Is it normal for writers to endlessly self-critique? If so, I fit the mold. I finish a posting and then, later, think, why in the world did I write that?
It smells so lovely outside right now, with the spring flowers beginning to bloom. Our cat has begun to venture outside now. She spent the fall and winter as an indoor cat. She's a Texas cat -- though her coat is thick, she doesn't think it is warm enough to stay outside unless it's at least 80 degrees.
I can't believe spring break is next week, and we're in March, and my kids are growing up and my 13-year-old is nearly eye to eye with me now. When do all these things happen? Maybe while we're sleeping. I just don't know. And summer is just a dream away now. I hope we don't have a repeat of last summer's 100, 100+ days. I will have to leave if that keeps happening.
I was listening to "This American Life" today on my 2-mile jog, which was hot, by the way. There are tons of free podcasts out there. I also have a Spanish one that's a little advanced for me and the podcast I downloaded was talking about nuclear energy, of all things.
Anyhow, on the episode of "This American Life" there was a psychiatrist who was asked for an interview by his 12-year-old granddaughter(?) and decided the only way to get an adequate interview was to do it himself. So he'd ask himself a question and then he'd answer, "well you see, John, ..." and answer himself. This was a repeat of a podcast about how the American Psychiatric Association changed the definition of gay from a pathology, back in about 1973. Quite recently.
I have to run to Andrew's band concert, then to Austin's doubleheader.
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