Once, I wrote and wrote,
About a boat
That could not float.

Then, I wrote and wrote,
About a goat
Who had no coat.

Later, I wrote and wrote,
About a moat
With a purpose rote.

The boat didn’t float,
So it sunk in the moat
While the goat ate his coat.

And I was bored.

Nothing interesting happened today. In particular order, there was church, Ikea, del Taco, Costco. At some point, I’m sure there was something of note. Oh yes, we saw a college-ish looking kid wearing a Calvin College lacrosse shirt. The only thing odd about that is that Calvin is a small school located 2300 miles from here. He was probably about to be really late for class.

So today is October. That makes another month of successful non-astronauteering. That’s correct, I’ve taken to making up words. Now if you’ll excommunicate me, I have some things to do. I’ve already cleaned the house from top to bottom (it was actually more from side to side), so all that’s left is to watch a rented movie that earned sub-par reviews from a sub-par reviewer, which, by my calculations, should make for a good movie. Get it? Sub-par reviewer + sub-par review = good movie. Get it? Get it? I’m not sure I do.

Today on our walk, Sarah and I had an encounter with a feathered friend that we occasionally hear but do not see (it presumably lives in a house behind a tall fence). Usually our conversations, and by our, I mean those between the bird and himself, consist of a bunch of contented whistles and clicks. Today, as the bird was mindlessly amusing himself, Sarah whistled. “Hello?” was the reply. Notice I didn’t say, “Hello.” was the reply. The bird actually (and repeatedly, I might add) was asking if there was anyone out there; it was as if he heard a noise in the woods and was curious as to who was there and why they weren’t presenting themselves for a conversation. Hello? Hello? Hell-oooo?

Yesterday, I received a letter from George Mason University in Washington D.C. According to the student volunteer who purportedly wrote the form letter, the dean thinks I’m very qualified. Apparently, I’d make a great student. The problem is, I’m not the junior in high school they think I am.

They gave me a top ten list of why I should visit the university. Number three was “parties.” Number eight was that I might meet a special someone and get a date. Perhaps I should send them a top ten list of why I shouldn't do my undergraduate work at George Mason. Number one would probably be the fact that I’ve already done my undergraduate work. Number six would probably be the fact that I don’t go to places that think I’m still a minor who might like Disney on Ice (number nine).