Sting

and the Police are playing in concert on our television.

Scrapple gurgles around in my stomach after having felt the uncomfortable gaze of a group of girls whom I value and appreciate. They told me how much they'd love to get together for overnights, retreats, hanging out here and in the woods... and then explained that they never are free to do so.

Sting says "yo" a lot in his lyrics.

Of course, I'm re-reading Donald Miller's Through Painted Deserts and am really wishing it was summer immediately. December has been so stinkin' mild, it feels like spring should come bursting through the trees at any moment. The idea of two and a half months of ice and dry air discourages me and makes me feel as though I should really appreciate this season more anyway.

The working world sort of compells me to wish for a career as a farmer or cattle herder or something else more natural and basic and necessary. My current job is to convince upper middle class ladies that they need spend more money on frivolous items for their homes. Something more necessary and helpful to people might be more satisfying as a vocation. Especially if it were something that involved spending hours outdoors. I miss that aspect of my summer job. I wonder what I'll do this summer. National Park work sounds more and more delicious every day I think about it.

Well now I'm going to get in the car, spend money on gas, spend free money on coffee, and drive down unknown winding state routes to West Chester and my love.