Not the Travel Journal

WEBlog

First of all, my yard smells like jasmine. My yard at night, all cool and perfect and smelling like jasmine, is possibly my favorite place in the world. I love home.

Secondly, my travel journal is taking way longer to type than I thought it would (not to mention it itself is way longer than I thought it was… I mean I took a tiny notebook with me, I didn’t expect paragraphs to come of one entry), so it wont be up for a little while. I decided to waste time writing a different entry instead of continuing typing. Logical.

Well, my car decided to live long enough to get home tonight, and I’m grateful for that. It’s been having issues, and usually with a little patience it will start up again, but yesterday after church I had to leave it in the parking lot and get a ride home. Sad day. Today I had to drive my dad’s car for the first time (I have refused until now). It’s also a stick, but it’s….. weird. Everyone says that it’s easier to drive than mine is, but I don’t care. I prefer mine. Even when they said that from the beginning, I chose to learn on my car. There’s something untrustworthy about my dad’s car; I just don’t like it. Maybe it’s memories of the smell. Oh… this is a good story.

Several years ago, something happened to our car. It smelled awful. My parents kept saying it was because they’d bought the car from someone who had cats, and that maybe they’d just let the cats sit in there too long. I don’t know what kind of cats that lady had, but my cat always smelled wonderful, and if her aroma had ever been comparable to this abomination of odorous existence, I probably would have driven to the nearest overpass and chucked her. It got to the point where I refused to ride in that car. I don’t care if I was obnoxious. It was freaking disgusting. Then… the orange spray. Not okay. My mom bought this orange spray to try to cover up the smell, and I guarantee it was ten times worse because of it. Then they started to say that maybe it had rained into the car, and it just never dried out, so the dankness had acquired a smell. So then my mom came home one day, and asked me to help her take the groceries in. We got them in, and I was taking the last batch in. I saw an extra bag, checked it to verify that it wasn’t brake fluid—“MOM!!!!!” … “Pork chops. PORK CHOPS, Mom. How long have these been here?!?!”

So that’s the story. I’ve never let her forget. In fact, just a few days ago we were bringing the groceries in and I said, “don’t forget the meat.” And she said, “… shut up.”

This was the car that I took to my root canal appointment today. I have a crack in my third tooth on the upper right side of my mouth. That would be my “first molar.” For the last six months, I’ve been completely avoiding that area of my mouth with everything but a toothbrush, because it’s severely cold sensitive. Well, today they took out the nerve tissue of that tooth, so hopefully it wont bother me anymore. I don’t really like taking medicine so I’m not; it’s really not too bad—just a dull ache in my mouth and a small right-side headache. I like going to the dentist. Or root canal specialist, as the case may be. And they say I'm a good patient. And that I have a "beautiful set of teeth." See, I feel like I can say this, because I was an ugly kid, and I dealt with a lot in elementary school, and I thank the stars that it's over. Speaking of stars, it may be a stargazing-on-the-roof night. I'm feelin' it.

I’m looking for a job. Dig it. Okaaaay, I’ll keep typing my travel journal.

P.S. I'm well aware that I suck at [web]logging. If you're wondering about the []s, I hate the word "blog."