My brain is just beyond scattered at work and over the past week I've collected an odd mix of thoughts and events and I just need to write them down to get them out of my head.
I have a great deal of trouble making eye contact with someone in an involved conversation. I really hope people don't think I'm bored or ignoring them - most of the time, I am listening intently - but I think I'm focusing so damn hard that my multitasking brain short circuits or something. It's like trying to block out all of the minor distractions just makes them worse.
I've been thinking a lot about shoes lately. Yes, shoes. Spurred mainly by a conversation about how children don't wear loafers ever under any circumstances. Anyway, shoes really can say an awful lot about a person. My favourite pair of shoes are special edition fair trade green chuck taylors with silhouettes of trees printed on the side that I bought from a thrift store. If that doesn't say something about me, I don't know what does.
There's a lady who comes into the lab who likes to talk to herself...a lot. She's generally pretty harmless, but today, after loitering at the scanner for about half an hour, she walked by my desk and gave me a mean, threating, contemptuous sort of look. I have this bad habit of looking up from my desk and smiling at people, which only made things worse. As she started to walk off, I heard her mutter to her imaginary friend, "...probably accused of murder too." o.O
My addiction to sour cherry flavoured candies is likely a bad thing.
Every few weeks or so I go through one of these bizarre desperate-need-to-self-improve sort of phases that often involves changing how I react to things or what I think of people or what have you. Recently, however, I came to the conclusion that there would be no need for me to change anything about myself if I could just learn to not say the thoughts in my head aloud.
Somewhere, someone in the world, someone is listening to Sibelius and it's his fault the weather's like this.
I spend a lot of time oblivious to social cues and such things, but man, the amount of people who have no sense of decorum or manners is just staggering.
As I am numbering the measures in my Rachmaninov Vespers, a patron asks, "What instrument do you play?" "I sing." "You know, some people say that the voice is the original instrument. Do you believe that? I would've thought it was the drum." "Maybe, but I think people probably learned how to scream before they learned how to hit things."
Things are more impressive looking when they're in a different alphabet.
Having a ruptured eardrum is a lot like living inside a honkytonk piano; things echo at inappropriate times, everything is just slightly out of tune, and it's impossible to hear clearly anyone talking.
I very much need to go on a road trip.