the lion's share of a marathon, or who need breaks, or who run slowly. But I don't care about those people. I care about us. I'm finishing the race. I'm doing it my way.
PS. In the coming weeks I'll be posting more about my runs and my progress. If you want to support my run for more and better CCFA research and haven't had a chance yet, there's still plenty of time. Just click here.
A few weeks of suffocating workload followed by a week of colonoscopy + Tysabri somehow resulted in three (count them, three) missed weeks of training. In my defense, I had to finish the work or I would have been fired. And you can't really run when you're under anesthesia with a tube up your ass (if you can do this, please contact me: We have a lot to talk about).
However, the frigid truth remains that I will, come hell or high water, be completing the half marathon on December 5 on behalf of the CCFA, and I will be raising that money for research for our intestines, and I will set a good example for other Crohns who think they may want to run a half-marathon someday, for whatever deeply disturbed reason.
Today I went back to training. I did it on a treadmill at the gym, with the assistance of Pandora's Akon radio. (This was a special occasion, as I usually save Akon for writing, but I divined that I would need the extra push of the Soul Poet today.) I was right. This run was... just short of a near-death experience. Even with walk breaks. Even with Akon. Even with a voice inside my head alternating furiously between stick and carrot:
Voice A: Move it, you sorry sack of brussels sprouts! What a disgrace.
Voice B: You can do it! Great job! Just a few more miles!
Voice A: Is that the best you can do? I'm appalled!
Voice B: This is great! Look at you!
I finished. Not gracefully, but I finished.
And that's just what I'm going to do on December 5.
After my colonoscopy last week, I received the best report I've had in 19+ years of Crohn's Disease. This is probably the healthiest I'll ever be (unless a cure is found, in which case, whoa, everyone). But that doesn't mean I can do more than I've ever done before. In fact, it may mean the opposite. To keep my Crohn's in this kind of remission, my body is working extremely hard. It takes energy to stay in remission. And being given a good report at the doctor's office after 20 years of Crohn's isn't the same as being given that same report after 3 years, or 6 years, or 9 years. The effects are cumulative, your body gets older, and the apex of your physical ability isn't constant --- no matter how "well" you are.
There's a part of me that, in the spirit of Voice A, tells me I have no excuse but to run as fast and as hard and as long as anyone else. After all, I got a great report at the doctor's office. I'm in remission. But the other part of me knows I don't need an excuse. I don't need an excuse for anything. I'm already going above and beyond what my body can do, whether I run or walk or crawl the half marathon. Does this mean I can't do what other people can do? Absolutely not. It just means I have to do it differently.
I know a lot of you struggle with this back-and-forth too. I'm well/I'm sick; I'm normal/I'm different; I can/I can't. You can. You may just have to find your own way of doing what you want to do. I know people look down on those who walk the lion's share of a marathon, or who need breaks, or who run slowly. But I don't care about those people. I care about us. I'm finishing the race. I'm doing it my way.
PS. In the coming weeks I'll be posting more about my runs and my progress. If you want to support my run for more and better CCFA research and haven't had a chance yet, there's still plenty of time. Just click here.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
day at the office
Yesterday, I drank some gallons of GoLitely. I vomited up some gallons of GoLitely. I responded according to the hopes and dreams and intentions of GoLitely. I also had three conference calls with students, graded four early drafts of their papers due tomorrow, and edited the first six chapters of my novel, which I am (gulp) sending (gulp) into the (gulp) atmosphere tomorrow.
Today Good Buddy Shaina drove to me to the hospital.
I'll tell you what: There's something strange about the anteroom in the endoscopy suite, about all the patients lined up foot-by-foot in our identical beds with our identical hospital gowns and identical oxygen nose tubes. Some of them had already had their procedures and were knocked out. Some, like me, were waiting. There was a man about my age in the bed next to me, hyperventilating.
The nurse told him, "Deep breaths! Look at this young lady here!" She indicated me. "See how smiley she is! See how this is no big deal for her? This is just like a day at the office for her!"
I smiled to show him it really was just like a day at the office. Another nurse jabbed a big needle into my wrist and set up my IV. She was wiggling it around to get into the vein. I kept smiling at the man.
Then they put on my little chest leads and my oxygen nose tubes. The man had apparently found some sort of zen point in me; he would not take his eyes off. I kept smiling. Keep smiling for that man, I told myself. It seemed like he really needed it. And the truth was, sadly or not, it really was kind of like a day at the office for me. Not only because I'm so comfortable in hospitals now, but also because getting bits of my intestines shaved out isn't actually more taxing to me than holding office hours. I enjoy office hours, but when I come home, I usually throw up or have a fever. Big, big smile.
