Don't eat muffins when I'm developing you.
Aug. 8th, 2008 12:07 amBoy oh boy am I looking forward to my BWCA trip. Like none other.
We didn't get our permit in time to take the entry point we'd been planning, but we decided on a nearby point that seems quite rarely used (EP45, Morgan Lake). It's got a mile-long portage to put-in, with the first 10 rods or so apparently quite marshy (although there're some recent mentions of a newish boardwalk for that part). That should keep a lot of the riffraff out, and all subsequent portages are short and reputedly mild. I want to eat some trouts! Maybe I will get to. Even if I don't, I'll basically be going straight from my MCAT to the wilderness, which is going to be pretty surreal but is more or less exactly right. Squirrel me away in the wild where nobody will be too distressed by my insanity.
I keep wanting to do stuff. Like, hangouts. Movies. Irish Fairs. Dropping off baby-presents. Packing to move. Some things that really totally aren't necessary, but some things that rather are. Mostly just things that I am grumpy about not getting to do, on account of work (which I will be going to all weekend), and studying, which badly needs more of my attention. So I just sit here with a giant book, surly, and tell people to look me up come September. Make sure I'm still alive. And cognizant. But everything has such a pervasive finality. An absolutely false finality. I should go to knitting- it's my last chance!
No, wait. It's not. Not at all! What is going on here, brain-face? Maybe it is because Mya is moving to Boston? What is this I'm feeling? Is it pain? Panic? Hunger? Am I hungry? Who's hungry?
I'm going to go eat a muffin. A goosleberry muffin. That will solve... well. Something.
the hedge abides.
We didn't get our permit in time to take the entry point we'd been planning, but we decided on a nearby point that seems quite rarely used (EP45, Morgan Lake). It's got a mile-long portage to put-in, with the first 10 rods or so apparently quite marshy (although there're some recent mentions of a newish boardwalk for that part). That should keep a lot of the riffraff out, and all subsequent portages are short and reputedly mild. I want to eat some trouts! Maybe I will get to. Even if I don't, I'll basically be going straight from my MCAT to the wilderness, which is going to be pretty surreal but is more or less exactly right. Squirrel me away in the wild where nobody will be too distressed by my insanity.
I keep wanting to do stuff. Like, hangouts. Movies. Irish Fairs. Dropping off baby-presents. Packing to move. Some things that really totally aren't necessary, but some things that rather are. Mostly just things that I am grumpy about not getting to do, on account of work (which I will be going to all weekend), and studying, which badly needs more of my attention. So I just sit here with a giant book, surly, and tell people to look me up come September. Make sure I'm still alive. And cognizant. But everything has such a pervasive finality. An absolutely false finality. I should go to knitting- it's my last chance!
No, wait. It's not. Not at all! What is going on here, brain-face? Maybe it is because Mya is moving to Boston? What is this I'm feeling? Is it pain? Panic? Hunger? Am I hungry? Who's hungry?
I'm going to go eat a muffin. A goosleberry muffin. That will solve... well. Something.
the hedge abides.