Browsing around for my favorite blog post for Fabruary, I just ran into Lou Plummer’s What Were Your First Seven Jobs? I say “browsing” but I was really just going through only his archive. I knew when I decided to participate in Robert Birming’s Fabruary that the post I would submit as my favorite would be something written by Lou.

(Continue)

I can remember what was taught in my Applied Linguistics class by the shirt my professor wore. My biggest secret is an unending fascination for the Momversation in which mommy bloggers discuss motherhood. Some people in my Dutch Language and Culture program are bad at spelling. All of them want to be writers. Times a day I realize I probably don’t want kids: 17. I’m terrified of failing University. During the day I’m scared, and when I’m not scared, I’m asleep. (Continue)

It was indeed great while it lasted, until about three weeks ago. Churning out little posts, coming up with fun tidbits, roaming the streets of Eindhoven with a little noteback. Getting feedback. Compliments. Your mother’s cousins' daughters' coworkers are reading your blog. And then university life begins. And there is time for nothing. So here’s a change of strategy, and of pace. This website will be featuring different forms of content from now on. (Continue)

I remember it well, my transition from elementary to high school. Gone were the old days of person teaching every subject in a single classroom. Everything would be new again. New subjects, new people, teachers, supplies. It was the supplies that kept me up at night. Books were to be given the right cover, of course there would have to be a new pencil case. New notebooks. A diary. Choosing was never my strong suit. (Continue)

I’m not one to dwell on the negative, but let me just come right out and say it: I fucking hate summertime. Like, “I hate Brussels sprouts” hate. “I’d rather be eaten alive by a shark” hate. Whatever you hate most, times 70. That kind of hate. If I had a gun, summer wouldn’t live to tell the tale. April showers bring May flowers, but in my world those flowers take the unpleasant shape of anxiety. (Continue)