1. Bath & Body Works’ “Cotton Blossom” hand soap leaves your hands smelling like dryer sheets. Mmmm.
I hope someone writes me a love poem someday mentioning the fact that I washed my hands with Cotton Blossom soap and now smell delicious, like freshly washed socks and towels. How romantic. And could you put that in iambic pentameter? Thanks.
2. I don’t deal well with stress. (This is actually not a new lesson, but a reminder of an old lesson that I forget often, unfortunately.)
My body holds up ok until I get through whatever it is I have to get through (a test, a big event, etc.), and then it quits. “Quits” is maybe a little too strong–I’m still alive, after all–but I always either get sick or have other physiological symptoms. It’s my body telling me I can’t ignore it any more, that I need to stop for a few moments and breathe and take care of it a little bit. I guess that’s what comes of being both a body and a mind (or is it a body and a soul? or just a body with consciousness? what is consciousness anyway? …why am I talking about metaphysics right now??).
Anyway, this week’s symptoms have been exhaustion and dizziness. How fun.
I think I need to learn how to play as well as work. I suppose I take life too seriously sometimes.
5 June, 2009 at 2.31 am |
As requested, in a decent imitation of Shakespeare’s balcony scene in Act II:
The Sharp Linen Scent of Austintatious Soap
But soft, what scent from yonder woman wafts?
It smells like cotton and blossom-soft soap.
Arise stout Soap and kill insidious Germs,
Which make Austin sick and pale and weak
If thou-her guard—dothn’t cleanse and scrub her hands.
Be not afraid of germs insidious
For micro scrubbers of darkest blue and white
Wilt slay bad bugs and malodors alike.
It is my Austin! O it is my wench!
O for that linen scent she doth weareth!
She speaketh yet says nothing, waving hands.
Her digits discourseth, I wilt answer them.
I am too bold, like the smell of her soap.
Two of the fairest scents made up of esters,
Having cleansed her hands, doth entreat my nose
To wrinkle at their strong and socky scent.
What if her hands wert there, touching my face?
The softness of her palm wouldst shame dryer sheets
As linen soap doth shame a bar of Dove.
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O that I were linen soap on that hand
That I might linger—like that scent—ever.
As for your second point, I wish I could be there to give you a massage and share tea and Butterfingers. As teleportation is not yet possible, I figured that answering the challenge of point one was the only way for me help solve point two. I love you Always and hope you enjoyed my little bit of word corruption. ((<3<3)),
Rebecca,
Pr.17:17 Always
5 June, 2009 at 10.45 am |
Maybe you should learn to enjoy smelling like you’ve been through the dryer…
10 June, 2009 at 12.58 am |
I will keep this in mind, if ever I decide to write you a love poem.