OMGFML

I am moving tomorrow morning. I have been packing non-stop since Thursday afternoon. You would never know it, though. My bedroom is still in tact, except for an eerie lack of clothing in the closet. But that is really the only noticeable difference.

I hate moving. I hate packing. This is not a new, environmentally-induced statement. It is a truth that runs through my veins day in and day out. My nomadic childhood made me a wanderer, but washed out any fanciful misconceptions about new starts and new neighbourhoods. If you ask me on any given day what I hate most in the world, I would likely quote moving before trying to cover up my true self with something like "violence" or "injustice." But, let's be honest, moving sucks so large.

Packing, I think, is recognized under the Geneva Convention as a form of torture. So is disassembling Ikea furniture. I think the only thing worse than disassembling Ikea furniture is putting it together again. One day you have a fully-functional queen-sized bed, and the next all you have is four thousand special Ikea-only screws that don't match any of your screw drivers, forty-eleven pieces of misshappen stained-wood, and all of your hopes and dreams scattered across your new bedroom floor.

And what's worse: I already packed all the drugs and alcohol. Can't even self-medicate myself through this trauma.

~g. mango is a sedentary nomad.

For the Birds

Don't look so surprised to see a post up here at the Olde Log. I know I have been neglecting you, but it is not without good reason. First, we all of a sudden started doing instead of feeling at school and I was thrown headlong (and slightly unprepared on account of all the feeling) into my first practicum. I was teaching Grade 8 French. And taking a night course. And still feeling every week and writing it all down and sending it to my supervisor, And, oh, writing a story. Not a publishable one (on account of copyright infringements*), but a story nonetheless. And I drew some pictures, too. It was for my night class.

SOME DRAWRINGS!

So, here, proof of my continued existence on this planet, and trickle-down benefits of class on French Curriculum: a few excerpts from Geai Bleu souhaite que le subjonctif ait une mort atroce (Blue Jay Hopes the Subjunctive Tense Dies a Terrible Death). A story about a plucky young bird and his quest to understand the uses of the subjunctive in French. I should warn you that the colours didn't really scan well; I rescanned Blue Jay himself on a different setting so you could get an idea of the real colours. It's the first image. Oh, and the text is all in French. So, good luck with that. Click to enlarge.

*(The Pigeon from Mo Willem's The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog.)

~g. mango mange son hot-dog.