As they wheeled me away I told the guy, "Don't worry. Maybe when they put you to sleep you'll have a prophetic dream." This, actually, did not seem to help.
When I woke up a few hours later, the doctor informed me --- here, you could probably fill in the blank as well as I --- that, well, I have Crohn's Disease. (There is a little part of me that always hopes she will say, "It's a miracle! We've never seen anything like this before! After twenty years, magically, you don't have Crohn's Disease! You are the first cured patient in history! You are free!")
But then she told me that after 13 months of Tysabri, the improvement is "very good." In other words, my intestines look a heck of a lot better than they did when I was under the employ of That University Where I Teach. She gave me the pictures so I could see. An early-90s David Bowie bust could be seen somewhere in the ileum, but other than that, it just looked like an intestine with Crohn's Disease. But not one that was going to die.
As I was groggily putting my shoes on I saw the Hyperventilator waking up beside me.
"Did you have a prophetic dream?" I asked.
He smiled at me, still a bit drugged.
"I dreamed this wasn't my life," he said.
Today Good Buddy Shaina drove to me to the hospital.
I'll tell you what: There's something strange about the anteroom in the endoscopy suite, about all the patients lined up foot-by-foot in our identical beds with our identical hospital gowns and identical oxygen nose tubes. Some of them had already had their procedures and were knocked out. Some, like me, were waiting. There was a man about my age in the bed next to me, hyperventilating.
The nurse told him, "Deep breaths! Look at this young lady here!" She indicated me. "See how smiley she is! See how this is no big deal for her? This is just like a day at the office for her!"
I smiled to show him it really was just like a day at the office. Another nurse jabbed a big needle into my wrist and set up my IV. She was wiggling it around to get into the vein. I kept smiling at the man.
Then they put on my little chest leads and my oxygen nose tubes. The man had apparently found some sort of zen point in me; he would not take his eyes off. I kept smiling. Keep smiling for that man, I told myself. It seemed like he really needed it. And the truth was, sadly or not, it really was kind of like a day at the office for me. Not only because I'm so comfortable in hospitals now, but also because getting bits of my intestines shaved out isn't actually more taxing to me than holding office hours. I enjoy office hours, but when I come home, I usually throw up or have a fever. Big, big smile.
As they wheeled me away I told the guy, "Don't worry. Maybe when they put you to sleep you'll have a prophetic dream." This, actually, did not seem to help.
When I woke up a few hours later, the doctor informed me --- here, you could probably fill in the blank as well as I --- that, well, I have Crohn's Disease. (There is a little part of me that always hopes she will say, "It's a miracle! We've never seen anything like this before! After twenty years, magically, you don't have Crohn's Disease! You are the first cured patient in history! You are free!")
But then she told me that after 13 months of Tysabri, the improvement is "very good." In other words, my intestines look a heck of a lot better than they did when I was under the employ of That University Where I Teach. She gave me the pictures so I could see. An early-90s David Bowie bust could be seen somewhere in the ileum, but other than that, it just looked like an intestine with Crohn's Disease. But not one that was going to die.
As I was groggily putting my shoes on I saw the Hyperventilator waking up beside me.
"Did you have a prophetic dream?" I asked.
He smiled at me, still a bit drugged.
"I dreamed this wasn't my life," he said.
Monday, October 11, 2010
do you celiac what i celiac
In the period I've been away, I've been primarily doing three things.
1) Grading papers analyzing induction and deduction.
2) Copyediting manuscripts about 14-year-old girls whose romantic lives are in fact far more titillating than my own.
3) Not eating gluten.
Oh, I know what I said. How my love for pizza and sandwiches trumped the trends, how I always felt fine no matter what I ate, be it broth or shrapnel. But it turns out that the symptoms of gluten intolerance aren't always gastrointestinal. Sometimes, for example, an unresolved gluten intolerance can make you, well, extremely depressed.
I went to a doctor who marveled that in 19+ years of Crohn's Disease, I'd never been tested for celiac. And in the two weeks since that appointment, I've forgone the gluten and witnessed mood changes of spectacular proportions. That's not to say this was a quick fix, or that all the issues I was having are resolved. But I do feel a bit better. And eating gluten-free has been, so far, not difficult at all. If you know me at all, you know I rather like a challenge. Better if that challenge involves bread, but whatever. Beggars can't be choosers.
