In Frankfurt, I Heard "Eins, Zwei, Drei"

(Counting cookies, and no one was shot).

Thursday.

This week sped by. Speedin' bullet.

Math is incomprehensible, in a comprehensible way. I adore it.

Life can be described as perfect with the following:

A comfortable chair.

Free time.

Spent looking up impossible (for this young person's mind, mind you) math concepts such as fractals and the Mandelbrot set.

Listening to cheesy yet classic 80's songs. Yum.

Drinking a now-lukewarm cup of exhausted chamomile tea.

Wearing my father's too-large-for-me yet so warm jacket.

... Oh, and did I mention...?

No homework.

Life is almost perfect right now. Almost.

There's always a little something in the back of my brain nagging at my common sense and my common sanity, but I try to drive that little voice back to where it came from (a little town called Reason and Worry--lovely place).

I suppose, though, I should commence my comparison/contrast essay on Dante/Faust. And that play I'm supposed to write... Yes, that. But no, instead I'm spending my time trying to comprehend the Golden Mean in nature (which I am not nearly at yet), hoping there is time for Brain Age and Animal Crossing, and of course some quotidian and fearfully necessary reading-before-bedtime.

I haven't written in a while.

Typed, yes. I am in the process of typing "I am in the process of typing I am in the process of typing I am in the process of typing..."

You get the point.

I digrrrress.

No, I have not written on tangible paper with tangible pen in quite a while. I'm afraid to recount the days and tell you. No, I shan't. But I'm afraid of what will happen when my pen hits the paper, when it's just us 3 alone in the room. Me, pen, paper. All working together to create, what I hope to be, something pleasurable to read. I, of course, spearhead these projects whilst they are merely my SLAVES OF SCRIBERY! MUAHAHA!

This is what higher level math does to the mind.

Bad shit, I tell you.