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I’ve crammed as much computer knowledge into my head as I can for one night.  I’m reminded of the torturous French class I was coerced into taking one summer, as my deceptively cruel alma mater dangled a degree just beyond my greedy little hands.  It’s only three semesters of French crammed into four-hour classes, five days a week, for six short weeks, they said.  You can do it.  My advisor, bless his now dead heart, only smiled when I told him the plan.  His gray, bushy eyebrows lifted in obvious lack of faith.  The man had no time for foolish students who insisted on walking straight into the mouth of disaster.  He said nothing, but his eyebrows kept on climbing right up his forehead, distancing themselves from me and my impending doom.

The difference between computer code and French is that there is no logical way to attack French.  So I would just fill my head up with as much as I possibly could, then hurry to class and hope that a respectable amount of it would come pouring back out.  I felt like I was literally trying to regurgitate my way into a degree.  I’d stumble out of the room after the four hours, holding my throbbing head, vowing that I when I’d clumsily muttered ”répété, s’il vous plaît for the one millionth last time, I would go cold turkey.  No more French.  Abstinence.  Not one more syllable.  I was the original anti-French patriot, and I didn’t even know it.

My vow was easy to keep.  As a matter of fact, I am French-free ever since.  The language poured in so fast, that I’m afraid not a bit of it stuck.  If it did, it’s lost in there, and I’m not about to go looking.

Well, just like my French class, I sucked up everything I could tonight about rearranging blogs, figuring it would come spewing back onto the page with just enough orner et la beauté to earn me a passing grade.  And now that my night is winding to a close, I can see that arranging nearly incomprehensible code is not a whole lot different then learning French.  You breathe it it.  You breathe it out.  And then you push the “Publish” button and hopefully forget everything, because if you fall asleep and start dreaming the stuff, that’s when you start to get a little cranky.

So if anyone would like to put in their two cents worth regarding the design - feel free.  But don’t do it in French.  Just because I wrote a couple of phrases only means that I know my way over to Babblefish.

I can see already that things just aren’t right.  “Come on, do it! do it!” I can still hear your words in my head.  “Just do it,” everyone said, “You’re a born blogger.” Well where are you now, my friends.  Years ago it was your foolish crowd mentality, chanting “chug, chug, chug,” which slowly mellowed into a softer, friendlier sounding, “blog, blog, blog.” So, like then, I have given in.  Heeded the call.  I did it.

Yes, I did it, a couple of years later, in my procrastinating full speed ahead kind of way.  But even waiting that long suddenly doesn’t seem quite long enough, as I’m thinking now that Word Shadows shouldn’t have been the name at all, but maybe Procrastination’s Shadow.  I would like to imagine, at least, that it’s procrastination that follows me, and not the other way around.  But we all know that’s wishful thinking.  I am procrastination’s slave.  Which isn’t always such a bad thing, being the lazy taskmaster that he is. 

But this is no time for procrastination!  The beginning of a new year is no time for that!  We must be bold and resolute and proclaim unreachable goals.  Which, of course, I am getting to.

But my point (I think) was supposed to be that nobody told me to do any planning before I started this thing.  I wrestled around with that damn mysterious html code until I ran out of energy, and now I see that I should have put in some categories and maybe multiple favorite blog lists, because while I like a lot of blogs, I certainly don’t read every single one of them every single day.  So what do I do, make a favorites list and an almost favorites list?  Almost reminds me of the time some girl called up my little brother when he was in about the fourth grade and asked him if he liked her. 

“Just a minute,” he said, put down the phone, walked off, but returned a few seconds later with a scrap of paper, which I later found out was a list.  “Yes,” he told the little girl.  “You’re number 6 on the list.  Okay.  Goodbye.”

I guess I just need to get busy with a little more creating.  I need to be as straight forward and blunt as a nine year old boy.

You know, if the world was in fact created by God, then we’re all lucky it was done in miracles and not html, or we’d all still be sitting here, waiting to get tweaked.  On the other hand, that would explain . . . .