Top Secret

I remember one night when I was really little, and during family prayer, I begged "And please let me type really fast like Mom and Allen."

It's the little things that stick with you the longest, I guess. That memory amuses me because by now, I bet I can type faster than both of them. And I doubt divine help had much to do with it. I think it was mostly the stupid stories I wrote when I was a young teenager. My computer wouldn't run video games besides Sonic the Hedgehog and Minesweeper, so my favorite program was Microsoft Word. I spent years typing up stories, and then one day, my computer decided it hated me and wiped its own hard drive. Destroyed everything. My life's work. Tragic, really. I hate computers.

Beth's gone for six days-ish. Pity and woe! I don't think I can survive! I mean, now I get to work with just Rye. For six days. Except when I'm working by myself or taking days off... and I probably won't have a day until at least the fifth, if then. Horror!

They pick on me. Mostly Rye. Like every time I turn around lately, there's like a wall of Rye right there. Today when I was making beds with Beth, I heard something at the window. I turned around, and there was Rye's face pressed up against the glass like four inches away from me. I jumped backwards, bumped into the bed, and went flying. One of these days, I'll get surprised, instinctively go on the defensive, and punch him before I realize what I'm doing. Then I'll get in trouble. That'll suck. Plus I'll feel kind of bad if I actually hurt him.

We have such intellectual conversations at work sometimes. Today, for example, we had a lengthy conversation about Rye's butt. Rye started it. I think he just wanted to make me blush, which happens on a daily basis. Usually several times a day. Even my arms turn red. Maybe one day, when I finally get a job where I can work outside most of the time, I'll be tan enough that I don't change colors so easily. I mean, I wouldn't mind being part chameleon if I could control what colors I turn and when. But unfortunately, I can't.

Know what else? I kinda wish I could whittle. I also kinda wish I had an artistic bone in my body so that if I knew how to whittle, I might actually be able to whittle something decent. I mean, I know how to draw, but that doesn't mean I can. Make sense?

Yeah. Kay.

I should write a story again one of these days. And I mean a good story, not some make-it-up-as-you-go, inspired-by-a-random-writing-prompt story. Actually... maybe I should edit and expand this story I wrote about five years ago.... Now I look back on it, Matt and Bill show some promise as characters... once they're three-dimensionalized a little bit.

Anyway.

Now it's almost ten, and I have to work bright and early tomorrow. Wish I could write about today's incident at work, but it's probably some type of government secret I'm not allowed to disclose. Pity, that. You can just speculate and wonder and use your imaginations.

The end.