Living Life On The Frontier

A few weeks ago, I had an illuminating experience. And that’s the best sort-of-pun I could come up with after thinking really hard about it for forty minutes. The story, it goeth thusly:

One of the perks of moving to New York is that I’m now living much closer to my family. My brother lives in the city, my parents live within driving distance, and my sister is in the process of moving Somewhere in The General Vicinity of The Eastern Seaboard, Probably.

And that’s not to mention all the members of my extended family, who decided en masse to go west once they realized I was headed back home.

"Flee! She's moving back! FLEE FOR YOUR LIVES!"

“Flee! She’s moving back! FLEE FOR YOUR LIVES!”

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Life is Course Correction

So your first question is: “what’s up with the weird blog title, Becca?”

Well, that’s great question, Anonymus Reader Created For My Convenience. Let me tell you a quirky roundabout story that will take up an entire blog post in order to provide you with an answer. The story, it goeth thusly:

There once was a poem I read my freshman year of high school. I’d give you the title and the author, but those details have been lost to me in the wilderness of memory. The only thing I do remember is that in the poem, the poet was gifted a pair of socks–and these socks were so soft and so treasured by the poet that he kept them forever in a golden birdcage instead of wearing them.

I was so in love with that image that for the longest time my greatest ambition was to find a golden birdcage in which to keep all my socks.

Yeah. Sure. Your pad is pretty swag. You know what would make it classier? SOCKS. SOCKS WOULD.

Yeah. Sure. Your pad is pretty swag. But you know what would make it classier? SOCKS. SOCKS WOULD SWAG THAT PLACE RIGHT UP.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is a little something we call “irony.”

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