Much to the initial surprise of many of my followers, I have quite the rural past which I have freely shared on this blog. These anecdotes have detailed my time spent working on a farm, throwing knives, and failing to emulate the murderer of Bambi’s mother. Basically, I haven’t always been the somewhat polished, dirt-averse individual most of my readers have come to know and tolerate, and today I’m going to add fuel to that fire by describing my time as a horse owner.
One of my best friends visited me this weekend, and we reminisced about the time we did our best to shut down the use of an app on our college campus (and how we suppressed free speech in the process). The memory seemed pretty far fetched, so wanting to remember more of the details, I went back through my old journals and found an entry from August 2015 where I described our mission. In typical Most Boring Person fashion, I’m going to react to it:
If you’ve read my blog as far back as 2017, you’ll know I haven’t had the best of luck when it comes to getting my hair cut. Most notoriously was the disastrous haircut that spawned memorable lines like “…raking through my hair with the ferocity of a recently scorned girlfriend shredding her ex-boyfriend’s letter jacket” and “budget haircuts, like back-alley lobotomies, should be avoided at all costs.” If you can’t tell from reading those dramatic gems, I desperately hoped my terrible haircutting experiences were over. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.
Many people who grew up in the Northeast probably remember the euphoria of rushing downstairs on a wintery weekday to discover that school had been canceled. I, on the other hand, remember quite the opposite: an anticlimactic feeling of trudging downstairs on a snowy school-day to sit at the dining room table and work on my assignments. The difference? Being homeschooled.
It was a night like so many others in that I decided to kill some time by shopping with my sister, Abby. I had only been back in Western New York for a few days and was working hard to readjust to the slower pace of a rural town. In such a place, a fantastic way to spend an evening is to go to the nearest Walmart or Target.
As I drove a moving truck full of my belongings across the Florida state line today, I couldn’t help but reflect on the past year and the lessons it taught me. So not wanting to be selfish by keeping those to myself, I’ve decided to share them with you.
After graduating from college, I began work as an admissions counselor at my alma mater, and let me tell you, I tackled that job with all the gusto of a My Strange Addiction subject devouring a box of dryer sheets. I knew it was a blessing that I had gotten the job, and I wanted to do my absolute best. The problem is that although I am quite gregarious, I am not a natural-born salesman, which makes it pretty difficult to convince people to choose your school over the myriad of other options they have.
Like Walt Disney Studios releasing a beloved classic from its vault in the early 2000s, I decided I would bless my loyal readers with a blast from the past photo of me circa January 2012.
Target. What do you picture when you hear that word? A store celebrating holidays months before they arrive? Stylish mothers surrounded by Hearth & Hand products worshipping an effigy of Joanna Gaines? I’ll tell you what I picture: a nearly empty store giving off some intense Left Behind vibes.
This week, in between sweating profusely in 90-degree weather, I began to brace myself for the oncoming cold front that was rapidly gaining traction on Florida news stations. It seemed that every TV I saw featured graphs showing a digital blue layer moving across the state to signify the oncoming cold front that was sure to shock state residents as it moved eastward.