Today I'm not eating gluten-free foods at all, though. Today I'm not eating anything. Today, Crohns, I am drinking. Oh yes, it's GoLitely time up in here. Tomorrow I will have my annual colonoscopy (apparently I'm a 50-year-old man) and in preparation, I'm taking those awful tablets and drinking that awful stuff.
I don't know about you, but that stuff makes me extremely sick. Allergic skin reactions, vomiting, fever. Hate this stuff. Hate, hate, hate. And you know when they get in there tomorrow they're just going to conclude that... oh, my god!... no, wait, what's this?... sound the alarm!... It's Crohn's Disease!
To those of you who emailed me after the last post, thank you. Thank you for your insights and your support, and most of all for your patience. You're a pretty solid bunch, you know that? Good heads on your shoulders! Who raised you? I like them too.
1) Grading papers analyzing induction and deduction.
2) Copyediting manuscripts about 14-year-old girls whose romantic lives are in fact far more titillating than my own.
3) Not eating gluten.
Oh, I know what I said. How my love for pizza and sandwiches trumped the trends, how I always felt fine no matter what I ate, be it broth or shrapnel. But it turns out that the symptoms of gluten intolerance aren't always gastrointestinal. Sometimes, for example, an unresolved gluten intolerance can make you, well, extremely depressed.
I went to a doctor who marveled that in 19+ years of Crohn's Disease, I'd never been tested for celiac. And in the two weeks since that appointment, I've forgone the gluten and witnessed mood changes of spectacular proportions. That's not to say this was a quick fix, or that all the issues I was having are resolved. But I do feel a bit better. And eating gluten-free has been, so far, not difficult at all. If you know me at all, you know I rather like a challenge. Better if that challenge involves bread, but whatever. Beggars can't be choosers.
Today I'm not eating gluten-free foods at all, though. Today I'm not eating anything. Today, Crohns, I am drinking. Oh yes, it's GoLitely time up in here. Tomorrow I will have my annual colonoscopy (apparently I'm a 50-year-old man) and in preparation, I'm taking those awful tablets and drinking that awful stuff.
I don't know about you, but that stuff makes me extremely sick. Allergic skin reactions, vomiting, fever. Hate this stuff. Hate, hate, hate. And you know when they get in there tomorrow they're just going to conclude that... oh, my god!... no, wait, what's this?... sound the alarm!... It's Crohn's Disease!
To those of you who emailed me after the last post, thank you. Thank you for your insights and your support, and most of all for your patience. You're a pretty solid bunch, you know that? Good heads on your shoulders! Who raised you? I like them too.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
happy birthday: the whole story
dear crohns:
in a few hours, i will be 29. how did i get so old? i'll tell you how i got so old. through hard, hard work, motherfucker.
there are a lot of people who will understand exactly what i mean by this, because for you, too, every day is hard work; physical work. you will understand that 365 consecutive days of this living/existing thing --- nay, 10,585 days of this! --- is no small feat, particularly when eating is hard, and moving is hard, and staying awake is hard. you will get this concept without my even explaining. and it's worth just a moment to remind myself that being part of a community like that, like you --- even if it means having crohn's disease for 19 years and counting --- is a privilege that anyone would be lucky to claim.
a year ago today, i was lying flat on my back in clothes someone else had to dress me in. (thank you, juan.) i couldn't move side to side, sit up by myself, take a single step unaided.
(self, you could not eat. you could not move. and look at you now. you are eating and moving. you have a job, self! a great job! and you finished a book, self! you live in fort phil collins, the greatest fort ever!)
these italics, unfortunately, are not really mine. i'd like to be able to internalize the idea that i'm making progress, that all this effort isn't worth nothing. the effort it takes to get out of bed in the morning (i can get myself to a standing position in less than 90 seconds now). the effort it takes to walk on my bum leg or stay awake or eat what other people eat or drink what they drink. but the greatest effort of all is keeping up the veneer: the veneer that i am happy, that i am energetic, that i am content, that any of this means anything to me.
i want to be honest with you, crohns, because you are the only people with whom i feel i can really be honest: i am not okay.
physically, of course, i've been worse; i am practically an olympic champion compared to one year ago (ideally one of those deadweight lifters with the weird shorts). but i am not here anymore. i am just pretending to be here.
