I cannot operate a staple remover to save my life. I've butchered the upper left-hand corner of every piece of paper I've touched since I started working here. Even when I am painstakingly gentle, it looks like the depositions have been mauled by something rabid.
Yesterday I read an article about somebody who is building a space hotel, where, for four million dollars, you will be able to spend three nights near the moon. It sounded novel at first, but then I started thinking about the things people usually do for fun in hotel rooms (jumping on the beds, drinking from the minibar, cocaine), and they all seem markedly more difficult in zero gravity.
I think I'm going to make a to-do list and actually do some of the things on it. I need to get a bit more organized if I'm going to do all of the things I want to do, especially once classes start and I have a thesis to write.
I derive way too much joy out of a hot, fresh-from-the-printer stack of paper on my lap. It makes me feel oddly clean in a way I can't adequately explain.
Lately, I've been thinking about sound waves, light waves and perception. It's kind of messing with my sense of stability.
I'm starting to wonder if I'll get to the ocean even once this summer.
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