Road Kill.

It's funny, you stand there in the middle of the street for so long, and you finally decide to move out of the middle of the street, and a little car runs you over. The whole time you were dodging the semi, you never thought to dodge for cars.


Figures.

Squash.

No, not the vegetable. The noise you make when you get run over by a semi-truck because you were standing in the middle of the street.

You ask your now flattened self, why was I standing in the middle of the street?

Your detached head replies: "Because you thought that you wouldn't be run over like the last ten times you stood out here."

Moral of the day: If you stand in the middle of the street, you will be run over. A truck will always be a truck, it doesn't turn into a furry squirrel on your whim. But even the squirrels run you over sometimes, so just stay out of the street.

Mu-ah-hahahaa

Here's me, being an idiot.

A Conversation:

Brother: Dunno what to tell you about [that guy] though.

Little Sis, aka Me: I'm not going to do anything. I'm going to be my usual practical self and be rational about things.

(Long Pause.)

Me: Well maybe that's not my usual self, but you get it.

Brother: HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA

Brother: Oh, wait...was that my out loud voice?

Brother: I'm trying to remember the last time the adjective "rational" was applied to you in a conversation about boys.

(Even Longer Pause.)

Brother: I might be here a while trying to come up with it ;-)

"You sound like..."

My father has a list of topics he runs through during each phone conversation that takes place between us. The usual... how are the grades, find any scholarships, talk to your advisor - get some advice... like any obedient daughter, I don't have to listen anymore to know which response to give to each command.

For some reason tonight we began talking about the "household." My father seems to have added this topic to his list of gripes and worries about my college experience. Am I helping out with dinners? Does everyone work together? How are we getting along? Perhaps because I had just done a load of dishes, (again,) and cleaned off the kitchen sinks (again,) and walked by the bags of trash (again,) that have yet to be taken out... I decided to be honest with my father and mention how things were getting "along."

I found myself blurting out in (I am ashamed to admit,) one of those "I'm about to cry - I'm a woman" voices, that my nickname has become soccer mom. I went into a list of reasons the girls have taken to calling me this, and ranted about how I've become the maid, neat freak, and disciplinary. I'm the one calling the "house" meetings, I'm the one frustrated at the growing pile of dirty dishes in the sink and empty dishwasher, I'm the one with the disinfectant cleaning off the raw egg from last night's omelet dinner.

So there I was, lying on my couch, (symbolically?) telling my father how much I hate being this way. How I wish I could leave my crusty dishes in the sink without it bothering me each time I passed by.

He then tells me to find friends more like me. And all of a sudden it dawns on me. There are only a few people I know like me. Oh, yes. He's like me. I'm like him. Besides my aunt and uncle (his brother and sister, minus the other sister who claims she's adopted and didn't pick any of these genes up at the store,) we're the only obsessively anal people I know.

So now, theoretically, I'm really crying. Not only because I've realized this whole time I sound like, and have become, my anal/perfectionistic/obsessive-compulsive father, but because tomorrow morning, there will be dirty dishes in the sink and an empty dishwasher.

Blind.

On campus this week there was an exibit called "Eyes Wide Open." Across the walkways and greenspace there were shoes and boots representing the lives that have been lost in the Iraq war. You walk to class, to dinner, to a meeting and all you see are these shoes. Shoes of civilians - heels, sneakers, little slippers from a child. Shoes from the troops - with US flags and small namecards. Joe, 30, Arizona. Debbie, 22, Virginia.

And you stop in the middle of a circle of shoes and stare up at the perfect blue sky outlined with bright green leaves and feel the afternoon warmth and you understand for one distinct moment that there is more to life. There is so much more.

Will we ever open our eyes? Will we ever see past what is right before us?

There is so much more to life - as Americans we define ourselves by what we live for.

White picket fences, two kids, a dog.
A doctorate, private practice, high salary.
A novel, fame, fortune.
White sand, beach cottage, retirement fund.
Love.
Happiness.

Men, women, and children are dying each day in a war that most of us have trouble remembering why we began.

I can continue dreaming about white picket fences and white sand beaches, but I'm dreaming, my eyes are closed.

We need to let a little part of ourselves die before we can fully open our eyes to the world around us.

MaryBeth, 20, Ohio.

There is so much more to life - what would we die for?

Hm.

Sports bras are ugly.

Hm.

Something's seriously wrong when you lose the ability to blog.

It's even worse when SBS finally put you back on his links.

~~

In what remains unsaid, the story unfolds.

Prologue

My roommate yesterday asked if I ever stopped reading.

Perhaps when I decide to start living life instead of just reading about it.