Having been tagged, I hasten to fulfill my obligation:
I am writing this in longhand.
I want Steve Yzerman to put off retiring.
I wish I were ice-skating NOW.
I hate drivers on cell phones.
I love northern Michigan (Michigancentrically, “up north”).
I miss the Clinch Park bears.
I fear speaking in front of an audience.
I hear a train, distantly.
I wonder what will happen on House next week. (In the first-season reruns on USA; do not send spoliers and nobody will get hurt.)
I regret not taking up ice-skating sooner.
I am not a credible liar.
I dance with Baryshnikov in my daydreams.
I sing at full volume when alone in the car or the kitchen.
I cry after double-overtime sudden-death playoff games that end badly.
I am not always conscious of how old I’ve gotten.
I make with my hands ice cream! Most recently, oatmeal ice cream (no raisins for me, thanks).
I write in longhand when practical, which is seldom.
I confuse being nice with giving undue encouragement sometimes. (Don’t worry, I don’t mean you. You I like.)
I need strong coffee every morning, iced during summer.
I should return my moldering Netflix discs and stop ordering movies that are good for me.
I start innumerable blog posts I never finish.
I finish basic skating lessons in two weeks and start looking for hockey lessons.
I tag Mr. Quiet Bubble and Ms. Bookish Gardener.