[three hundred, forty-eight]
If there is no snow for Christmas I will be thoroughly disappointed. Next Wednesday I am going to have an insane amount of blog writing to do, as I will be pre-writing for the end of the project and catching up since I will be away for a couple of days. What a silly time to end this thing, I am really going to miss it.
Picnics are such peculiar things. We spend our lives spending money on furniture to disregard it and eat outside on the grass. I think that the problem with our society is there is too much emphasis on the materials and not enough on the experience, but that's obvious observations.
What isn't obvious is the peculiarity that picnics are. If you see someone in the park in the pouring rain having a picnic, they're deemed weird. Understandable, it's wet and cold go inside you idiot. But what if they just like they're meals wet? Let the crackheads have their crack. Who is anyone to tell anyone else what to do with their life?
Mad.
The world is mad, and the world is beautiful, and the world is simple and long and circular and transparent. The world is blue, or turqoise I guess. the world is small. The world needs more love in it, a love-infuser, that's sort of cute. For Christmas I'm going to get the world a love-infuser, or well enrich the ones that I love with more love, and that'll be enough difference for me.
Take care,
Jess :]
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