I have this undying urge to describe everything around me in vibrantly colorful words. I compose paragraphs of descriptions in my head but when I go to write something down on paper everything is gone. My life seems like a series of paper and pens and heavy books with big words and Fiona Apple screaming at me and cute, nameless girls in the halls and in my classes and on the bus.

Today is my Grandmothers 80th birthday. This makes her sixty-four years older than me. She is from the generation which covered their large blocks of lake ice with sawdust and hay instead of using a refridgerator. She walked miles to school every morning and fed the horses before leaving the house. Today, I have sympathy for her, in these days of Whirlpool appliances and public transportation. It must seem like a long time ago.