Time and Rain

"Time-snob."

As with most convictions that require a heightened level of control, there is the danger of becoming excessive about it.

Admittedly, I don't think I am a time-snob, but the phrase popped into my mind, and I had to use it.

The principle, though, is that most do no seem to respect time in general or punctuality in particular. I could discuss for quite a long time, but the main issue is that people are, on the whole, late.

In reality, "around 7:30" should mean some radius of time that is near 7:30. 7:15 to 7:45 is an ideal window. 7 to 8 is a reasonable window. 6:30 to 8:30 is no longer "around 7:30."

Typically, in American culture and too many others, "around 7:30" means "between 7:45 and 8:15."

Long story short, people aren't chronologically reliable. Bing bang boom.

Yesterday, I was visiting my brother in Souderton. It was a relatively warm evening. Rather suddenly and briefly, there was a serious downpour. The way the porch-lights reflected off the drops made a beautiful scene. Plus, I positively love the sound of rain. I assumed my phone wouldn't have taken a very good picture, but I should have tried.

Compliments: I take them about as seriously as I take criticism. I need supporting information. I am in need of a good compliment or criticism.

In other news, it's raining lightly outside, but the sun is still shining. That's one of my favorite settings because of what happened last night: the sounds and the reflections.

Also, when I think about my dreams, my life goals and such, the first thing on my list is almost always naps. Next comes writing/publishing. Third is usually hugs.

Really scary stuff: I was chatting with a friend. For anonymity, this friend's name is Bob. As we all do, Bob has a mother. However, Bob describes his mother as emotionally frenetic and kinda manipulative. I was sharing with Bob how I'm a huggy-feely kinda guy. He was talking about how his mother sometimes hugs him violently, like grabbing and forcefully pulling him into a hug. Bob said it feels some weird kind invasive. As I was sharing my desire for hugs and such, Bob was like, "Hey, you and my mom would get along."

It's scary how sinister things are so easily hidden behind actions that seem warm. I don't want those invasive hugs from an emotionally frail lady. I want normal, friendly, warm hugs from people who care.

Scary scary. Double scary, but I can't get into the second dimension of scariness here just yet.

Too many scaries.

Werbel awaits. As always, I want to write about him, and I don't want to write about him. It's like this miserable thing called "work." I think I hear my students lamenting it.

Curly hair is nice though.

What the jibbles is a "type"? A few months ago, my dad asked me what my type is—specifically concerning ladies. What in the world is a "type"? How thoroughly must the "type" be articulated? On short notice, I want long, curly hair. If I had to try, I could come up with all kinds of attributes, but that seems a bit psychotic, so I'd like to know what a "type" is supposed to be and how it's supposed to help me be an honorable man in general and an honorable boyfriend/fiancé/husband in particular.

The rain is now properly pouring. The sun is gone, but there's still a beautiful washing—mainly because I'm safe and dry inside this little coffee shop.

It's nearing noon, and I really gotta start writing.

Toodle-oo.