There is no spoon.

I don't really know what I'm doing.

For all the philosophy of the universe cannot fit into one small, female, right-sided 18-year-old brain.  After all, girls never carry a map in their heads, because they actually have something inside them (like lots of family film references).  Sometimes my mind is incapable of housing even a single golden drop of philosophy.  Thus, I sit down and want to impart some moving, deep, insightful nugget of sageness to the Internetverse, and I have nothing to say but that I have nothing to say.

This is one of those mornings where I wish I were someone else.  Must be that perfectionism kicking in (except that you never saw that post, because I wrote it three times and never posted it.  It just wasn't right...)  Now matter how deep and creative I can get, I only have to peek around the corner to see so many people who are better at it than I, more well-rounded than I, who say everything that I wish I'd said and now cannot say, because that wouldn't be legal.  Or a very nice thing to do.

You know, I actually began this blog post with the full intention of writing about a spoon; but I can't fit enough logic between my eyes to say anything profound about a spoon (though I can make movie references about it).  Did you know New Jersey has a museum for spoons?

There's a tall old lady sitting two tables down from me at this retail coffee shop who looks just like Ian McKellen, except she's female.  It's a tad bit eerie.

It has come to my attention that November is National Blog Posting Month.  Whatever.  I don't know what you'd possibly get out of me if I actually wrote a post every single day.  It might be an interesting exercise.  Technically, I wrote three blog posts yesterday; I simply didn't post them.  So maybe I'll actually accomplish this.  If I care enough to try.

Normally I love/hate winter, but I'm excited this year to show off my amazing coat (even though it's the same coat I've owned for three years).  I wish coffee shops could take Metro transit bus cards as currency.  I wish they sold white hot chocolate in the United States.  They sell it at an airport in Zambia (Africa being, of course, the most logical place to sell hot chocolate [read with sarcasm]).

In the event of an emergency, plan ahead.

Don't ask me for help.  

All I can do is stare at spoons.  And write poetry. And make wishes.  And string words together in Victorianesque sentences that show up with far more regularity in my English essays than they do in my blog posts.  Sometimes I write sentences so long even I forget what the beginning said by the time I reach the end.  Maybe this month I will blog about authors and writing styles (or in other authors' writing styles...).  A notion that has just now intrigued me...

Am I merely writing reams of nothing?  How much of what I say is worth your time, or mine?