Atop a white baby grand.

I always think of the perfect thing to say...after the fact.
It's pretty much the bane of my existence.
If you want better answers from me, ask me questions multiple times, after I've had time to think.
I'm quite serious.

Today, I had the opportunity to do something that would have proved interesting on many levels.
Unfortunately, I didn't think of it until after the fact.
This is quite literally getting on my nerves.

MEMO TO SYNAPSES:
STIMULATE FASTER. GET THOSE NEUROTRANSMITTERS MOVING!

It's especially bad around the Boy I Like.
Physiologically, I wonder why this is.
Any ideas?

I'm at work.
I like work. It's a slow day. Usually I'm sticking electrodes on people, teaching old people to work the TV remotes, or studying, but today I have time to just play on the computer. My only homework is to study poetry terms, which I know pretty well already. Life is good.

Today, I went into my old Creative Writing teacher's classroom to promote the blood drive I'm in charge of on Friday. He brought out the poetry portfolio I'd made for him last year. It's pretty much the only form of artistic expression of which I am capable (I wrote "I'm capable of," but I've recently become aware of my habit of ending sentences with prepositions, so I changed it--shut up, it's progress!). Anyway, it's in this tiny, three-inch-square notebook, and all the poems are typed onto backgrounds that match their meanings. He then proceeded to read an identity poem I'd written in front of the entire class. Oh, man. I mean, I didn't know anyone in the class (it was 11th grade English), but now they all know a little bit about me. They even clapped for me.

It was embarrassing, and yet strangely liberating.