the hardest thing now is not pain management. it is leaving my house, talking to my friends, making myself look the way people are used to seeing me, with my content expression and my sarcastic comments. it is very hard to make plans, to feel happy about things. it is hard to pick up the phone or to feel anything. but i know it is required of me, and there is a little part of me --- the part that has always pushed harder and harder no matter what --- that insists that i must show my face, smile, make the jokes people are used to hearing from me. and so i do it. but --- and i know this sounds pitiful, but truly --- it hurts to do it, physically, in the same way that eating a slice of pizza hurts when you are in flare and you know you really, really shouldn't. it doesn't even taste good.
i know this is a gauche thing to say. to be a person of merit, or even a person at all, it seems you have to show that you are a fighter, that you are trying, you are happy, you are determined, you are present. onward, onward, onward! if not, you're weak or silly. people tell you, "it's okay! don't worry! we'll have coffee and catch up and i'll tell you great jokes and it'll all be better!" or "just get it together, fool!" and these people, the soft-love people and the tough-love people, are very nice, well-meaning people. but they don't get it, crohns.
this makes the whole birthday thing especially difficult. wonderful, very kind friends and family, who i love very much, have things to say that begin in "happy" and end in an exclamation mark. and i really do appreciate their friendship. but it puts a very fine point on the distance that is growing between me and them, the success i'm meeting with as i leave my apartment each day and put on my Great Big Smile and tell everyone how it's so great to see them.
although it's unpleasant and ugly and unattractive to say so, this is the truth, crohns. of the whole story, this is part.
thank you for staying here at sempre through the middle of this narrative. one thing we know about any narrative worth its salt is that it has a natural arc: what goes down, if we wait long enough, must come up.
love,
kara
in a few hours, i will be 29. how did i get so old? i'll tell you how i got so old. through hard, hard work, motherfucker.
there are a lot of people who will understand exactly what i mean by this, because for you, too, every day is hard work; physical work. you will understand that 365 consecutive days of this living/existing thing --- nay, 10,585 days of this! --- is no small feat, particularly when eating is hard, and moving is hard, and staying awake is hard. you will get this concept without my even explaining. and it's worth just a moment to remind myself that being part of a community like that, like you --- even if it means having crohn's disease for 19 years and counting --- is a privilege that anyone would be lucky to claim.
a year ago today, i was lying flat on my back in clothes someone else had to dress me in. (thank you, juan.) i couldn't move side to side, sit up by myself, take a single step unaided.
(self, you could not eat. you could not move. and look at you now. you are eating and moving. you have a job, self! a great job! and you finished a book, self! you live in fort phil collins, the greatest fort ever!)
these italics, unfortunately, are not really mine. i'd like to be able to internalize the idea that i'm making progress, that all this effort isn't worth nothing. the effort it takes to get out of bed in the morning (i can get myself to a standing position in less than 90 seconds now). the effort it takes to walk on my bum leg or stay awake or eat what other people eat or drink what they drink. but the greatest effort of all is keeping up the veneer: the veneer that i am happy, that i am energetic, that i am content, that any of this means anything to me.
i want to be honest with you, crohns, because you are the only people with whom i feel i can really be honest: i am not okay.
physically, of course, i've been worse; i am practically an olympic champion compared to one year ago (ideally one of those deadweight lifters with the weird shorts). but i am not here anymore. i am just pretending to be here.
the hardest thing now is not pain management. it is leaving my house, talking to my friends, making myself look the way people are used to seeing me, with my content expression and my sarcastic comments. it is very hard to make plans, to feel happy about things. it is hard to pick up the phone or to feel anything. but i know it is required of me, and there is a little part of me --- the part that has always pushed harder and harder no matter what --- that insists that i must show my face, smile, make the jokes people are used to hearing from me. and so i do it. but --- and i know this sounds pitiful, but truly --- it hurts to do it, physically, in the same way that eating a slice of pizza hurts when you are in flare and you know you really, really shouldn't. it doesn't even taste good.
i know this is a gauche thing to say. to be a person of merit, or even a person at all, it seems you have to show that you are a fighter, that you are trying, you are happy, you are determined, you are present. onward, onward, onward! if not, you're weak or silly. people tell you, "it's okay! don't worry! we'll have coffee and catch up and i'll tell you great jokes and it'll all be better!" or "just get it together, fool!" and these people, the soft-love people and the tough-love people, are very nice, well-meaning people. but they don't get it, crohns.
