Notebook
I love office supplies. I don’t know what it is about them, but I can waste an entire day in the Office Despot if I’m allowed. There’s just something about all of that paper waiting to be written on and the pens waiting to be written with. Yes, it sounds bizarre, but I’ve run into others with the same interests. We’ve made pacts to never go to these stores together. One of us is hard enough to drag out of these places. Put two of us together and you have a combination sit-in/hostage situation.
Part of it could be due to my writing. All of that raw material just waiting to be molded into thoughts, novels, and paper airplanes. It’s all waiting for me!
Every few months, I get into a journal-writing mood. Of course, to write a proper journal, I must go out and purchase the perfect book to hold my thoughts. Others would say I could use one of the numerous other spirals or books I have on hand, seeing as how only a handful of pages were filled out before I lost interest last time. They just don’t understand the creative process. I have to find the right book to keep writing. If I only wrote in a few pages of a journal, that means it was the wrong one and I must go out and get another one. Some would say it’s a lack of focus, I say it’s a good reason to go do some shopping.
In the past, I carried around a small spiral notebook in my back pocket (I’ve since become more technologically advanced. Ooooohhh yeahhh…). Any time I thought of something amusing or saw something happen that could make a good story, I would write it down. Sometimes I just used it to list the freaks I see each day. Unfortunately, I occasionally wound up with pages engraved with deep, insightful mottoes like “Loose floppies? Firmer pasta!”
Your guess is as good as mine.
I had an existential sort of moment on the way home from BART after I had started carrying my spiral. It was a nice summer day and I was revelling in my purpleness, when I notice this man walking in my direction. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a spiral, then starts writing in it as we pass.
I wanted to scream at him “I know what you’re doing!”, but I was too awed by the fact that I was now in someone else’s notebook. Not only that, but I probably wound up on his “freak” page. Of course, I wrote about it in my spiral and put him on my “freak” page out of spite.
Hey, that’s what he gets for being judgmental, right?