this makes the whole birthday thing especially difficult. wonderful, very kind friends and family, who i love very much, have things to say that begin in "happy" and end in an exclamation mark. and i really do appreciate their friendship. but it puts a very fine point on the distance that is growing between me and them, the success i'm meeting with as i leave my apartment each day and put on my Great Big Smile and tell everyone how it's so great to see them.
although it's unpleasant and ugly and unattractive to say so, this is the truth, crohns. of the whole story, this is part.
thank you for staying here at sempre through the middle of this narrative. one thing we know about any narrative worth its salt is that it has a natural arc: what goes down, if we wait long enough, must come up.
love,
kara
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
"astrology.com is back there" and other bleak truths
For those of you who don't already know about my years-long relationship with horoscopes from The Washington Post, here's a little background. My sister started it. Because it's totally normal for a non-deity-following older sister to copy the whims and wiles of her younger sister (at the time, I believe she was in high school and I was in graduate school, but she still had superior knowledge of the world's best things), I began her practice of checking the next day's horoscope each night at washingtonpost.com.
The horoscopes were uncannily specific, and usually always right. Sometimes they would say "You are about to move to California" and the next day I, a NYC resident, would win a writing fellowship in San Jose. Sometimes they would say, "Enjoy your everything bagel with scallion cream cheese!" as though they knew what I was going to order. How did they even know I lived in a bagel city?
"Who is back there?" I asked my sister.
"Astrology.com is back there," she said.
Sometimes, when it doesn't feel like telling me what's going to happen ("Tomorrow, you will go on a date with a stupid douchebag, but the episode of Jeopardy! The Semifinals you will watch when you get home will set the world right again, you trivia genius, you!") it just mocks me instead. For example, when I was in the hospital it was constantly congratulating me on the glitz and glamour of my everyday life. I mean, IV poles are shiny.
Last night the WP told me to make a list of some things I was proud of. I rolled my eyes. Seriously, WP? Is that all you've got? Then I thought, Well, it usually has its reasons.
I opened a file on my computer.
Things I Am Proud Of: A List That The WP Told Me To Make Although I Don't Want To
Off to a good start.
I only got one item down before I had to get back to work, but it was a good one.
1. I am proud of my marvelous, friendly, supportive, intelligent family.
After all, that's how I got to the WP in the first place.
PS. Check your WP horoscope at this link. Creepy insights into the following day are posted at 12 am EST.
The horoscopes were uncannily specific, and usually always right. Sometimes they would say "You are about to move to California" and the next day I, a NYC resident, would win a writing fellowship in San Jose. Sometimes they would say, "Enjoy your everything bagel with scallion cream cheese!" as though they knew what I was going to order. How did they even know I lived in a bagel city?
"Who is back there?" I asked my sister.
"Astrology.com is back there," she said.
Sometimes, when it doesn't feel like telling me what's going to happen ("Tomorrow, you will go on a date with a stupid douchebag, but the episode of Jeopardy! The Semifinals you will watch when you get home will set the world right again, you trivia genius, you!") it just mocks me instead. For example, when I was in the hospital it was constantly congratulating me on the glitz and glamour of my everyday life. I mean, IV poles are shiny.
Last night the WP told me to make a list of some things I was proud of. I rolled my eyes. Seriously, WP? Is that all you've got? Then I thought, Well, it usually has its reasons.
I opened a file on my computer.
Things I Am Proud Of: A List That The WP Told Me To Make Although I Don't Want To
Off to a good start.
I only got one item down before I had to get back to work, but it was a good one.
1. I am proud of my marvelous, friendly, supportive, intelligent family.
After all, that's how I got to the WP in the first place.
PS. Check your WP horoscope at this link. Creepy insights into the following day are posted at 12 am EST.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
in which the washington post dreams big
Dear Washington Post,
Finding the meaning of life in a student paper seems highly unlikely, but thanks anyway.
Love,
Kara
Finding the meaning of life in a student paper seems highly unlikely, but thanks anyway.
Love,
Kara
Libra September 23 - October 22
For Tuesday, September 21 -You've got an eye for detail, and that's precisely what you're going to need right now. Whether you're inspecting a shipment of toy robots for defects or a student's paper for grammatical errors, your eagle eye has never been so sharp. What will you discover? Sometimes, when you look hard enough, you see much more than you were looking for. Maybe you'll have a glimpse of the sense of things, the meaning of life, or a clue as to what you're really looking for.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
